Work Text:
This is the way the world ends,
This is the way the world ends,
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but with a whimper.
- March 10th, 1984
Remus Lupin stops smoking the day after turning twenty–four. He tries to convince himself it’s because it makes his lungs burn around the full moons and he wants to be able to do this, at least, to be kind to himself, but the truth is he’s been running on the same pack for a month now and cannot afford to buy any more. It’s been three months since the last job, which lasted for five months in total, and he’s spent the little money saved in those precious months on things more vital. One can’t allow themselves to go long without water. And so on his twenty–fourth birthday, Remus lights up the last cigarette from the crumbly pack he keeps in the pocket of his worn jeans and takes a deep, shaking breath.
He briefly wonders what Lily would say if she saw him now, how she would argue nicotine is far more important than basic human needs, would ask for a drag and smoke the whole thing. He thinks how James would’ve kissed her with a smile and complained about the smell because he can’t understand the appeal of something so horrid, darling, really . He wonders if Peter would’ve smiled his crooked half–smile, would’ve leaned back and listened to them talk, ernest just to listen and be comfortable; he wonders if Sirius would’ve –
He coughs. For some reason the smoke has turned from sweet to bitter and he feels like he’s choking. It doesn’t deter, doesn’t stop for a moment, and as his lungs struggle to keep up with the shallow way he’s breathing, Remus wonders idly how he’s going to die. As his breath evens out he lets out another cough, and wonders how his body might be found. Thrown by the doorway of his own house, an empty hand and an empty scream, eyes hollow and lifeless? He wonders if James ever considered dying, even though he knows he hadn’t; James Potter has decided quite early on in his life death would simply not catch up to him. I’m a fast flyer, and I can run. Death wouldn’t stand a chance , was something he used to say with a challenging expression, and the three of them laughed it off. Of course James wouldn’t die, Remus thought then, James is life and fire and air.
He shuts his eyes, can’t bear the thought. James died, but he did so with such a valour that Remus almost thinks it makes sense. It doesn’t, of course – his mind rarely stitches itself together these past few years, maybe he’s being driven to madness without noticing – but Remus convinced himself in another universe the death of James Potter would be a given fact and not a plot twist. It’s the only comfort he has, sometimes – wondering what could’ve happened, would’ve happened, should’ve happened. He toys with parallel universes, throws a coin and wonders about luck, allows his mind to wander and stretch itself beyond the limits of his own racing heart. He thinks of time turners and infantazing potions; wonders where it all went wrong. Sometimes he convinces himself in another universe, another time, he saves them, and allows himself to think of a dark–haired boy with green eyes and no lightning scar on his forehead. Then, just as the thought allows a sense of comfort, he knows even there he would come back to an empty house and the love, the treachery, would still tear him up inside.
See, Remus doesn’t think of it. He lets his cigarette burn out and waits till it burns the tips of his fingers before dropping it to the ground with a sigh. He thinks it’s probably a good thing he’s stopping. His father has always hated the cigarettes anyway, and Remus has been enough of a disappointment already. He stares out at the sky, thinks of being twenty–four. In seventeen days James would’ve been twenty–four. Lily would’ve been twenty–four for a month and ten days today. Peter would’ve been twenty–four in five months and twenty days. His father tells him it’s best to think of them as people who will forever be twenty–one, that the would–be would never be and it’s bad to dwell on it. Remus doesn’t care.
Harry is four years old. Remus doesn’t know where he is, but he imagines James and Lily running around trying to manage life and a job and a chaotic toddler. He thinks of James reading a bedtime story, the way he read to Peter during first year when he was upset at being away from home. He thinks of Lily teaching her son about space and the moon, how gravity works and shooting stars. He thinks with a terrible bitterness of being a somewhat uncle, picking a friends’ child from kindergarten and babysitting on the weekends. Perhaps James would grow a beard – Lily has always wanted him to, but he claimed the itchiness was too much to handle. Perhaps Lily would’ve cut her hair, had it shoulder–length like Marlene; she has adored the way it looked. Peter’s face might’ve grown sharper; perhaps being twenty–three on the verge of twenty–four would’ve been the time for the angles to come through and he would stop looking so much younger.
