Work Text:
March 10th, 2003
Sometimes Remus really hated the secrecy, hated the fact that Lily and James’ son could never fully be allowed into his parents’ friend’s post-war life. Hated the specialized Fidelis that showed Willow’s Weave as the home of a widower and his five-year-old son. Hated that the man who was even now spelling everything tidy had spent the whole party holed up in their bedroom, reading. Hated, most of all, that Teddy knew never to speak of the house’s other occupant.
“Are you sure you want us to take him?” The door was already half closed but Remus nudged it open once more. A glance revealed that Ginny was leading a somewhat tired but excited Teddy toward the street. Remus wished he could avoid Harry’s anxious face. “Not that I mind, you know,” the boy – man – said, “I love the little rascal and you know Ginny does.”
“I know,” Remus said, smiling and waving when Teddy turned and raised a pudgy hand. He felt a pang when he realized Teddy was purposefully not directing a second wave toward the kitchen window.
“I know we just had tea and I know you have friends besides us, like the Longbottoms, but you said yourself that Neville won’t be coming back from France, and I just... I just don’t like to think of you – “
“Harry,” Remus interrupted. “I had lunch with my editor yesterday. I’m having breakfast with Augusta tomorrow morning. My house may never recover from hosting all of you.” Although he was certain every trace of the last few hours would have vanished by the time the guests were gone.
Not knowing what else to say, they stared at each other for a few more moments, Harry earnest and concerned, Remus willing him to understand. He could not deny his relief when Ginny called “We’re waiting!” and Teddy started to make noises like a train.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Harry said, still uncertain, but he turned when Remus nodded and allowed Remus to finally pull the door closed.
He watched through the door’s small window until Teddy, Harry and Ginny had disappeared from view.
When he walked back into the living room, there was nothing left on the table but two glasses of wine. It did not appear to be the same vintage that Fleur Weasley had brought. Remus was about to reach out for a taste when the ancient record player that Lily had given a nineteen-year-old Remus to furnish his very first own flat softly started to play one of his favourite pieces of Muggle jazz.
I may hate the lies, but I wouldn’t trade what those lies are protecting for all the honesty in the world. The wine can wait.
“Dance with me,” Remus said.
Severus sighed, but he took Remus’ hand and, unprompted, slid an arm around his waist.
They danced.
.