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After the war, it takes months to return to a sense of normalcy. Months until the days and nights stop blurring together, all sense of time and direction gone mad with late nights rebuilding and mourning the dead and remembering-forgetting-remembering-forgetting, until nothing makes sense any more. Nothing at all.
Which is why it takes Harry Potter so long to return to 12 Grimmauld Place, even though it's his, even though he inherited it after Sirius's untimely death. And even though he is, technically, otherwise homeless—having spent the immediate aftermath of the war at Hogwarts then at the Burrow and various safe houses in between.
Winning a war is messy business, Harry discovers, and he thinks—for once in his life—he'd like to be left out of it. All of it. Rebuilding and governing and punishing and deciding—so many decisions he can't help but start to resent them. Even the act of waking each morning starts to feel punishing, each day arriving with its endless decisions: what to wear, what to eat, where to go, who to speak to, who to become.
Finally, after months, Harry decides to go home.
His home—or house, rather, not a home exactly but a place he's inherited, unwillingly—is really just a bit of property he'd prefer he didn't own, given the cascading tragedies that had to happen first for it to fall into his possession. Grimmauld Place, with all its secrets and memories and ghosts. Once occupied then scattered away from, it stands empty now.
Eventually, Harry goes back to 12 Grimmauld Place. When he does, he goes alone.
And he expects the Black family's ancestral home to be similarly lonesome when he arrives. Really, he visits the place with a certain amount of trepidation—no telling, really, what sort of state its in following the final days of a brutal war. With Kreacher still at Hogwarts, there has not been anyone or anything caring for the place. Who could? Who would? Harry expects he'll find it in disrepair, cobwebs and creatures and clutter—all of which would be the least of his worries, knowing the home's sordid history, there very well may be even darker things lurking in its shadows.
Harry arrives with the sharp crack of apparition and keeps his hand on his wand, cautious. Surprisingly—or perhaps it shouldn't be surprising at all—the door creaks open without resistance. What good are locks, after all, if magic exists to keep the place hidden away? And anyway, who else would come here, who else except for–
In the entryway, Harry pauses. Freezes, more like it, stops mid-step, some old vestige of war clinging to his bones. Someone has been here. His mind jumps to the conclusion before it can catch up with his senses, so it takes a moment, but after a few too-loud heartbeats, it becomes clear.
There is no dust, for one thing. Inside, he'd expected to find a thick layer of dust; he'd even asked Mrs Weasley for her best cleaning spells to help him with the inevitable ruin. But there is none, not a speck. And besides, the air is fresh, almost clean. There is a lightness to Grimmauld that Harry's never seen before, not once, and it's not his doing, and not Kreacher’s, so who then–
Another thing. No screaming portrait on the wall. No Walburga at all, the wall now mysteriously empty, only a faint, barely-there outline of discolored wallpaper indicating to the keen-eyed visitor where she used to be. It's quiet, except in the distance, Harry thinks he hears the sound of music. Scratchy old records, maybe, or maybe it's a figment of his imagination. Maybe all of this is imagined, some dream-state. If he pinches himself hard enough, he'll wake up yesterday. Or years ago, mid-war. Or before any of this, under the stairs at the Dursleys. It is a strange thought, but Harry can't figure another way to make sense of what he's seeing.
He takes a hesitant step. The floor creaks, loud and echoey through the entryway. At least that is the same. From the distance, somewhere near the music, Harry thinks he hears the sound of someone coughing.
Inside his chest, his heart still beats too loud and too fast. His mind races, cataloging the most likely suspects. It could only be a member of the Order, probably, right? Isn't that how the protective charms work? Although, with so many dead, so much loss, so much magic thrown around in the final days of the war—it would be a wonder if half the spells guarding this place still work as intended.
It could be anyone.
Harry keeps his wand in his hand, just in case.
Tiptoeing upstairs, Harry nearly turns back three times. Perhaps he ought to leave and return with backup. But then again, he'd feel awfully foolish if it is a stray member of the Order upstairs. That's probably all. Likely nothing to worry about.