With all these thoughts, Remus Lupin aches for a cigarette. Grief is a tricky thing, sometimes leaving and oftentimes not; it’s suffocating and the only thing keeping him afloat at the same time. Sometimes, feeling broken and weak after a full moon, he only gets up knowing James would’ve lectured him nonstop. Sometimes he does so because until they became animagi Peter never slept through the nights of the full moon, was too worried to let it go. When he goes out to another job interview in wizarding Wales and thinks this might be the time to find a low–paying muggle job and disappear, he thinks of a fierce Lily Evans that loved the muggle world and would still never leave her wand behind. When he goes to throw out an old record with memories of betrayal, he thinks of Marlene McKinnon crying after listening to The Wall for the first time. He thinks of Dorcas Meadowes in the midst of fighting with his father and pauses mid–sentence and apologises, remembering how much her father cried at the funeral. Reading the paper every morning is a thing done in honour of Frank Longbottom; washing his face after crying is a memory of Alice; he sees twins on their way home and thinks of Gideon and Fabian Prewett; a husband kisses his wife’s forehead on the street and suddenly he sees Edgar Bones clutching a lifeless lover and being cursed to death; stubs his finger on a sharp thing and the trickle of blood is suddenly Benjy Fenwick’s remaining shoulder; looks out the window on a misty morning and wonders where Caradoc Dearborn’s body could be.
It’s impossible to escape the endless stream of memory, not today and not ever – Remus does everything with a dread and a tight throat, because it’s impossible to leave the war behind and impossible to keep living in it. It’s easy to think it disappears after a while, to convince himself the loss hurts less as time passes, but the truth is it’s been over three years and it’s only getting worse.
The empty cigarette packet is knocked to the ground with a gust of wind. Remus looks down at it, thinks perhaps quitting nicotine isn’t the thing he should be doing right now. He looks to the empty night sky – thick clouds are covering the stars and the moon – and shuts his eyes.
He doesn’t open them when the rain starts to fall. When he comes back inside and dries himself with a spell, crawls under the covers and pretends to fall asleep, the empty cigarette packet is disintegrating with a slow sogginess on the balcony floor.
- July 7th, 1987
The morning of the seventh anniversary of Hope Lupin’s death is sunny and beautiful. In some strange way it’s almost a comfort – Remus knows she would’ve hated the anniversary of her death to be as gloomy as July 7th 1980, and the sun is caressing the deteriorating vegetable garden with all the glory of summer when a father and son put on a jacket and head to the cemetery. They walk quietly, because there isn’t really much to be said that hasn’t been said already. There are simple truths between them; that they both miss her, that her absence is like a canyon between them, that they need to water her plants, that they don’t talk on their way to the cemetery.
When they get to the grave, Remus leans down and carefully cleans the white stone. His knees crack a little – this close to the moon it seems that his bones aren’t really sure what to do with themselves – and his fingers linger on the carving of the stone. Hope daughter of Leah. born September 1st 1932, died July 7th 1987. A perfect mother, a beloved wife. He wonders, not for the first time, if she would’ve liked the phrasing of it. She had a habit of reminding him nobody is perfect, and in a way even she wasn’t, but her love was so fierce and all–encompassing Remus had no choice but to see her as such. And she was a beloved wife, and as complicated as a relationship Remus and Lyall have, they both know without a shadow of a doubt all the love in the Lupin household surrounded Hope like electricity.
“Hi, mum,” Remus mumbles, feeling seen and uncomfortable. He rises up, takes a few steps back. Places a hand on his father’s shoulder. “I’ll give you a minute,” he says, and walks to the nearby bench where he’s left his own bouquet of flowers. It’s their routine – Lyall’s back is too sore to bend down and clean the grave, and Remus insists they don’t use magic on it. He isn’t sure why – his mother never had any objection to magic, lived in a house that buzzed with it and was happy and content – but somehow it feels like cheating, like she deserves the honour of bending down and brushing the dead leaves off the stone. He waits for his father to give his mother an update on how things are going. These past few years he’s only come on her birthday and the anniversary, so naturally they have a lot more catching up to do. Remus was here just two weeks ago, makes an effort to drop by at least once a month and bring over fresh flowers. Perhaps in another universe he would’ve blamed his dad for not coming more, for leaving him to be the one to care for the dead alone, but he isn’t. He likes the time he spends alone with his mum, and he can only guess how hard it is to lose a partner like that.
