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In a quiet corner of the countryside, where more sheep live than people, there is a little green town. At the edge of the little green town is a deep dark wood. Just outside the deep dark wood sits an old gray cottage, with its windows all boarded, its roof in disrepair, and overgrown blackthorn threatening to swallow it whole.
In the little gray cottage lives a quiet gray man who keeps to himself. The schoolboys say the man is a killer, or a ghost, or a monster, even though their parents tell them the man is perfectly lovely and to stop spreading cruel rumors. But little Georgie Priestley swears his cousin rode his bike to the old gray cottage on the night of a full moon and heard a growl, and a crash, and a whimper, and in fact what lives in that cottage is a demon from hell.
***
North Yorkshire, Friday, June 25th, 1995
A piercing scream cuts through the quiet morning, then fades into a whisper when Remus takes the kettle off the flame. After the brief babble of an empty mug filling with tea, the cottage returns to its usual silence.
It’s not that Remus likes the silence, the stillness of being wholly and unendingly alone. It’s just the way it is. And he’s gotten used to it. He has tried, throughout the years, to ward off the loneliness. Tried to pick up new hobbies, meet different people, become different people. But in the end he always finds himself back here, alone. It’s safest for everyone this way. And it isn’t all bad - when he wants to be reminded of the past he has his records, and when this world and this life are too much to bear, he has his books.
A year ago he had a short reprieve. His time spent as a professor was a taste of a life that could have been, a reminder of what it feels like to have purpose, and community, and potential. It was the greatest blessing he could ask for, and in one irresponsible moment he’d let it all go to hell. Now he is back, again, in the dark, dull cottage, his secret out and his prospects for a future as a contributing member of wizarding society even bleaker than they’d been before. The one faint glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel is the fact that Sirius Black is innocent, and if there is any good in this world, Remus will see him again.
He takes his tea and a piece of buttered bread placed delicately on a little ceramic plate and creaks into his seat at the kitchen table. In front of him is the local newspaper, picked up earlier that morning when the town was still rubbing sleep out of its eyes. The Daily Prophet will arrive by owl a little later, no doubt with another sensational piece about Harry and the Triwizard Tournament. But for now he will pass the time with articles about prize-winning artichokes, travelling carnivals, and petty vandalism; unlikely to come across any stories about shepherds losing their flocks to wolf attacks, or green grocers being suddenly and inexplicably compelled to murder their families, but always on alert. He’s been through enough war to know that the events that have taken place at Hogwarts over the last few years do not exist in a vacuum. It is a matter of when, not if, Voldemort's followers make their way out of the woodwork.
Remus has finished his breakfast and is absentmindedly wiping butter from his moustache when something in the air shifts. His eyes dart up from the paper and he directs his focus to his peripherals. No movement, but something is different. On his next breath he smells it - beyond the familiar wool, paper, and dust of the cottage is something new. Mildew, mostly. Sweat, hide, and… dog.
Remus nearly knocks over his chair diving for the front door. His wand makes quick work of the three locks, and when he throws the door open, Sirius stops short on the front path. His face is red, his hair wild, and his dark suit tattered and damp.
“Hello, Moony.”
Remus launches himself out of the doorway, unclouded by thoughts of discretion or decorum, and envelops Sirius in an enormous hug. Sirius releases a laugh like a popped balloon, then plants a kiss directly on Remus’s ear. A little sound like a hiccup rises from Remus’s throat. After a moment he hears the clop of a hoof, and when he opens his eyes he sees Buckbeak the hippogriff standing regally and expectantly at the end of the walkway. Thoughts of discretion and decorum come skulking back.
“Come in, come in. Quickly.” Remus releases his grasp on Sirius and ushers him toward the front door. With a flick of his wand he charms the entryway to hippogriff width. Sirius steps through, then turns back and gives a slight jerk of his head. Buckbeak snorts his agreement and trots up the pathway. As he approaches, Remus bows low, a footman welcoming his lord to the manor. Buckbeak returns the gesture with a restrained nod, then strides through the splintering threshold.
