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December 1978
“It’s never going to be over, is it?” Sirius asks, cigarette in his left hand as he stares out of the open window, his tone more bitter every day.
Remus understands. He knows how Sirius feels. He knows how never ending it all seems.
To love is to understand, Remus’ mother once told him, he has never believed it more than he does now.
“One day,” Remus says, soft but with all the power he can muster.
Remus knows that Sirius doesn’t believe him. He doesn’t even really believe himself. They have been through too much to believe it so easily on some nights. They are going through too much to have it come so easy these days.
What is “it” exactly? Hope, Remus supposes, though he grows less and less certain of it with every passing day.
The bags under his eyes grow heavier by the hour, Sirius has never looked so pale, the two of them are coming unstitched before their very eyes. This war is destroying them, this war has destroyed them. They will never be whole again, Remus thinks, we will never be whole again.
They are eighteen and ready to die for their cause at any given point. This isn’t what either of them had imagined.
“Okay,” Sirius replies, exhaling smoke. “Are you out tomorrow?”
“You know I am,” Remus answers, pulling together a smile as he takes the offered cigarette.
“I do.”
It’s a statement, not a question. They always know where the other is these days, they always make sure to check. There’s just too much risk in not knowing. At least, if someone doesn’t come home, the other will know where to look.
Remus had forgotten once, to check where Sirius was stationed. He had panicked the whole day. He had been crying when Sirius came home. He hasn’t forgotten since.
—
January 1997
Remus finds himself thinking an awful lot these days. He has been left with more than enough time to think. He has been left with more than enough time to go back over things that he would really rather not go over. He hears Harry’s screams over and over again. He sees Sirius’ death repeated in his head on loop.
He recalls how often he had made a point of remembering events decades ago and he laughs to himself. Now, he wishes he could just forget.
He would prefer amnesia over memory, these days. Because what he has been left with, all he has been left with, is pain.
Remus opens the windows in the morning and he sees James. He is vibrant and loud and as bouncy as he has always been. He is so full of energy and life. He is all yelled curses and cocky grins.
He is dead.
Remus walks down the street in the afternoon and he sees Lily. She is bright and beautiful and as intelligent as she always was. She is made of strong strides and determination. She is all strong stances and perfected words.
She is dead.
Remus closes his eyes in the evening and he sees Sirius. He is powerful and gorgeous and as whole as he always hoped to be. He is cloaked in warmth and protectiveness. He is all whispered poems and fierce movements.
He is dead.
—
November 1978
“Can you believe we’ve been free for months?” Sirius asks, practically vibrating with energy. He has spent all day switching back and forth between Padfoot and Sirius, it has been driving Remus crazy all day too, though he hasn’t — and won’t — said anything.
“We’re not free,” Remus mutters, regretting it the moment he catches Sirius’ face falling. “No. Sorry, sorry. I’m sorry, Sirius. You’re right, we are free and we made it here. We are free,” he rushes to add, knowing that the damage is already done, there’s nothing he can do to un-say it. He wishes there was.
“It’s fine, Rem.”
“It’s not fucking fine,” Remus snaps, angry now.
He has been so quick to anger these days. He is so angry all the time. He knows that Sirius is angry too, burning with the same fury that Remus is. They fight sometimes. They fight often. Both of them know that they’re not really fighting each other, they just need to yell at someone, anyone. It doesn’t mean that the harsh words don’t hurt, but it does mean that Remus knows Sirius is still the person he loves.
“Of course it’s not fucking fine,” Sirius shoots back, throwing his hands up, a movement that had made Remus laugh when he had first met Sirius. “But what do you want me to say? ‘Oh yeah, you ruined a really nice moment there! Good job you! Thanks for nothing!’ Fuck, Rem, you’re allowed to be angry too.”
“I am angry.”
“I know,” Sirius puts out, “believe me.”
“Sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s actually okay. It’s not like I’m not angry.”
“I just wish…”
“Yeah,” Sirius agrees, setting his coffee down on the table with a heavy thunk, “me too.”
—
February 1997
Remus’ hands shake as Molly hands him a coffee.
He doesn’t drink coffee anymore. He doesn’t need the caffeine to keep him away, he doesn’t sleep anyway. Mostly though, it reminds him of Sirius too much. And for all he tries to not let his life be impacted by Sirius now, he can’t help it. But he thanks Molly as best he can and he sits down. They’re the only ones inside at the moment. Everyone else is out doing various things for the Order. Remus wishes that he could be out there with them, but tonight is the full moon and so Remus is all but useless. Molly is here because she doesn’t go out on the field before she has to.