See, this is why he forgives his father – the sad longing on his eyes has never left since the funeral, since before she got sick. Lyall was never a particularly happy man, at least not since Remus has gotten old enough to remember him, but being around Hope and her bright smile and comforting hugs always brought something soft into his eyes. When she died it was replaced by an icy blue coldness, and just by seeing his father every day he knows he doesn’t need to visit the cemetery to think about Hope.
It’s different for Remus. He thinks about her too, of course, but it’s distant and always muddled with other visits to the graveyard from the turn of the decade. When he thinks of Hope he thinks of Lily, and it makes him think of James and Peter, which always make him think of the others – and the list goes on and doesn’t stop. It’s different for him not because he misses his mum less than his dad does, but because she is one of many losses of three years of war. Lyall hadn’t had as many conversations with stones as Remus in 1980.
When his father is done, he walks over and nudges Remus’ shoulder. Remus gets up, holds the flowers with sweaty hands. It’s not a particularly hot day, but the nerves always make him grow hot, especially with the moon just three days away. He sits cross–legged in front of the grave, places the flowers gently over it, and starts to talk with a low voice and a bitter smile.
“Hi, mum,” he says. “Sometimes I feel like I’m bothering you here too much. But, well, you’ll have to deal with it. Hardly any other way I can annoy you now. And anyway, I have some updates.” He takes a deep breath. “Remember that one interview I talked to you about? Working at that cafe? Well, I got it. They don’t pay much, but the galleons are enough to get by. I got you those flowers, for example. I’ve a shift later this day, but yesterday I had the evening off and made dad some tomato soup. No magic, because we all know my wand’s no good for delicate spells. It was good. Not as good as yours, but decent enough.” A pause, a moment of silence. Remus wants to cry but finds he doesn’t have any tears. “I’m getting by, mum. It’s hard, and this job would probably be just as temporary as the rest of them, but I’m not scheduled to work the day of and the day after the moon this month, so even if it’s a problem it’s only going to come up next month. In the meantime I’m trying to find things to do. I’ve been going through your sci–fi collection again, but truthfully it’s a bit rubbish, and I’ve read all the good stuff so many times already. There’s lots of good music lately, though. I heard some stuff on the radio you would’ve liked – I know you keep saying wizard music isn’t for you, but these girls are really good. It’s clear they listened to lots of Bob Dylan. Lots of good muggle music, too. I should bring a radio next time I’m here – there’s one good station.
I don’t know, mum, I feel like I’m trying my best. You used to say this is the only thing that matters, and maybe it was, but I’m not so sure it’s enough now. Dad needs to retire – you know him, he’s needed to do that for months now, but he keeps pushing it. He says he likes it; I think he’s worried I won’t find a stable income and he wants to keep supporting me. Maybe I really should move out, but I don’t know where to go. I’ve barely any money, and the bits I have saved I’m trying to save for something that would make me happy. I’m just not sure what that thing could possibly be. It’s like I’m stuck, mum, like I’m chasing my own tail or something. I want to do something worthwhile, but I don’t know. I don’t know how to find something with a bit of meaning, and these things just don’t seem to come my way on their own.” Remus sighs, throws his head back, blinks at the sun. “I’ll water your garden today. The carrots should be good; I might make dad some carrot salad. Could you believe he still likes it? The sweet salad you used to make me when I was small. It’s good it actually made me gain a bit of weight, you know. Doesn’t seem to work that way for dad – he eats it and stays as slim as ever.” Remus smiles to himself. “Hmm. I think that’s a good starting plan for dinner. Some sweet carrot salad – I’ll grate it well and leave it with some brown sugar to soak. I think I’ll use that spell and fry some aubergine fritters – it’s the only one I can manage that fries stuff well enough. Some eggs. There’s some fancy bread dad got yesterday, we’ll use that too. I’ll buy some yoghurt. Seems like a nice dinner overall, don’t you think?”
Hope doesn’t answer. Sometimes it catches Remus so off–guard, the deafening silence. He bows his head. “Right. Well, mum, I hope you’re well. We miss you. Your absence is – I want to say we’re getting used to it, but it doesn’t make it any easier. It’s a bit of a shame you were such a good woman, you know. Could save us all that missing.” He looks down. “I’ll be back soon, mum. Replace the flowers for you.” He lays a hand on the stone. “Bye for now.”
