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31 October 1981
It’s dark when Remus gets home.
His eyes burn and his lungs ache as he locks the door behind him, not bothering to kick off his shoes in the entryway. His body goes through the motions of pulling out his wand and flicking on the living room lamp, golden light flooding the room, although his mind is anywhere but here as he sinks onto the sofa. He squeezes his eyes shut, but he can still see the silver wisps of Dumbledore’s Patronus glowing pale behind his eyelids, the cracks in Dumbledore’s voice as his words spilled from his Patronus’ beak.
They’re dead, Remus. Go home. Protect yourself.
He doesn’t remember how he got home from his job at the Muggle cafe, and he doesn’t know how long he spent collapsed in the driver’s seat of his car, trying desperately to catch his breath. Time is meaningless in a world where James and Lily don’t exist.
He thinks of Harry—of his deep green eyes, chubby thighs, and bright smile. Harry, who is now parentless in the midst of war. For a moment, he distracts himself with where Harry might end up. His next of kin are Lily’s shitty sister and brother-in-law, but Remus quickly dismisses that idea. Dumbledore would think of alternatives. Sirius is his godfather, so perhaps—
Remus lets out a shaky breath. His mind floods with memories of the frigid January night when James and Lily announced that they were expecting, smiles all around and the scent of cinnamon and chocolate lingering in the air. Closing his eyes, he watches a hazy, slow motion reel of that night: Peter laughs so hard that hot chocolate comes out of his nose. Lily talks about the future with hope instead of dread for the first time in months. James pats Sirius on the back and asks him if he would be the baby’s godfather. Remus plays these memories over and over again until he feels like he’s going to be sick. When he opens his eyes, hot tears spill down his cheeks and collect on his chin. He wipes them away with the back of his jumper’s sleeve and lets out a weak, broken sob as a fresh wave of grief washes over him. An hour ago, James and Lily were still alive. An hour ago, he was locking up at the cafe.
Minutes turn into hours. Outside the living room window, London’s bright lights twinkle against the darkness, and a sliver of pale moon hangs high in the sky. Remus glances at the clock on his wall with sore, dry eyes. It’s half-past ten, and while his body is tired and broken, his mind is racing and alert. He’s usually in bed by now, but sleep is a distant thought; he’s stuck in the conversation he had with James and Lily this morning at their house. Leftover strings of lights, candles, and oil lamps from Diwali had decorated their living room, and the three of them had snacked on freshly made sourdough bread with butter while Harry, dressed in a pumpkin Halloween costume, played with his toy broom. They talked about Halloween, Harry’s newfound determination to terrorize the cat, and Remus’ shitty boss who won't take the hint that he’s not interested. It was an ordinary conversation; meaningless. Now, in the late hours of the night, he clings to every word, every time James laughed and Lily rolled her eyes in feigned annoyance.
Remus sucks in a sharp breath. He knows little about what happened between when he left the Potters’ for work and now. Someone close to Lily and James betrayed them. How Harry survived, he can’t piece together. And so far, there’s been no sign of Sirius or Peter.
A sharp knock at the door startles him, and he stills. Another knock comes after a moment, followed by a voice.
“It’s McGonagall, Lupin.”
Remus draws his wand and slowly gets up from the sofa. In the entryway, he swallows hard, unlocks the door, and pulls it open. McGonagall is there, her brown eyes rimmed with red. A squirming Harry is in her arms, with a nasty gash on his forehead.
Remus points his wand at McGonagall, struggling to keep his hand from shaking.
“What did I ask you when I stepped into your classroom for the first time?”
“If you were dreaming,” McGonagall answers, and Remus lowers his wand. “We have a lot to go over, Lupin.”
Remus invites her in, locks the door, and seals it with a ward behind her. McGonagall wanders into the living room, setting Harry down on the carpet before turning to face Remus. There’s a deep crease between her brows, and she fidgets with the pocket watch hanging from her robes.
“How are you—” she begins, but cuts herself off, letting out a heavy sigh. “Well, never mind that.”