Remus admires that in a sense, the level of self-preservation she keeps with her. Remus admires Molly a great deal. He hates her sometimes. He hates her often. But he admires her all the same. She is strong and takes good care of her family, or at least, as good as she can manage to. She takes good care of Harry too, even if she forgets that he needs to know things sometimes.
He hates her, not only for the way that she treated Sirius, but for the fact that her family is still intact.
He hates himself for hating her.
Remus has always been filled with anger. He and Sirius matched each other in that, even if they were vastly different almost everywhere else. He never quite reached Sirius’ levels of occasional cruelty, and he never got quite as good at fighting as Sirius had been, but in anger they were equals. They used to fight all the time, he and Sirius. James and Peter would worry when they were at school, they would worry that one day he and Sirius would tear each other to pieces. Remus too, had sometimes wondered if they would.
Now, Remus knows that they didn’t and that they never would again. He almost wants to, if only to see Sirius one last time.
He swallows against the lump in his throat and pushes himself up out of the chair. He leaves the coffee on the table, not caring that he’s not drunk any of it, not caring that Molly undoubtedly thinks that he’s being rude. He is being rude. He does’t care. Everyone is dead. Everyone he has loved is dead, or at least that’s what it feels like. And yet, he still needs to be here, ready to fight.
He had fought all his fucking life in so many different ways. But here he is, ready to fight again.
Remus resists the urge to slam his head into the wall.
If he can’t be okay, he will at least be useful.
—
October 1978
“They hate us everywhere,” Remus says bitterly, clearly, it’s his day to be the angsty one. “Everyone.”
“Who?” Sirius asks, pleasantly oblivious as they walk down the street together.
“Everyone.”
“I need more information than that,” Sirius presses, knocking his elbow into Remus’ side.
Remus knows that he needs to not bring this up. It’s the first full few days off that they have had together in months, three consecutive days. It’s almost unheard of now. Things have been like this since their NEWTs were officially over and it was decided that they could join the Order as active members, not just occasional helpers.
So, Remus shouldn’t say anything. Instead, he should think about pleasant things, like the ice cream that Sirius has just bought them both, like the fact that they’re living together in a flat that is theirs, like the fact that things are as good as they can be right now.
Remus speaks anyway.
“Muggles. Wizards. Witches. Everyone,” Remus says, frustrated. “What with neither of us white, neither of us straight, we’re not exactly appealing to the everyday man. Plus, we’re fighting for our lives every fucking day in an actual war, so there’s clearly some people hating us there too.”
“Remus,” Sirius breathes, sounding just as frustrated, and there's something that Remus picks up as irritation hanging on the edge of his tone.
Remus thinks that he’s been annoying Sirius a lot these days. He wonders why Sirius lets him stick around. He wonders why Sirius puts up with him. There’s no point to him these days. There’s no worth to him these days.
Maybe that’s why he keeps talking even when he shouldn’t, just to see if he can push Sirius into leaving him. Then he can pretend that it’s not the love that is heavy, but the hatred instead. He can deal with hate, he knows how to deal with hate — for all he dislikes it, it’s easier to deal with. It’s easier to deal with than Sirius’ overwhelming kindness.
“Sirius,” Remus says, daring Sirius to react.
—
March 1997
Remus laughs. It’s rough and harsh and loud. It’s not a happy laugh, but it is a powerful one. It’s one that means ‘oh, you are so fucked’ and Remus doesn’t know if he means himself or the man that he has just shot a curse at.
The man is dead now, he is on the floor, he is dead.
Remus keeps a tally of how many people he has killed. Once, he had thought that it would help him keep his humanity intact. Now, it’s just a habit. These days, the number rises more frequently than it has in nearly twenty years.
He shudders as he looks down at the body on the ground, not a man anymore, just a body. He shivers as he appears back in his flat, his skill with apparating has never been so useful.
Remus turns on the shower and he pretends that the warmth of the water will wash away the pain he feels, pretends that it will give him reprieve from the world he is living in. Maybe in part, it does. He closes his eyes and the darkness consumes him. The spray beats down on him and he slips away.