When they walk back to the house, quiet and busy with thoughts, a father and a son have a hollow conversation.
A father asks, “are you alright, Remus?”
A son answers, “yeah, dad. Just miss her a bit.”
“Well, she’s always with us, kid. Even when we can’t really see her. She’d be very proud of the man you’ve become.”
Remus gives a weak smile. “Yeah,” he says, and to himself adds with a whisper, “I hope so.”
- December 2nd, 1990.
The wind is loud and harsh on Remus’ face. He thinks grimly at least this time it’s not raining; last month was so miserable he almost started crying. Not that it would matter at all, of course, seeing as the moon would have risen anyway and continue doing so until even the bones that were once Remus Lupin would fade into long—forgotten ash. Nevermind.
Really, he feels stupid. It’s not the first time he’s spending a full moon alone, certainly not the first time he’s doing it during the rough Welsh winter. It should feel like any other month, any other scene. He’s used to the cage, and he’s used to the loneliness, and just because the wolf isn’t doesn’t mean he’s going to allow it to infect him as well.
His father is at St. Mungo’s. He passed out in the garden a few days ago and hadn’t woken up since. The healers have no idea what’s wrong with him but they think he’s not going to die, which should probably make Remus happy but all it does is leave him with more unanswered questions. Whatever it is, it's not sleep, but besides the fact he needs to be fed and watered, his body seems to be self—sustaining. Now, it’s not like Remus and Lyall Lupin have the best relationship per se, but the cottage seems dreadfully quiet and the moon terribly bright all alone in the house. Remus heads to the cage in the woods just so he doesn’t have to keep looking at his father’s library.
The healers said he should visit tomorrow, but Remus has this shaking feeling this moon would wring out every ounce of energy he’s carefully collected since the last one. He’ll be there on the fourth, he told them. The healers gave a small nod and told him to shut the door behind him when he leaves.
This too shall pass, he tries to remind himself. Hope has always said it, and it took Remus a few months after her death to realise what the phrase meant. It wasn’t, nothing matters. It wasn’t, the struggles are an act of fiction. It was, a day will come when this thing would be a scar and not a wound. Remus still doesn’t like the phrase, thinks he knows about wounds better than most, but he can’t deny even the moon is temporary. It’s awful, of course, but only while it lasts, and when it leaves most of the pain leaves right with it.
Things have been getting better. Or, things have not been getting worse, which is much better than what Remus has gotten used to recently. Lyall’s current condition is probably the only thing not going according to plan in his life right now. He’s been managing with the current job for almost six months, a record time for him, and the pay is good and he enjoys it as well. There’s some sort of art to tutoring, he thinks, and pushes aside the childish idea of becoming a professor. The kids are not even purebloods, which is even better than what he usually deals with, because it means he doesn’t have to apologise for having a muggle mother every once in a while. And, truthfully, he thinks he’s good at this. The kids’ grades have improved, and they start believing they’re clever, which makes them even more eager to learn. He hasn’t had a nightmare in a week. The war is still raging through his mind, of course, but thinking there are actual positive things in his life is a good way to push it aside. Nevermind that he still freezes every time someone mentions the attack on Oxford Street.
Really, he should be fine. It’s just the moon and the chill making him feel so miserable. But the moon does not last forever, and when he wakes up in the morning he’d heal a few broken bones on his own and head back home to go to sleep. The house is ready for him, and there’s soup he’s already prepared for tomorrow noon, and it’s just another dreadful night he needs to get over. Really. It’s fine.
It isn’t. He knows it the minute he feels his bones start to shift. It’s easy to lie to himself and think the pain is familiar, but it sucks the air right out of his lungs every month as if it’s the first time. His ears are ringing, his body aches all over, and he tries to fight for a few more moments of clarity before losing control of himself completely. It’s best not to do it and he knows it, knows the wolf is a lot calmer when Remus doesn’t try to fight back, but he doesn’t want to give up on his consciousness today. In some naïve, childish way, he still thinks he could fight the bite on his shoulder off if he just put his mind to it.
If he could, it doesn’t work now. Remus feels himself fade out, or rather be consumed, and knows he’s not the one calling the shots. He doesn’t know what the wolf is doing, doesn’t see or hear anything — and if he could’ve, none of it would’ve made any sense — but he knows the wolf is angry and upset and in one of the further parts of his mind he wonders if it’s his fault. He tries to talk, or do something that resembles it, and suddenly the wolf howls louder and the human part of Remus Lupin stumbles away. Another time, he thinks distantly.