“It doesn’t feel real,” is all Remus can think to say. “What happened? I know they were betrayed, but—”
“Pettigrew,” McGonagall says. “More have died tonight. In trying to escape, he killed twelve Muggles with the Blasting Curse. He’s been caught, but we don’t know more than that.”
Remus sucks in a sharp breath, biting down hard on the inside of his cheek. As his mouth fills with the tangy taste of blood, he digs his nails into his palms, willing himself to remain standing. He glances down at Harry rolling around on the carpet, and ignores the suffocating pain in his chest.
“And Sirius?” he asks.
McGonagall says nothing for a moment, her lips pinched into a fine line. Just as Remus is about to ask her again about Sirius, she speaks. “He was after Pettigrew when he was caught in the explosion. We believe he is the thirteenth victim.”
Something breaks further inside Remus, and he brings a hand to his mouth to stifle the sob that rips through him. Snot blends with hot tears as he tries to pull himself together, as he tries not to dwell on the fact that the people he loves most in this world are gone. He holds up a finger to motion that he’ll be back. Hurrying out of the living room and into the kitchen, he vomits his dinner of tomato soup from the cafe in the sink. His throat burns, his lungs ache, and relentless waves of tears blur his vision. He blows his nose into a paper napkin and tries to take a few deep breaths before he returns to the living room. McGonagall’s eyes are glassy, brimming with tears as she watches him.
“What happens to Harry, then?” he asks.
“Dumbledore wanted him to go to the Dursleys, but I’ve convinced him otherwise,” McGonagall says. “Lupin, under ordinary circumstances, Harry would go to Black, given that he’s the child’s godfather. However… well, with everything that’s happened this evening… we’re asking you to be his guardian.”
Remus’ stomach knots as he glances between McGonagall, Harry, and back again. “Me? McGonagall, I can’t. Not with my—”
“That’s already sorted,” McGonagall says. “I’ll mind Harry during full moons.”
“I can’t,” Remus urges. “I don’t know the first thing about parenting—”
McGonagall places a sturdy hand on his shoulder. “Lupin, I’ve watched you be an extra parent to this child from the moment he was born. If there’s anyone in this world who can give him the love and care he deserves, it’s you.”
Remus paces in front of the coffee table, stepping around Harry as he cards a hand roughly through his hair. “And if I say no?”
“He goes to the Dursleys.”
Remus pauses, McGonagall’s words tugging at his heartstrings as he imagines what it would be like for Harry to grow up in a house where magic wasn’t tolerated—where he wasn’t loved. He thinks about what James and Lily would have wanted for Harry, what choice they would have made. As he looks down at Harry, he knows.
He lets out a shaky breath, certain his next words will change not only Harry’s fate, but his own.
“Okay,” he says, wiping the snot dripping from his nose with the back of his sleeve. “I’ll be his guardian.”
McGonagall nods, pulling out a folded piece of parchment and self-inking quill from her pocket. Laying them on the table, she says, “I’ll need you to sign this before I go. It signifies that you have legally agreed to be Harry’s guardian.”
Remus unfolds the parchment and takes the quill, scribbling a wobbly signature at the bottom. With a heavy sigh, he hands the parchment and quill back to McGonagall, who pockets them.
“What now?” he asks. “Does Harry need to be taken to St Mungo’s? The cut on his forehead—”
“Harry survived the Killing Curse, Lupin,” McGonagall says. “I think the cut is the least of our worries.”
“And Voldemort?”
“Gone, as far as we can tell. Remain cautious, though,” McGonagall says. “And guard Harry with your life.”
Remus nods. “I will.”
“Keep well, Lupin.”
McGonagall Disapparates with a pop. Remus turns to face Harry, who has pulled himself into a standing position and is waddling toward the couch. Picking him up, Remus brushes a stray curl of thick black hair from his face. Harry grins as they look at each other, his laugh filling the otherwise silent flat.
12 June 1983
Remus pulls down his favourite purple mug from the cupboard. Although years old, the Pisces constellation and Have Fayth slogan printed on the front of the mug in metallic silver and gold still shine brightly underneath the morning light pouring in through the kitchen window. Once the kettle is on, Remus leans against the counter and watches Harry, who has been trying to shovel porridge into his mouth with a spoon for the last ten minutes. He has yet to succeed, with a good portion of porridge dumped in his lap.