So Harry keeps going.
And going, and going, and going, until he arrives at the top floor.
Sirius and Regulus's bedrooms. Left and right, two sets of matching, ornate doors that had always been left closed. The music, Harry realizes, is coming from behind Sirius's closed door—a place Harry has never been. Not once, not when he was alive and certainly not now, not after, not–
For a brief moment, Harry imagines that it is Sirius behind the closed door.
That somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, he is not dead at all—but alive and waiting for the war to end, returned to his former living state and back in his childhood home. Listening to music and coughing and cleaning the place—why is it so clean?—and making a home for Harry to return to.
These are the fantasies of a younger version of Harry. Lingering residue from a childhood filled with persistent hope, in spite of his circumstances. In spite of a world that never, not once, gave him any reason to be hopeful. Still, he used to daydream.
He does not anymore.
That old-Harry stirs, for the smallest of seconds, and he wonders very sincerely if it's Sirius he'll find through the door.
It can't be—it won't be… Harry knows this.
And still.
"Hello?" he calls out, voice revealing his deep-held fantasies with its trembling.
The music stops. From behind the door, a shuffling of footsteps. Eventually, the door creaks open.
And there he is…
Harry blinks. "Professor?"
Behind the half-open door stands Professor Lupin, looking more relaxed and casual than Harry's ever seen him, which is really saying a lot. Oversized jumper, sweatpants, and slouchy socks. Hair a mess. Beard grown out slightly and scraggly, unkempt.
Harry has not seen him since the end of the war. He thinks maybe Lupin was there, at some of the memorial services for the dead—hadn't he seen him at Fred's funeral? It's all such a blur, Harry can hardly remember a thing with any precision.
Still standing mostly behind the door, Professor Lupin blinks right back, looking confused, then startled, then embarrassed. Almost shy and nervous and hesitant—Harry can't figure out what the professor is feeling, exactly, except that he doesn't seem particularly thrilled to see him.
"Harry, I–hello," Lupin says, looking down toward his feet. "I didn't expect…well I suppose I should have reached out, I mean, this is your place, isn't it? And I'm just…I…"
But Harry just stares at him, unblinking, trying to puzzle out what his former professor is doing emerging from Sirius's bedroom all these months after the war, appearing as though he's been living here all this time. A sudden pang of sorrow clenches Harry's chest—is Lupin equally homeless, also lacking a place to go? Harry supposes the world is harsh and difficult for werewolves, even now. He should have reached out sooner, should have–
But why Sirius's bedroom? It feels like he's sleeping in a grave, to Harry. Defiled Sirius's final resting place, even though Harry knows very well Sirius is not here, not anywhere to be precise. But the ease with which Lupin has made himself quite comfortable in Sirius's room makes him angry. These feelings swirl together—half-anger, half-pity—until Harry can't make sense of any of them, and is still no closer to figuring out what Lupin is doing here.
He asks the question out loud. "What are you doing here?"
Lupin, for his part, still won't meet his eye. "I…well, I…Harry there's…oh, Merlin, I don't know how to…"
Bumbling, stammering out the beginnings of sentences that don't make any sense, Remus opens the door slightly wider, wide enough that Harry can see him wringing nervous hands.
Something is missing, some crucial piece of evidence. Harry can feel it, the way one's eye is drawn to the missing piece of an almost-finished puzzle. It is like he's staring into a void where something else is supposed to be, finding nothing. Harry is left with the distinct impression that if he only had one more bit of information, he could understand all of it. The nerves, the cleaning, Lupin's presence in this home, and his infuriating inability to look him in the eye.
"Why are you in Sirius's room?"
This stings more than anything. Sure, Harry admits, they were friends. Old friends, once. But Sirius was his godfather. His only shot at a family, really, so shouldn't Harry be the one keeping vigil in Sirius's old bedroom? What right does Lupin have to it at all?