The concept of thought comes back later — Remus, of course, doesn’t know how or why, just knows hurt and pain. His body stitches itself together very slowly and painfully, and even though he hates his father hearing this, he lets out a small cry. He almost wants to crack a joke or maybe reach out and wait for someone to gather him in their arms, but he remains on the floor while the sun overcomes the moon and tries very hard to breathe. It’s rough and broken, but he manages as he always does, and struggles blindly over the bars of the cage for his wand. He always leaves it out — the wolf might hurt it, and Merlin knows Remus has neither the time nor money to get a new one — and nothing has ever happened to it so far.
He points his wand with shaking fingers to his left shoulder, murmurs a broken dulling charm and waits for the incomprehensible pain of the bite to ease. It’s not a spell that should be used on living organisms, he thinks every time his body becomes sluggish and slow. They were taught it in third year charms as a tool to dull sharp edges, but nothing works on the bite besides it. It might kill him some day, he muses sometimes. It would be a true tragedy to die of a dulling spell and not from the full moon itself.
He doesn’t die, though, and turns his wand next to his right ankle. He always breaks it during the transformations — if he’s had time or money or perhaps cared a bit he would’ve checked if there was anything to be done about it, but he has neither the money nor the energy to care. The spells work fine, and if they ever stopped doing their work he would check for another way to heal it. Potions are expensive and don’t seem to work much on him anyway. He heals his wrist and one his ribs as well, coughs up a bit of blood as the rib snaps back into place and heads to the Lupin family cottage. It’s not a long walk, but he feels weak and broken, so when he finally gets inside he drags himself the extra steps to his bedroom and collapses on the bed.
He dreams of comfort and being tucked in, soft kisses and warm hands. Ink—black hair and the smell of motor oil; a late brunch date that eases the pain with laughter and hand—holding. When Remus wakes up his body doesn’t hurt, but there’s an ache in his chest as he sits down alone and heats himself some soup.
- July 21st, 1993.
Remus is reading the Daily Prophet when there is a knock on the door. It takes him so off—guard he waits for a full minute before getting up, almost sure it’s a mistake. Nobody has any reason to visit him, certainly not since his father was permanently transferred to St. Mungo’s, and there are new residents a bit further down in the street. This person probably mixed up the house numbers; quite an unusual mistake, in Remus’ opinion, but it’s alright. He waits to see if there is another knock.
There is.
He groans softly and stands up, puts the paper away. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t cancelled the subscription — it’s his first time reading it for over a month. He doesn’t care much for politics, sports and gossip hardly interest him, and anything related to spending money is out of the question. He would do it later, he decides, and opens the door.
He doesn’t know what he’s expected, exactly, but it most definitely was not Albus Dumbledore. The old man looks the same as the last time Remus saw him in James and Lily’s funeral — white hair, long beard, sharp eyes and a crooked nose. He looks like nothing has changed, and smiles when Remus stares back in shock.
“Ah, Mr. Lupin,” he says, as if he hadn’t known Remus lived here, “I’m glad you’re home.”
“Professor,” Remus replies, and intends to continue but finds he doesn’t know what exactly to say. What could he be possibly looking for? Surely nothing to do with Remus’ father, and it’s been a long time since Remus had anything to do with either Hogwarts or the Order. Certainly there isn’t a war anymore, and Dumbledore should not have anything to do with any sort of law enforcement. “Er,” Remus starts, feeling a bit embarrassed. “Can I help you?”
“I most certainly hope so,” Dumbledore smiles, and gestures inside. “Should we have some tea, perhaps?” He suggests, and walks past Remus to the living room.
Remus hurries after him, thinking he should’ve known that would happen — Dumbledore always had a strange sense of manners. He heads to the kitchen, mindlessly casting a spell for the kettle to boil, and gathers out a teapot and two cups.
Dumbledore sits on the couch, looking around curiously. “Such a lovely place, Mr. Lupin,” he comments. “Belonged to your father as well, didn’t it?”
Remus feels like Dumbledore just punched him in the gut. “Still does,” he says, “he’s just at the hospital.”
Dumbledore hums. “So I’ve heard. What a strange phenomenon. Have they figured it out by now?”