They haven’t lived in the cottage for long—six months, almost seven—but he feels at home here, on the Isle of Skye. The cottage is larger than his old flat in London, which had quickly become cramped as Harry had grown into his terrible-twos. It’s quieter than London, too; no sirens, or drunken singing from the nearby pub, or rogue pigeons with a taste for toddler flesh. Here, there’s room to breathe.
Once the water has boiled and his tea has steeped, Remus takes his mug to the kitchen table and sits on the spot next to Harry’s booster seat. The wireless plays in the background, the soft lull of an old Celestina Warbeck song crackling in the air. Remus sips his tea, absently staring out of the sliding glass door opposite the kitchen table. In the front garden, marigolds are in bloom, bright and orange against the rolling green mountains and grey, overcast sky. The air is damp with the promise of rain, although Remus doesn’t mind; Harry has an affinity for puddles.
“What do you want to do today?” he asks Harry, who blinks up at him with large green eyes.
“The car!” Harry yells, kicking his legs.
“A car ride? Alright, we’ll go once I finish my tea, and maybe you and I can make biscuits later. Deal?”
“Yes!” Harry says, clapping his hands together. “I love biscuits.”
“I know you do.” Remus laughs and reaches over, tickling Harry underneath his chubby chin. “In fact, I think you love biscuits so much that you might… turn into one!”
Harry squeals, his laugh echoing against the walls and filling Remus’ chest with a swell of warmth. As he looks at Harry, with his bright eyes, toothy smile, and yellow glasses that strap to the back of his head, he can’t help but think about how Harry’s mere presence is enough to fill most of the gaping, irrevocable hole in his heart. The sharp twist of shame Remus feels in his chest whenever Harry calls him “Daddy” no longer twists as hard, and the nightmares are growing few and far between.
Now, things just are. And Remus is okay with that.
He finishes his tea and levitates the dishes to the sink, giving them a quick Scourgify before turning his attention to Harry’s mess. Replacing his porridge-crusted jeans with a fresh pair, Remus then holds Harry’s rain boots steady while he steps into them. Once on, he opens the front door and watches as Harry makes a beeline for the car—an old Volkswagen Golf with faded turquoise paint and a permanent cigarette smell from the previous owners. Smiling to himself, Remus grabs his wallet and keys from the entryway table and locks the door behind him. The air is cool and smells like sea salt. From the gravel driveway, the rest of the front garden is visible. A bushy heather plant sits near the front door, and pots of lavender, Scottish primrose, and daisies surround the vegetable garden. A lush cluster of wisteria hangs over the cottage’s pale blue door.
“Daddy!” Harry says, stomping his rain boot. “I want to go!”
“Okay, alright,” Remus says, laughing. He opens the car door and straps Harry into his car seat. Once Harry is set, Remus slides into the driver’s seat and starts the car, placing a hand on the passenger seat’s headrest and glancing out of the rear window as he backs down the sloped driveway. As the tail-end of the car tilts down over the steepest part of the driveway, Remus slams on the brakes. Harry’s cry of confusion fades into the background as Remus stares through the back window, forgetting how to breathe.
Sirius Black is standing at the foot of his driveway, eyes wide and shoulders drawn up.
Remus blinks, again and again and again, convinced he’s imagining things, because Sirius is still standing at the bottom of the bloody driveway. Sucking in a sharp breath, he draws his wand from his coat pocket and puts the car in park before turning to look at Harry.
“Daddy’s going to talk to the man outside for a second, okay?”
Harry nods, lip quivering and tears streaming down his face.
Remus climbs out of the car. Sirius takes a few steps forward, gravel crunching underneath his leather boots, and Remus raises his wand.
“Don’t move,” he says, voice as firm as he can make it.
Sirius knits his eyebrows together, but he holds his hands up in surrender. “It’s just me, Moony.”