He isn’t particularly present these days, anyway.
These days, he can’t help but slip away.
Years ago, he was always the one to be painfully present, vigilantly hyperaware of everything going on. He had always been right there to take all the blows hurled at him and he longed for an escape from reality, any escape from reality. Unsurprisingly, it had taken him down some less-than-savoury paths.
Now though, he was nearly always separate from reality. Where was he? Who was he? Some days he didn’t know. And why should he? He knew who the enemy was and he knew how to follow instructions — he wasn’t needed for anything more than that.
Not anymore.
So, he slips away. Slips away from everything he doesn’t have to know. His only job is with the Order. His only life is with the Order. He doesn’t leave the flat if he doesn’t have to and unless he is out fighting, he doesn’t have to.
He had admired Emily Dickinson when he was younger, but this was not how he had wanted to turn into her: locked away from the world by choice. He wonders if she too felt like she was slipping away, if she too felt like there was a part of her that would never come back.
—
September 1978
“Fuck, I love you,” Remus says, giddy and thrilled with life as a whole.
“I love you,” Sirius returns, a hand running its way through Remus’ hair.
“Good.”
“Yeah, it is good,” Sirius laughs as he shuffles away slightly to look at Remus properly. He is bright, he is beautiful, he is everything that Remus could ever have hoped for and routinely, Remus is amazed that he got so lucky.
They have been living together in this flat for months now. They had left school and immediately moved in together, figuring that it would be so much better than being at Hogwarts together, so why not just go for it? And on days like today, it was so much better than being at Hogwarts together, Remus felt so absolutely free. On other days though, it was so much worse, but Remus tries not to think about those days too hard.
The sunlight pours over Sirius and he looks so fucking beautiful that it’s almost too much for Remus to handle. Remus wants to cry with how much he loves Sirius. But he doesn’t. He has cried enough lately, he doesn’t need to be dehydrating himself over love of all things.
“What are your plans for before tonight?” Remus murmurs, warm and gentle and glad that they have this day together.
They hold all their hours off close to their hearts now. Days off are all too rare, and even as Remus is glad that he and Sirius can do something to help, he longs for the long lazy months that he had thought he would have after finishing his final year at school.
He certainly hadn’t been been expecting to spend most of it in a tiny flat, worried for his life and the lives of all the people he knew. That being said, he also hadn’t expected to be living with Sirius, so he supposes that some good things have happened along the way, regardless.
“Anything you want to do,” Sirius replies after a moment’s silence.
“That’s not true and you know it,” Remus counters, grinning. “What do you actually want to do?”
“I don’t know yet. It’ll come to me.”
“Of course it will, it always does.”
Remus links their fingers together and thinks that maybe he would be okay if they just sat like this for the entire day. Really, he doesn’t know if he is physically possible of getting any happier than this. What more could he want?
A few minutes later though, Sirius has pinned Remus’ hips down to the sofa underneath them and Remus has thought up a few ideas of what more he could want.
—
April 1997
Remus’ throat is hoarse from yelling. He yelled tonight. He has barely spoken since… that night, but now, now he just feels like shouting, like yelling, like screaming. It’s almost a need, it’s so intense. His chest constricts around him and he gets this idea that it won’t go away unless he yells, it won’t go away unless he breaks himself open to scream at someone.
And so that’s exactly what he did.
Dumbledore had come today, breezy as ever, speaking like the world wasn’t falling apart for what felt like the thousandth time. Remus used to wonder if Dumbledore’s easygoing nature stemmed from the fact that he had lived so long and through so much. Now, he thinks that it has more to do with the fact that Dumbledore hasn’t cared for someone in decades. Oh sure, he cares about the world in an abstract sense, he thinks that he can make the world a better place, and maybe he is right. But individual people? They’re just tools to Dumbledore — Remus can see it on his face as he discusses their plans going forward.
So, Remus had finally, finally said something about it. Remus had screamed at Dumbledore, the man who Remus used to respect with every fibre of his being. All that respect had vanished now. It had been unstable ever since Harry had been placed with the Dursleys, it had dwindled even more when Sirius had made his escape from Azkaban, but now? After hearing how Dumbledore spoke about everything? Remus was furious with him.
Furious with his blasé attitude. Furious with the lack of emotion he expressed. Furious with the fact that he had let Sirius die.