Remus shakes his head, doesn’t say a word. His throat feels dry. He fills the teapot with the boiling water and places it on the living room table for the leaves to soak, summons the two cups.
“What a shame,” Dumbledore sighs, “a true loss to the researching community, your father. If that’s any comfort to you, I’m sure he’ll be remembered wonderfully.”
“You talk as if he’s dead,” Remus says. It’s deadpan and harsh. Over the past few years he’s heard it all, seen it all, been comforted by all. People that talk as if his father is dead and people that talk as if he would ever come back, people that pray for an answer and some that assure him it’s best not to dwell on it. He hates all of it, has a nasty reply to any words of comfort. He knows that Dumbledore knows it, too.
He hums. “Correct. Apologies.” Pours himself some tea. “At any rate, I wanted to talk to you about something more concerning at the moment.”
Remus gives him a look. He remembers painfully how everything concerns Dumbledore when there’s something important for him on the line. The things he does to stop being concerned. “Which is?” he asks. Dumbledore pours him some tea as well and he ignores it.
“I’m afraid I have some unsettling news,” Dumbledore hums, “but before I say it, I need you to promise to think thoroughly before making any decision.”
Remus frowns. “I can’t promise anything,” he says. Dumbledore looks at him for a long moment. There’s a debate between their eyes, and as always, Remus loses. He holds his teacup and adds, “I can only try.”
Dumbledore chuckles. “So I thought,” he says, almost to himself. “Very well. It has come to my knowledge that Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban.”
The teacup falls to the floor. In a moment Remus feels himself lying alone at the Hogwarts infirmary, less than twelve years old, coughing up blood from the full moon. He remembers how Sirius skipped Potions and snuck him scones and toast, apple juice and jam. He remembers spending a few minutes laughing so hard his ribs hurt. He draws a ragged breath and says, very softly, “what?”
Dumbledore looks at him with a look that is almost entirely pity. Remus wants to bury himself deep in the ground. “I believe they’re figuring out the details as we speak,” he says, “it will be all over tomorrow’s paper. It was important for me to come early.”
“How?” Remus asks. His voice feels broken. He feels like an open wound in salt water. “When?”
“Just last night. As I said, all the details are very minimal. The Aurors are after him; Alastor is involved as well.”
“He wouldn’t get far,” Remus finds himself saying. He doesn’t know why he says that.
Dumbledore shrugs. “I wouldn’t be so sure. He’s fooled many clever people before.” Remus almost flinches. He feels like a ghost. “At any rate, I have a proposal for you.”
“I’ll come,” Remus says immediately. He spent the past twelve years convincing himself Sirius Black has never existed, and in some way he was correct; the boy that whispered to him at night how much he hated his family, the man that kissed him sick with worry after missing a full moon — this Sirius Black has never existed, was a play and a terrible plot that still makes Remus feel hollow and stupid. But Sirius Black — mass murderer, Voldemort’s trusted man — was a real being, and Remus would happily go out of his way to make sure he gets what he deserves. “Tell Moody to put me on the search parties. I’ll come.”
Dumbledore waves his hand. “That? Oh, goodness me, I was not talking about that. In fact, I think it’s best if you refrain from making hasty decisions. I would like to offer you a position as a teacher at Hogwarts.”
Remus stares at him. “What.”
Dumbledore takes a sip from his tea. “Gilderoy Lockhart would not continue teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts next year, as is easy to guess. At any rate I don’t think I would’ve liked it much if he did so regardless of the incident. You, however,” Dumbledore says, “seem like an interesting choice to me.”
“Uh,” Remus says, “I’m sorry, Professor, have you forgotten about —”
“Oh, not at all,” Dumbledore replies, “quite an important thing to forget, don’t you think? No, Remus, I assume the previous arrangements would be sufficient enough. Or something has changed?”
Remus swallows. “It’s — I can’t teach the day after. It’s twelve days a year.”
“Well, only ten. There's the summer vacation,” Dumbledore says, “and the children have holidays quite often. It’s possible to miss a class every once in a while, I assure you. Finding a replacement just for one day a month would not be an issue at all.”