Remus takes one last look to ensure no nosy townspeople have wandered by, then he steps inside, charms the door back to its original size, and locks it up tight with all three locks. When he turns around, Buckbeak has made himself comfortable on the living room rug, and Sirius is standing with his hands in his pockets, staring at the bookshelves.
***
The inside of the house is as bleak as the outside. Books and records (hundreds of them, Sirius estimates) are kept in pristine order. Cozy wool blankets are neatly folded in a basket near the sofa and there isn’t a dust bunny in sight. Everything is in its right place. But the meticulous tidiness doesn’t hide the torn wallpaper, battered furniture, and upholstery scarred by countless Mending Charms. It is Moony transfigured into a house.
“What do you need?” Remus asks, stepping past Sirius and toward the kitchen. “I just brewed a pot of tea. Or are you hungry? I can make something.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Sirius waves away his offers and drops himself onto the sunken sofa.
“What about Buckbeak?” Remus nods toward the hippogriff, who perks up at the sound of his name. “Does he need to eat?”
Sirius can't remember the last time Buckbeak was able to hunt. And it had been a long flight. “Have you got any big, juicy, raw steaks?”
Remus’s shoulders fall. “I’ve got vegetarian shepherd’s pie.”
“Mm.” Sirius licks his lips. “Like your mum used to make?”
“When I make it it’s more like beans and mash stacked in a pan.” Remus shrugs.
Sirius runs a hand through his scraggly beard, then nods. “Yeah, he’ll eat that.”
Remus disappears into the kitchen and Sirius closes his eyes. He’s suddenly aware that he is very, very tired.
“Should I, er, warm it up?” Remus calls.
“Don’t bother,” Sirius replies, head resting on the back of the sofa.
At the sound of Remus’s returning footsteps, Sirius opens his eyes and takes a deep, invigorating breath. Remus is tentatively approaching Buckbeak with a Pyrex half-filled with a globby, golden-brown mix of potatoes, vegetables and beans. Buckbeak lifts his head from the rug and Remus startles. Slowly, very slowly, Remus bends and, hand shaky, lowers the pan to the floor. A grumble emanates from somewhere in Buckbeak’s belly, and Remus cautiously draws his hand away. Buckbeak cocks his head, eyeing Remus and considering the offering. He brings a tentative tongue to the mixture. Remus continues to back away, body bowed low. Buckbeak makes a satisfied squawk and plunges his beak into the shepherd’s pie. Remus exhales.
Remus watches Buckbeak devour his week's dinner, and Sirius watches Remus. He looks taller, the result of perpetually shifting bones, or maybe just Sirius's own subjective memory. His buttoned-up shirt, pressed trousers and leather shoes are old but well cared for. Except for the years of worry pulling at his face, he looks the same.
Sirius pats the cushion next to him. “Come. Sit.”
Remus obeys, but Sirius isn’t sure he puts any weight on the seat.
“I would have owled ahead, but I thought you might like the surprise,” Sirius says with a coy smile. “That, and I didn’t exactly expect the trip.”
“What’s happened? Is Harry alright?” Remus is hovering over the sofa.
Sirius nods. “Harry’s alright.”
He proceeds to tell Remus everything that happened the previous night: What Harry went through in the cemetery. Fudge’s response in the hospital wing. Dumbledore’s orders.
“You are to alert Remus Lupin, Arabella Figg, Mundungus Fletcher — the old crowd. Lie low at Lupin’s for a while; I will contact you there.”
Remus doesn’t last long on the sofa and spends most of Sirius’s recap pacing and chewing his thumbnail.
“So,” he finally says, coming to a stop, one hand on his hip and the other rubbing the back of his head. “Since November you’ve been…in Hogsmeade.”
Sirius gives him a perplexed smile. “Don’t tell me that’s the bit you’re holding onto, Moony.”
Remus waves him off and resumes pacing. “I’m processing chronologically. Why didn’t you write? Or Floo? You shouldn’t have had to sleep in a cave, Sirius, and go hungry. I could have done something. I could have–”
"Rented a room at the Three Broomsticks?"