Remus had gotten louder and louder, not even caring that he was surrounded by other people, other people who he did hold huge amounts of respect for. He had been well aware that other people were staring and he hadn’t cared.
He doesn’t care, even now. Even as he sits on his bed, head in hands, he doesn’t care. He is glad for it. He is glad that everyone was able to hear all his accusations. He is glad that he finally said something. He is glad for the opportunity to scream.
Remus is alone these days anyway, so fuck whoever minded his yelling, he does good work and he will continue to do good work, but he can’t stand another moment of people who don’t care.
He is alone now. He doesn’t speak to anyone if he can help it. He takes his orders and he follows them, happy to do so as he knows that he’s fighting for his people. He does all the things that he is supposed to do, so what did it matter that he spoke out this once? He was an adult, these were the things he was allowed to do now.
He has suffered enough.
Hasn’t he?
Hasn’t he suffered enough by now?
He grew up in the middle of the war, then he learnt how to fight in it. By the time that that war had ended, there was AIDS and all around him he was seeing people like him die. And now, now they were in the middle of a war again. Surely, surely this was enough. Couldn’t this just be enough?
Remus thinks that he’s crying, but he’s not entirely sure and he doesn’t really have the energy to move to brush away any potential tears. So he sits. He turns the light off with a murmur. He waits.
—
August 1978
“Can’t you get through one day without crying?” Sirius spits out, rage painted all over him.
They are angry today. Both of them. Neither of them are entirely sure why or what at.
“Coming from you? You’ll forgive me if that doesn’t mean a whole lot to me.”
“Fucking hell, Remus,” Sirius says, exasperated, sharp. “It’s just another day. Get over it, would you? We don’t have time for regret. It’s just a job.”
Remus’ blood boils and he hates. The issue is that he doesn’t know what it is that he hates and Sirius is the closest thing to him. “You think I don’t know it’s a job? I’ve been doing “jobs” my entire fucking life, Sirius. You think that just because your family was a bit shit you’ve won’t the pain Olympics?”
“Oh, we’re doing that, are we?” Sirius asks, so scornful that in any other mood, Remus would have shrunk back. “At least we helped you. And for what?”
“Like we haven’t given everything for you!”
“And you think that any of it has helped?”
Remus knows that this is idiotic. He knows that Sirius knows that it’s idiotic. None of it is how they should be spending their time. Most of it isn’t even how they feel. It’s just the built up anger and hurt and frustration needing to get out somewhere. And well, put two teenage boys in a very small flat together while fighting a war and no matter how in love they are, things are going to hurt sometimes.
“Fuck off, Sirius. We just killed people, alright? Alright? We just fucking killed those people and you want me to be calm. Maybe you’re right, maybe we didn’t help you after all. Maybe this is something you like.”
This is too far, this is crossing too many lines. Remus knows that this is inexcusable. Remus knows that Sirius will remember this and will hate him for it. But they hate each other already, don’t they? Maybe they don’t. Remus doesn’t know anymore.
“You always make things into such big deal,” Sirius hisses. “There’s no point in even talking to you.”
Hours later, they have sorted things out again and they stand by the window together, trading a cigarette between them. Their fights are loud, but short lived these days. There’s no time for grudges. Particularly not when neither of them actually care about any of the things that they argue about. Remus thinks that’s half the reason they do fight: for something to care about.
“We should get better at talking,” Remus puts out lightly, not sure what response he’ll get out of Sirius.
“Yeah,” Sirius sighs. “We should.”
—
May 1997
Remus had always been a quiet walker, but now it’s almost as if his feet don’t touch the ground at all. He barely feels the floor underneath him, though he knows that it’s there. He knows his way around Grimmauld Place so well that he probably doesn’t even need to look to navigate his way around. He does look anyway, just in case there’s anyone else up and about for a late night stroll, he’d rather not run into them. He doesn’t think that there’s anyone else who spends their nights like this, but he can’t be sure, he doesn’t really know what anyone does these days.
Better to be safe than sorry.
And yet, he is sorry most days anyway.
He likes walking around at night, even if he doesn’t always go outside. The house is big enough and grim enough that Remus satisfies the burning desire in him to move. He also feels adequately pained as he walks around its corners, through its rooms.
It’s almost as if Remus seeks out pain these days. He shouldn’t. He knows this. It’s not something he should be doing with his life. Sirius would have scolded him for the self-pity. But Sirius isn’t here and Remus is already in pain. It is one of the only things he has truly known for years, so why would it be any different now? Especially when the other thing he has known is leaving him rapidly.