“Sirius is dead,” Remus says. “Has been for a year and a half. So who are you, really?”
Sirius takes another step forward. “I know this looks bad—trust me, I know—”
“Don’t. Move.”
“Look at me, Moony. No smoke and mirrors,” Sirius says, his voice soft.
Keeping his wand up, Remus takes a moment to study him. Sirius looks largely the same as the last time Remus saw him, although his hair is longer now—falling in black waves well past his shoulders—and his cheeks have a hollowness to them. And although the light dusting of stubble throws Remus off for a moment, it’s still Sirius. It’s still him, with the same deep, grey eyes, and barely-there smattering of freckles across the bridge of his nose, and brilliantly infuriating smile.
“Ask me something,” Sirius suggests. “Something only I would know.”
A million memories flood Remus’ mind, from the first time they met on Platform 9 3/4, to raiding the Hogwarts kitchens at night, to coming up with the map, to that drunken night in Seventh Year that they never talked about—
“First Year,” he says, forcing that last memory away. “What prank did I come up with during our first month at Hogwarts?”
Sirius lets out a bark of laughter, and Remus lets out a breath at the achingly familiar sound. “You were the proud mastermind behind the Whoopee Cushion Prank of ‘71. I don’t think I’ve ever seen McGonagall’s face turn so red.”
“How?” Remus asks, taking a staggering step forward as he lowers his wand. Hot tears prick the corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over with relief. “H—how are you… here?”
“I was dead,” Sirius says, his eyes earnest. “Now, I’m… well, not so much.”
Remus shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s magic, Remus,” Sirius says, resuming his walk up the driveway. “It doesn’t have to make bloody sense. Now, what does a guy have to do around here to get a proper greeting?”
Remus sprints the rest of the way, closing the distance between them. He crashes into Sirius and wraps his arms around his waist. He soaks in the solidness of Sirius’ form, the crinkle of leather underneath his arms. He still smells of pine and eucalyptus. Sirius tucks his chin into Remus’ neck as they hold each other in silence.
Being here, breathing him in... it’s enough.
Remus pulls back from the hug, unsure whether he wants to laugh, cry, or both. Sirius’ brow creases as he shoots Remus an affectionate smile and punches him lightly on the arm.
“So, this is where you live,” he says, tilting his head as he inspects the cottage. “Nice place.”
“Yeah, well—”
“Daddy!” Harry yells, followed by his muffled screams from inside the car.
Harry’s crying abruptly cuts him off, and his heart drops as he glances at Sirius before walking back to the car.
“Daddy,” Sirius repeats in an undertone as he follows close behind, pulling his jacket tighter as a strong gust of wind picks up.
“You know about James and Lily?” Remus asks, unbuckling Harry from his car seat and holding him against his hip.
“Yes, although I didn’t know you had Harry.” Sirius reaches out to touch Harry’s hand but then flinches back. “You’re so big, buddy.”
Harry looks up at Remus, who gives him a reassuring back rub. “It’s okay. This is Sirius. He’s a friend of Daddy’s.”
Harry looks back to Sirius, who gives him a smile and a wave. “You and I used to have lots of fun together. What’s your favourite colour?”
“Yellow,” Harry says, confidently. “The sun is yellow.”
“It is,” Remus says, setting Harry down on the ground. “We’ll have to go for a drive later, okay? Daddy needs to talk to Sirius right now. How about you do some colouring for a bit?”
Harry nods and runs towards the door.
Together, the three of them go inside. Once he sets Harry up with his colouring on the living room floor and makes two strong cups of tea, Remus and Sirius take a seat at the kitchen table. An uncomfortable silence falls between them, and Remus traces patterns in the tabletop’s wood.
Sirius clears his throat. “So, I suppose we ought to go over some things—”
“From the beginning,” Remus suggests. “Tell me everything.”