"Yes!"
"For a fugitive?"
"Absolutely."
"And his hippogriff."
Remus stops and looks at Buckbeak, who has long since finished his meal and is napping contentedly. Remus returns to the sofa and buries his face in his hands.
“I'm here now,” Sirius says softly. He places a hand on Remus's arm, as if to prove it.
Remus runs his hands down his face and looks at Sirius. “This is really happening again.”
They sit in silence, the weight of all they’ve lost and all they could lose hanging over them. Calls need to be made, Order members need to be filled in on what's happened, plans and precautions need to be formulated. Soon, Remus’s quiet cottage will be buzzing with activity.
“Dumbledore…” Remus mutters, looking fixedly at his hands. “Did he say when he would get in touch? When we need to have everyone here?”
“What do you mean?” Sirius asks innocently. He knows exactly what Remus is getting at, but it would only be right to give him a bit of guff.
“I just mean,” Remus continues, “what if we… waited. Just a bit?”
“Moony!”
“Not too long, just–”
“I'm surprised at you! Disobeying Dumbledore?!”
“It's not disobeying, exactly, if he didn't give you a specific timeframe, is it?” The question is genuine. Remus does not want to do anything to lose Dumbledore’s trust. “It's just– you've had a long flight, and– and I think he would understand, don’t you?”
Sirius brings his forehead to Remus’s and looks deep into his worried eyes. “I won’t tell if you don’t.”
Remus’s eyes sparkle and he breathes a little laugh of relief. “Good,” he says, “because you could really use a bath. You smell like a cave troll.”
Sirius pulls away and puffs out his chest. “I thought the earthy, masculine aroma might catch me a northern bird.”
“As an honorary northern bird, I resent that.”
***
“Straightforward bath,” Remus says, bending with some effort to reach the taps. The roar of rushing water fills the small space. “Hot. Cold. Might take a while to warm up, old pipes and all. Towels are there–”
When he turns around, Sirius is already half-undressed and dropping his shirt on top of his jacket in a pile on the floor. Suddenly Remus feels like a teenager again, standing awkwardly in a bathroom he should not be in, unsure where to direct his eyes. Surely he should feel perfectly comfortable - he’s seen more of Sirius than this, been intimately familiar with much more of Sirius than this. But that was so long ago. There must be some rule, he thinks, a statute of limitations on seeing someone with their clothes off.
“Right, er–” Remus remembers how to talk by the time Sirius starts unbuttoning his trousers. “I'll get you a change of clothes.” He shuffles sideways, as far from Sirius's personal space as he can manage in the tiny bathroom, and out of the room.
***
As Remus closes the door behind him, Sirius feels something he’s only felt a few times in his life: self conscious. He chances a glance in the mirror. Fourteen years is a long time. Fourteen years spent in prison and in hiding is longer. He’s not the glowing, energetic lad who won Remus Lupin’s heart. Still, he thinks, he has undeniable bone structure and a full head of glorious hair, and that can't be said for most survivors of Azkaban. A bath will do him good.
When the tub is filled he steps in slowly, his tired legs like sandbags. He settles into the hot water and takes a deep breath, letting the steam in through every pore.
This isn’t Sirius’s first bath since Azkaban. With a little help from a certain half-moon-spectacled friend, he had been reasonably fed, bathed and clothed while on the lam the previous summer. But this bath is different. The tub is slightly too small, and the dim, warm light brings out the yellow in the old tiles. It’s cozy, and English, and familiar, and it’s making him agitated. He tries to relax by dipping his head into the hot water, but the enveloping warmth only makes it worse. He feels like his seams are being pulled apart one by one. Then he picks up the bar of soap - the same sandalwood soap Remus has always used. He rubs it into his too-aged, bony hands, and it smells like Remus. It smells like home.
***
Remus rummages through his wardrobe for the most Sirius clothes he can find. He manages to dig up an old Chudley Cannons t-shirt (which was likely Sirius's to begin with) and a pair of jeans he hasn't worn since the eighties. The monotonous task of ironing gives him time to think.