So, he walks along the halls in the dark like is he who is the ghost. Like it is him who is dead. Like it is him who won’t pass willingly into the other side. That feels just about as real as anything else does these days, so who knows, perhaps it is true.
He does walk outside tonight. He has no instructions that keep him inside. He doesn’t sleep anyway, so he may as well be up doing something. Some nights he works and he feels productive, but tonight is for walking. He makes his way down the street. He doesn’t know where he is going. He doesn’t know if there is any place for him to go. Still, he needs to move and so he walks.
He walks past a group of four: two men, hand in hand; two women, arm in arm. Remus smiles at them, wishing that the could communicate to them that he knows just how brave they are, wishing that he could stop the tears from coming to his eyes as he remembers the nights that he and Sirius would walk like those men.
He walks back to headquarters — he can’t call it home without Sirius there — and he cries.
—
July 1978
“Straight into it, hm?” Remus asks, motioning to the various piles of Sirius’ belongings that are scattered around the flat.
They have had the keys for all of two hours and already, Sirius has sent Remus off to stock up on groceries while he started on the unpacking. Truthfully, Remus hadn’t expected anything less, Sirius’ excitement and impatience were always going win out over any attempt to go slow. And realistically, Remus was glad for Sirius — he was just as excited about it.
It was theirs. This flat was theirs. Sirius had bought it with some of the money that his uncle had left him and though Remus had tried to protest about too-quick decisions and ‘why don’t we rent so we can split it?’ He hadn’t managed to get all that far. He can’t say that he really minds.
“Yep,” Sirius agrees. “Hurry up then. You’re home now, you’ve got to get started too.”
“You mean, I can’t just wait until tomorrow?” Remus asks, grinning, though Sirius can't see it as he stares firmly at the contents of a box.
“I will hide every single one of your books if you wait until tomorrow,” Sirius replies, lifting his head up to shoot a glare at Remus.
“Ah, well, I suppose I’d better not let you go through with that.” Remus sits himself down next to Sirius, planting a kiss on his lover’s forehead before dragging over a box of his own stuff to unpack.
“Exactly.”
“We’re so lucky,” Remus says happily. “Who would have guessed we could be this happy?”
“Not me,” Sirius replies. “But here we are.”
“Here we are.”
—
June 1997
Dumbledore is dead. Dumbledore is dead and this is likely the last time Remus will ever stand inside Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Dumbledore is dead and all Remus can think about is how many more came before and how many more will come after. Dumbledore is dead and Remus’ heart breaks for Harry, Harry who had to see that and so much more, Harry who Remus should have been able to protect.
Remus has failed. Remus knows he has failed.
The war rages on and will continue to do so for the foreseeable future. Almost everyone he has ever loved has died — too many of them because he couldn’t help them. The boy he swore to protect with his life had already seen far, far too much and he is only sixteen. He wouldn't be surprised if Lily and James came down from wherever they are for the express purpose of letting Remus know just how much he has fucked up.
This is not how Remus wanted to grow old. He is thirty-seven and he is older than Sirius will ever be, older than James and Lily will ever be, older than so many people will ever be. He has made it to thirty-seven and some days he feels like he has hated far more of it than he has loved. He supposes that it’s much the same for everyone.
No one talks a great deal these days. There aren’t the right words to say what needs to be said. There is nothing that can say what needs to be said, no matter how desperately Remus wishes there was, no matter how desperately everyone wishes there was. Instead, they stay quiet, holding a silent vigil for all those lost, and some days, for all those alive as well.
Remus dreads waking up every morning. He knows that he needs to, he needs to see the war to its end. He needs to be useful in some way. He has failed so many people, he needs to do this. He knows that they would tell him that it’s not his fault, but who else’s could it be? He loved them and they loved him.
What is love if not an oath to protect each other?
But here he is, one of the last of his generation alive. Here he is, exhausted and broken down and feeling ten times as old as he should. Here he is, steeling himself for another day alone, another day stranded in this world of darkness and pain. Too much has happened for him to turn back now. Now, he has one mission alone.
Remus tilts his head up to the ceiling and remembers all the people he has ever loved.
He walks out of the building and doesn’t turn back to see it disappear.
This is it.
Here he is.