“Everything.” Sirius lets out a low whistle. “Well, I remember all of it: finding out about James and Lily, wanting to kill Peter, the explosion. And then I died. I woke up back at the Potters’ house, in my old room there. Everything was the same, except no one else was around. It was as though Euphemia and Fleamont had just upped and left; there was half-eaten food on the table, dishes in the sink, beds unmade. I explored for a bit and realised I could walk through things—the walls, the furniture—which is how I figured out I was dead. What was infuriating, though, was that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t leave the bloody house. As soon as I opened the door, I’d find myself back in my room.”
Remus takes a long sip of tea. “So… how did you get out? And how are you alive?”
Sirius shrugs. “Dunno. I tried walking out the door one day, and it worked. As soon as I stepped outside, the house disappeared behind me and I realised I was solid again. From there, I walked into town and stole a newspaper, saw that it was June of ‘83.”
“How’d you end up here, then?” Remus asks.
“Every time I tried Apparating, it brought me to the end of your bloody driveway.”
“But you didn’t know it was my driveway.”
Sirius lets out a bark of laughter. “No, I didn’t. Imagine my bloody surprise when I eventually decide to walk up the driveway and see your stupid mug staring at me from the back of the car. Shock of my fucking life.”
Remus snorts. For the first time since seeing Sirius, he lets himself breathe. And for a second, it’s almost like how things were. If he tries, he can pretend that the person sitting across from him isn’t just recently undead, but the boy Remus grew up with—funny, flirty, rebellious Sirius, with that cheeky grin of his and eyes that made all the girls swoon. Sirius, who, in another life, Remus could have lo—
He lets out a heavy sigh and takes another sip of tea. “What’s your plan?”
“My plan?”
“Your plan,” Remus repeats. “Where are you staying?”
“Oh.” Sirius slightly recoils, his knuckles going white as he grips his mug. “Here, hopefully.”
Remus swallows hard. “There’s only two bedrooms, and Harry has one of them.”
“I’m fine with the couch,” Sirius says. “Or the floor, even. Think Harry would mind a roommate?”
“Fine,” Remus says, rolling his eyes. “Just until you get your feet on the ground and we figure… this out.”
Sirius raises his mug as he hooks their ankles together underneath the table. “Cheers, Moony.”
19 June 1983
Buttery yellow sun peeks from behind the puffy cluster of clouds drifting across the sky. Remus kneels with a grimace, his joints aching from his recent transition, and pulls on his gardening gloves. Next to him, Harry tries to shovel dirt into his mouth.
“Harry, love, the dirt is for the worms,” Sirius says from his shady seat between the lavender and daisy pots.
Remus snorts as he clips a few marigold stems, gathering them in his basket of flowers to be pressed and dried. Tilting back the sun hat from his vision to clip another bunch, he finds Sirius watching him, something indiscernible in his steely eyes. Suddenly conscious of his movements, Remus’ cheeks warm as he clears his throat and continues to garden.
“The marigolds,” Sirius begins. “They’re for Lily, aren’t they?”
“Her favourite,” Remus says without looking up. “I planted them as soon as we moved here.”
24 June 1983
“To the end of another fucking week,” Remus says, clinking his wine glass against Sirius’.
“To being alive enough to consume alcohol,” Sirius adds before taking a very large swallow.
With Harry down for bed, the cottage is quiet enough to hear the steady beat of rain against the roof. Remus unfolds a blanket across his lap and tucks his legs underneath him as he readjusts his position on the couch. Sirius scoots a cushion over, claiming the left half of the blanket. Their hands brush, and Remus pretends that Sirius’ touch doesn’t feel like a wildfire spreading across his skin.
“Is it okay that I’m still here?” Sirius asks, his voice quiet. “I mean, it’s nice being here.”
Remus looks at Sirius—at his soft smile, and warm gaze, and little curls that have come loose from his bun, framing his face—and knows the brokenness he would feel if Sirius were to leave again. “It’s okay, Pads. Until you get on your feet, remember?”
Sirius nods. “Thanks for letting me crash, Moony. I appreciate it.”
“Hey,” Remus says, bumping their shoulders together. “Anything for you.”
They turn on the Muggle television and watch reruns of Doctor Who, both of them sinking into their glasses of wine. Fuzzy golden light from the lamp next to the couch fills the living room, matching the warm glow in Remus’ chest. It’s comfortable between them—easy. Like it’s always been.