He replays what Sirius told him. That Voldemort is back, in full form, and Death Eaters are gathering and growing in number. That Harry has already witnessed the first tragedy of this new war.
He chides himself for being selfish - for delaying critical work just so he can have some time alone with Sirius. What did he think they were going to do, anyway? Pick up where they left off, as if the last decade and a half of hurt, confusion, and crushing loneliness had never happened? Not to mention the more recent feelings that came with finding out Sirius was not James and Lily’s Secret Keeper but had let Remus believe that he was. It would take much more than an afternoon to work through all of that.
As much as Remus likes to think his cottage is an island, untouched by the outside world, it’s not. And the more he delays what needs to be done, the more dangerous the world will be for Harry, and for muggles, muggle-borns, and blood traitors. Like himself. Like Sirius. When he finishes the ironing, he’ll start making calls.
A tortured cry echoes out of the bathroom. Remus drops the t-shirt and tears through the hallway, drawing his wand. But when he slams the door open he finds no Death Eaters or fugitive-hunting aurors. Just Sirius, naked in the bath, soapy hands holding his knees to his chest, sobbing.
Remus's wand clatters to the floor. He kneels next to the tub, ignoring the pain shooting through his joints, and pushes the wet hair out of Sirius’s face.
“It's alright,” he says. “You're alright. I'm here.”
Remus wraps his arms around him. He doesn’t say another word, just rests his head against Sirius’s, and holds him tight against himself, through every shuddering cry and shaky breath.
When Sirius’s cries become whimpers, Remus loosens his embrace. He brings one hand up to Sirius’s hair, the other arm still draped supportively across his chest and shoulders, and begins to rub small, gentle circles on his scalp. He feels Sirius’s body rise and fall beneath him, his breaths deepening.
For a few minutes Remus holds him like this, cradling Sirius’s head in his hand, rubbing his fingertips into the delicate skin behind his ears and at the nape of his neck. When Sirius’s breaths feel relaxed and even, Remus begins to draw away. But Sirius takes Remus’s arm in both hands, soaking his sleeve in lukewarm bathwater.
“Remus,” he says, a hoarse whisper. “Stay with me?”
Remus exhales. He thinks briefly of the outside world, and the calls that need to be made. Then he looks at Sirius’s pleading eyes and damp, tangled hair, and decides that the world will not be worse off if he waits a little longer to make those calls. He rests his hand on the back of Sirius’s neck. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Satisfied, Sirius releases Remus’s arm. Without overthinking it, Remus reaches for the shampoo bottle and pours a generous amount into his palm. He warms it between his hands, then gently massages it into Sirius’s scalp. Sirius lets out an appreciative “Mm…”.
Remus slowly works Sirius’s hair into a lather, stroking circles with just the right amount of pressure to elicit a few more gratified hums and sighs, and combing his fingers gently through the knots. When it feels good and clean, and every curl has been freed from tangle, he breathes, “Lie back.”
Guided by Remus’s hands, Sirius sinks into the water, his eyes closed contentedly. Remus runs his fingers through Sirius’s hair and brushes his thumbs over his hairline until all of the suds have washed away. He looks down at Sirius in the water, hair floating in angelic spirals around him. He looks serene, like time has paused. He is safe here in Remus's cottage island, and they are both untouched by the world. Remus’s hand drifts absently to Sirius’s cheek.
Sirius blinks his eyes open and catches his gaze. Remus looks away and quickly pulls his hands back. He clears his throat then mutters, “You can sit up.”
Sirius pushes himself back to a sitting position while Remus glances around for the soap.
“It’s alright, I can take it from here, actually,” Sirius says, producing the bar from the bottom of the tub.
“Oh. Are you sure? I’m happy to stay–”
“I have quite a lot of scrubbing to do, Moony. You needn’t be subjected to that.”
Remus gives him a half-smile and a nod, then pushes up from the edge of the tub to get back to his feet. “I’ll, er, leave your change of clothes just out in the hall.”
Sirius nods his thanks.
“Just, let me know if you need anything. At all.”
“I will.”