Remus pauses. He hadn’t had a job for over six months, save for an occasional tutoring class with one muggle child. His family have moved, though, and money has been tight especially since Lyall’s condition. It would be a smart financial decision. And — Remus likes teaching. It’s always been the dream, teaching at Hogwarts, all the kids running around. Letting them know all the secrets of the subject, showing them over a long period not just how to do well on their tests but also how to be the best versions of themselves. He thinks of the way James used to tease him over it, how Peter nudged his shoulder and promised him he’d make a great teacher after they did their essays together. All he can say is, “why now?”
Dumbledore gives him a strange look. “I’m in need of a teacher,” he says plainly. Remus knows it’s not the answer. Dumbledore doesn’t believe the Aurors would catch Sirius, and anyone would know he would go straight for Harry; God forbid he lets some work go unfinished. And Harry —
“Harry would be there,” Remus says. It’s intended as a question but comes out as a fact. “He’s thirteen.”
Dumbledore nods. “Third year. Gryffindor. Looks remarkably like his father, just as popular as him; has his mother’s wit and common sense. He would like you.”
Remus looks down. Harry. Sirius. James, Peter, Lily. Demons and ghosts, flashbacks and missed years. He wants to scream, to cry. He knows he’s just now getting the invitation because Dumbledore trusts him to put himself between Sirius and Harry should the need arise, and he dislikes just how much the assumption is an understatement. Remus has already failed Harry once, failed James and Lily and Peter; he would do things far worse to make sure Harry lives happily and Sirius dies painfully.
He looks at Dumbledore. He nods.
- June 18th, 1996.
It has taken Remus a while to adjust to Grimmauld Place. It’s eerie and dark and truly awful, and the thought that it was the place that reminded Sirius of childhood makes him feel with so much dread he has to take a deep breath. On a good day the portraits are calling him names with a snarl; on a bad day it’s a scream. The doors never close, or they lock you inside a room without any way of letting people outside know you’re trapped. Kreacher is always there, and it makes it all so much more awful.
He has taken to staying in the living room for most of the time. He drinks his tea, reads his books, goes over strategy with Moody and Tonks and scratches behind Padfoot’s ears. When it gets dark he reminds Sirius gently they should probably go to bed, and hugs him tight in one of the spare bedrooms. He doesn’t walk into his lover’s childhood room, doesn’t ask which of the rooms used to belong to Regulus, and covers Walburga’s portrait before her screams make Sirius flinch again. He ignores the Prophet and burns every threatening letter from Lucius Malfoy that should make him afraid of being a werewolf.
Despite all that, he thinks he’s the happiest he’s been in years. It’s a bit selfish to think that, he knows — Amos Diggory has lost a son, Harry is both fifteen years old and supposed to function as the chosen one, Kingsley and Moody are struggling to keep the politics on their side and even McGonagall looks like a shell of herself — but he can’t stop the giddy flutters in his chest every time he looks at Sirius and he smiles back.
They’re sitting on the floor, Padfoot curled up by Remus’ side, Remus’ hand brushing idly at Padfoot’s back, reading Little Women and Aladdin Sane playing in the background. It helps Sirius calm down, especially after a rough night, and Remus doesn’t need to ask to know why he found Sirius shaking and teary after waking up at noon. Moody’s supposed to come by later, didn’t really say what for, and Remus almost wants to write to him and tell him to come another time. They’re peaceful like this. Selfishly, he wants this to last a little bit longer.
“D’you remember this album?” he murmurs, “I used to steal it from Mary till sixth year. This record is the same one she got me for my birthday; it’s still scratched right at the end of Watch That Man . Marlene couldn’t stand it for some reason, God knows why.” He sighs. Padfoot lifts his head, looks at him with big grey eyes. “You liked it, though. I used to listen to The Prettiest Star and get all ansty about you. Lily said it was a bit embarrassing by seventh year.” Padfoot places his head on Remus’ thigh, and Remus moves his hand to the back of his head. “I didn’t mind. Even though it was embarrassing.”
He looks away for a moment, putting the book down. He’s read it hundreds of times before; it used to be Sirius’ favourite when they were at school, so of course lovestruck Remus Lupin read it back—to—back in an attempt to seem impressive. It was obvious to him then and it’s still obvious today. There’s a shifting movement and when he looks back Sirius is himself again, head bowed low. “ Moonage Daydream ,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“ Moonage Daydream . It’s the song I listened to when I thought about you. Well, when I could. It wasn’t like I could listen to music here,” he adds, gesturing vaguely to the sour—faced portrait of one particularly ancient Orion Black.