“Remember that night in Seventh Year?” Sirius asks during an ad. “We were drunk, you were a bit handsy—”
“Pads—” Remus’ chest tightens, and he clears his throat to fill the silence. “Let’s not talk about things that don’t matter.”
Sirius recoils as he turns to face Remus. “Things that don’t matter? What do you think I thought about the entire time I was stuck in that godforsaken house? Who do you think it was that I wanted to find as soon as I got out?”
Remus swallows hard. “It was a long time ago, Sirius.”
“It wasn’t that long ago,” Sirius mutters. “What are you so bloody afraid of?”
Something breaks inside Remus, his eyes stinging as hot tears threaten to spill down his cheeks. “What do you think, Sirius? I’m afraid of losing you again.”
There’s a pause, and then he feels Sirius’ hand on his own, warm and rough. Willing himself to glance up, he catches piercing, earnest eyes. His chest hurts and his breaths come with forced effort, quick and shallow. He supposes there’s no going back now—he’s already undone the promise he made to himself all those years ago to never talk about it. This. Them.
“You’re afraid of losing me again?” Sirius asks. “Remus, I’m not going anywhere.”
“I know.”
“You feel the same, then. About me.”
Remus lets out a huff of dry laughter. “Christ, Sirius. Yes. I always have.”
The hand on his own tightens its grip. “Why didn’t we talk about it in Seventh Year?”
“Because we were in the middle of a war,” Remus says. “And on the brink of graduating, going out into the world. I didn’t want to love you, knowing you could die the next day.”
“I died anyway, Remus.”
“I know.”
Sirius moves his hand to Remus’ cheek, wiping away a stray tear with the pad of his thumb as he leans in, almost touching. Remus lets out a quivering sigh, closing his eyes as Sirius’ soft breaths trail against his skin.
“Moony.”
Remus opens his eyes again, and his chest floods with warmth underneath Sirius’ steady, unwavering gaze. Sirius moves his hand to the back of Remus’ neck, their foreheads resting together. The room is quiet, barring their breaths and an occasional clap of thunder.
“Let yourself be loved,” Sirius whispers. “Let me love you.”
Thoughtlessly, Remus closes the distance between them. Sirius’ lips are rough and warm, and he tastes like wine and the sea salt caramels they’d snacked on after dinner. Remus gives himself over to Sirius, unfolding underneath his touch. Years of wanting tugs at his heart, and his head fills with memories long forgotten: stolen looks in class, walking by the Great Lake on sunny afternoons, holding a broken version of Sirius when he first left home, hugging each other a bit too tightly during their graduation ceremony, hours of moving boxes into Remus’ flat.
It’s always been this way. Inevitable.
Being loved by Sirius—it’s everything, and nothing, and everything in between.
31 July 1983
Harry’s birthday is filled with sunshine, and yellow balloons, and chocolate cake that somehow ends up in his nose. McGonagall stopped by in the morning, bringing Harry a pretend Snitch wrapped in forest green paper and a package from Dumbledore.
“For when he’s older,” she’d said. “You’ll know what it is.”
Now, as Remus, Sirius, and Harry sit in the garden, stomachs full of cake and lemonade, there’s a quiet calmness about the afternoon. Storm clouds are rolling over the mountains in the distance, and there’s a nip to the air that hadn’t been there an hour ago. Remus silently promises they’ll stay outside until the first drops of rain.
Sirius pulls a squirming Harry onto his knee, bouncing him up and down. “Have you had a good birthday, big man? Did you get lots of presents?”
Harry laughs as he tries to wriggle free of Sirius’ grasp, and warmth fills Remus’ chest as he watches the two of them. After a moment, Harry breaks free and makes a beeline for his new toy broom, which floats in the air next to the cluster of marigolds. As he takes off around the garden, hovering just above the ground, Sirius scoots closer to Remus, their knees knocking together.
“It’ll always be like this,” Sirius says, resting his head on Remus’ shoulder. “Won’t it?”
Remus takes his hand and nods. “Always, Pads.”