When Remus closes the bathroom door behind him again, he has the sinking feeling that he's done something wrong. He leans against the wall and runs a hand through his own hair. He shouldn't have been so intimate with Sirius. The man has been through years of unimaginable trauma. He needs time, and space, and the best thing for Remus to do is respect his boundaries and just bring him some clothes.
“Oh, bugger!” Remus bounds back to the bedroom and is relieved to discover that the iron has not burnt down the entire house. He swiftly unplugs it.
He folds the Chudley Cannons shirt, jeans, a pair of socks and underwear neatly on the weathered end table just outside the bathroom door. Clothing: provided. Next: food. Despite his protestations, Sirius must be hungry.
Remus opens the fridge. There isn’t much left now that the shepherd’s pie is out of the picture. But he does have cheese and bread and a functioning stove. Toasties it is.
He takes his time, dragging the task out as long as he can manage, knowing that after this he’s out of ideas for how to be helpful. He has enough bread to make four sandwiches. He slices each one precisely down the middle, on the diagonal, as is customary. He digs through his cabinets to find the nicest plate he owns, which, unfortunately, is just a normal plate, but one without any scratches or chips, and which is large enough to hold four cheese toasties. He arranges the sandwiches on the plate, and arranges the plate appetizingly on the table. He stands back and admires his work.
There is a tap, tap-tap on the front door. Remus hesitates. It couldn’t be Dumbledore already.
Tap, tap-tap. This time, the sound is unmistakably beak on glass. The Daily Prophet has arrived. Remus takes five knuts from a bowl on the counter, undoes the locks, and makes the exchange. The owl flies upward and out of sight.
Remus considers the paper in his hand, tightly rolled and tied with a ribbon. His blood pressure begins to rise thinking about what willfully ignorant drivel awaits inside. He decides to find out later. He takes it to the kitchen, tosses it unceremoniously on the table next to the sandwiches, then goes to the living room.
Buckbeak is sleeping soundly on the rug, recovering from what must have been an exhausting journey. Remus steps gingerly around him to get to his record collection. He needs something to fill the silence, to keep him away from the paper and keep his thoughts at bay while Sirius finishes in the bath. He lands on an unobtrusive jazz album, a record that he hasn't listened to in a very long time because it reminds him too much of being in love.
He puts it on at a low volume. Buckbeak stirs just slightly.
“Sorry,” Remus whispers, very cautiously stepping around him again.
Buckbeak eyes him sleepily, then rolls onto his side in a great thud, knocking into the coffee table on his way down. He expands and deflates with a relaxed sigh. Remus is tempted to sidle up next to the hippogriff and pat his exposed belly. But then he imagines his arm being torn clean off and devoured, so instead he sets himself on the sofa, listens to the record, and waits.
“Once again I seemed to feel that old yearning, and I knew the spark of love was still burning.”
When the second track starts, as if on cue, Sirius appears in the doorway. Remus’s breath catches in his throat. With his hair and beard nicely groomed, wearing the t-shirt and high-rise jeans, cuffed at the bottom, he looks years younger. Remus feels like he’s looking at a version of Sirius that never had a chance to exist.
“Clean up nice, don’t I?” Sirius does a turn. “I used your toothbrush, too.” He bares his teeth in a wide grin. “I’d say ‘hope you don’t mind,’ but I know you do.”
“I made cheese toasties,” Remus offers helplessly. “If you’re hungry.”
“Oh, right. Thanks.” Sirius stands up straighter and crosses his arms. He clears his throat. “You didn't have to.”
Remus furrows his brow at the sudden shift. “You don’t have to act tough, Sirius.”
“Dunno what you’re talking about.” Sirius uncrosses his arms and starts fiddling with the door frame, avoiding Remus’s eyes.
Remus sighs and searches for the right words to let Sirius know that he can be vulnerable. That he can let himself be hungry, and hurt, and afraid. He can talk about it, or cry, or scream, and whatever he wants to do, Remus will do it with him. He’ll understand because he is all of those things, too. In the end he says, “We’ve both been through a lot.”