Remus hums softly. “Did the alligator remind you of me?”
Sirius snorts. “Piss off. You know it was the chorus.”
“‘Lectric eyes? You of all people? Surely you don’t know much about electronics —”
Sirius shoved him, laughing. “Twat. It was press your space face close to mine and the church of man is such a holy place to be . James made fun of me once.”
Remus raises a brow. “Oh?”
Sirius smiles softly. “D’you remember — that one last party we threw? With the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs? It’s — I have this image. In my head. Bowie singing in the background, and you’re downing shots with Lily, and making eyes at someone — Merlin, I can’t remember who. He’s looking at you without blinking and you’re only giving him one look here and there and my sulking was so obvious James came by to laugh at me.”
Remus gives a fond laugh. “Rowan? Are you talking about him?”
“Maybe. Dunno. Short, I think. But everyone’s short next to you.”
“Rowan,” Remus agreed, “definitely him. I kissed him in a very innocent way something like two years earlier and he hadn’t let it go since.”
Sirius makes a face. “Lucky bastard.”
Remus laughs, full—body and loud. “Really? I kissed him once. I kissed you a lot more.”
“Not at fifteen, though,” Sirius sighs, “not at Hogwarts.”
“Well —”
“It doesn’t count! We were drunk and it was so heartbreaking I cried myself to sleep!”
Remus laughs again, runs his fingers through Sirius’ hair. “Alright. Alright, Padfoot. You don’t have any reason to be jealous of Rowan. I’ve always had my eyes on you and you only.”
Sirius leans into him. “As you should.”
Remus shakes his head. “Possessive.”
“Pot calling the kettle —”
“Hey, I had good reason. Look at you.”
Sirius turns red, and it’s so sweet Remus pulls him in by the back of his head and kisses him. It’s soft and slow and makes Remus think the world has changed since that one full moon because now things are getting better. He has Sirius back, closure is just around the corner; he doesn’t have to hide being a werewolf anymore and he has Sirius, Sirius has him, they aren’t going to let each other go so quickly now.
When they break apart and Sirius is letting out a shaking exhale against his lips, Remus murmurs, “very possessive.”
Sirius opens his mouth as if to answer, but someone clears their throat behind Remus and they both jump.
“Evening, lads,” Moody says, rolling his eyes, “done with the cheesy part of the day?”
“Jealousy, jealousy,” Sirius sighs, and Remus shoves him back.
“Didn’t know you’re coming so early,” he says to Moody. He almost wants to say you should’ve pretended to be a bit late . He wants to say, please let me have this .
“Duty calls,” he replies, and Remus rolls back his shoulders and takes a deep breath. Of course.
“What this time?” Sirius asks, “can I help?” He’s been spending months in this house without any getaway. When Moody doesn’t visit on a daily basis they go for a walk just round the corner, Padfoot playing catch with Remus, but he’s been here every day for the past three months and Remus sees how Sirius is starting to lose it.
Remus sighs. “Padfoot —”
“In fact, you can,” Moody says. He looks at both of them for a moment, and says, “the kids are at the ministry.”
Sirius blinks. “What?”
“What are they doing there?” Remus asks. “School hearing?”
Moody shakes his head. “We think Voldemort’s been feeding Harry lies through this mind portal they have. He thinks he’s coming to rescue you,” he says, nodding at Sirius. Remus feels sick. “It’s probably a trap.”
“ Probably ?” Sirius asks, his voice high. “What do you mean, probably?”
“It means they don’t know,” Remus fills in before Moody manages to say another word, getting up on his feet and offering a hand to Sirius. “It means we need to get there now.”
Later, Remus would think of the enormity of that moment. A rock thrown in an ever—flowing lake (it’s impossible to enter the same lake twice, because the lake has changed and you have changed, he’s read once. It’s a lie and he knows it — somehow his choices are ever the same, and the outcomes predictable. Somehow it doesn’t stop him from keep making them), a scratch on a record. A soggy packet of cigarettes, a grave, a moon at the verge of sunrise, an empty wallet, a lover falling backwards into the unknown. He would think and think and think and at one point he might not even bother with the grief. At another, it would be all he has. Later, much later, he would think of a flashing green light and what the moment after would look like. He would find out.