Sirius crosses his arms again, but his posture softens. He rests his hip against the door frame. “I won’t act tough if you stop acting so bloody nervous.”
“I–” Remus shifts in his seat, now the one avoiding Sirius’s gaze. “I’m not nervous.” The irony of the statement doesn’t escape him.
“You’re just,” Sirius says, exasperated, “you’re acting like we aren’t– like we were never…” He trails off and doesn’t finish the thought.
“I didn’t want to assume… or expect… anything.”
“Moony.” Remus looks up at Sirius, who is giving him a look of pitying disbelief. Slowly, his expression shifts to guilt. “I’m the one who…” Remus thinks he might not finish this sentence either, but then he adds a quiet “who has no place assuming.”
The record fills the space between them. “Wherever you are, you're near me. You dare me to be untrue. Funny, each time I fall in love, it's always you.”
When a person spends a few years living in a foreign country - France, for example - no matter how much time passes, they don't forget certain important words like oui and bon jour and bibliothèque. And when a person spends four years loving and being loved by Sirius Black, he doesn’t forget certain important expressions, like the hurt, hungry, pleading one he's giving Remus now.
So Remus stands up and walks to the doorway. He brings his hand up to Sirius's jaw, runs his thumb softly across the rosy skin of his just-washed cheek, and kisses him.
Gently, Remus reminds himself, because they have both endured far more than anyone should.
When he pulls away, just enough that their noses are still touching and they’re still breathing each other’s breaths, Sirius says, "You can kiss me harder than that, Moony, I won't snap in half."
Remus lets out only half a laugh before Sirius's mouth is on his again, and they are being much less gentle with each other.
Remus is not mentally prepared for this. Yes, he has thought about Sirius at least once a day for the past year, not to mention the preceding thirteen. Yes, he has dreamt about him and, despite his best efforts to leave the sentimentality to his subconscious, has imagined countless scenarios in which they were reunited. Despite the persistent fantasies, worries, and hypotheticals, nothing prepared him for what it feels like to once again have Sirius's chest pressed against his, to weave his fingers through Sirius's soft hair, to taste his own toothpaste on Sirius's hot breath, as if the last fourteen years had not happened at all.
But they did happen. And they were horrible. And he's terrified of what horribleness still lies ahead. And there are calls that need to be made. Sirius's mouth is on his neck now, and his fingers are unbuttoning Remus's shirt. There’s a pressure in Remus’s diaphragm. It rises through his chest, and his throat tenses, and his head gets fuzzy, and torment mixes with pleasure until it all releases into an involuntary dry sob. Sirius holds him closer, and kisses him deeply, until every thought of what was and what's to come is replaced by what’s happening now, here, together.
***
The bedroom is striped in gold from the rays of midday sun that manage to squeeze through the gaps in the boarded windows.
“Honestly, Moony, getting all sentimental over one night of meaningless sex?” The hushed tone of Sirius's voice and the gentleness of his touch belie his words as he wipes the tears from Remus's cheek. “You know I'll just leave you for the next young thing who looks my way.”
“I know you're joking, but it's not funny,” Remus says with a wry smile and a sniff.
“Hm,” Sirius rests his hand just below Remus’s ear. “I'm one to talk, aren't I? Lost my mind over a bar of soap.”
Remus turns his head to kiss the palm of Sirius's hand. He brushes his foot up and down Sirius's legs, which are intertwined with his.
Sirius lets out a satisfied hum. “Can we stay like this forever?” His eyes are closed and his words drag into one another, and Remus realizes:
“When's the last time you slept?”
“Um–” The thought is interrupted by an enormous yawn, and Sirius never finishes it.
Remus moves Sirius’s hand to the bed, and slips his legs free.
“You rest,” he whispers, though he's pretty sure Sirius doesn't need to be told.
Quietly, Remus dresses. He brings the plate of sandwiches and a glass of water from the kitchen and sets them on the bedside table. He looks down at Sirius, sleeping soundly in his bed. Their island is about to open up to the outside world. There is fear and pain ahead of them, but they aren’t alone anymore.