There has been more than enough time dedicated to anger over the past few years. More than enough space in Harry's heart devoted to fury, righteous anger—justified as it may have been, it still left its mark. He is tired of all of it.
He tries to let it all go.
"Harry, there's something—we wanted to tell you, before, and then, well, Sirius thought—what I'm trying to say is," Lupin takes a deep breath, steadying. "This was my room, too. Back then and after, and I…it's hard to…you understand, surely."
Except Harry isn't sure what he's supposed to be understanding, that critical puzzle piece still absent. He stares back at Professor Lupin, confused and weary.
Lupin, finally, meets his eye. "We were…together. Sirius and I. We wanted to tell you, back then, but didn't know how. I…loved him. And he's gone and I don't…it's been years, I know, but everything is so quiet now and I don't know what to do or where to go, so I ended up here. Do you see?"
We were together…I loved him…Sirius and I…
The words land square in Harry's chest and he can't breathe. Can't get his lungs to work properly. Because there it is, clear as day, that missing piece of the puzzle—only it's a very critical piece, like a load-bearing wall, and everything Harry thought he knew about Sirius…is wrong.
Not wrong. Just…not the full picture. They'd had so little time together, and still, Harry had deluded himself into thinking he knew Sirius.
What did he know?
Nothing, it seems.
"Harry? Are you alright?" Lupin takes a step forward, reaching out a hand. Then, seeming to think better of it, he lets his arm drop back to his side. He staggers forward a little though, letting his shoulder lean on the wall next to the open door. Limping, as usual.
Behind him, Sirius's room. Except, not really—is it? Sirius and Lupin's room, one they'd shared for God knows how long. The world fades a little around the edges, turning grey. His lungs are on fire, begging for air. Harry is still not breathing.
Then he catches sight of him.
A tiny picture of Sirius, propped on top of a set of drawers, two or three half-open with clothes hanging over their edges. Eyes sparkling, laughter on his lips, younger than he was when Harry knew him. When he spots Sirius, the air rushes right back into his lungs.
He takes a deep breath.
Lupin watches him, cautious. "Would you…like to come in? I'm sure you have questions…"
Harry has a million questions and isn't sure whether he wants to hear any of the answers.
But what choice does he have?
As he walks into Sirius's bedroom, the grief feels just as strong as it had in those first few days after Sirius fell through the veil. Back then, it had been a sort of denial—a belief that Sirius would come back, if only Harry knew where to look. If believing could bring someone back to life, Harry would have done it.
For the first time, Harry realizes there had been someone else sharing his profound grief.
Because he is here. Sirius is here, still, in this bedroom. Not just his photo—small and framed and undeniably cared for—but everywhere else, too. In the left side of the bed, where all the sheets are neatly tucked. The right side is rumpled, slept in, but that left side is haunted—like it's waiting for someone to return. Someone who never will.
He's everywhere else, too. On a hook, a black robe he'd seen Sirius wearing on occasion. Next to it, also hanging, Sirius's old, worn leather jacket. A small desk is piled with notes and photographs, probably all Sirius's. And there is an unnameable quality to the place, like it's been knit together with love. Warmth. Seeing with new eyes, Harry wonders how he's been blind for so many years.
"How long…?" Harry says, unable to tear his eyes away from the laughing portrait of Sirius.
Lupin follows his eyes to the portrait. Then they're both staring at him, at Sirius. Quietly, Lupin lets out a sad laugh. Almost a sigh.
"Let's go to the kitchen," Lupin says at long last. "I'll make us some tea and tell you anything you'd like to know."
It takes all of Harry's remaining strength to tear his eyes from Sirius. Eventually, he does. Together, they make their way down the winding stairs. Harry walks first; Remus follows behind, the thump-thump of his wooden cane echoing through the empty house.
Harry sits. Lupin makes tea. While he waits, Harry tries his best to make a list of questions he'd like answered, but he doesn't know where to begin. He'd thought nothing could surprise him anymore—he is war-hardened at nineteen, dead and come back to life. And yet, this has destabilized him. He does not know which direction to turn.
Eventually, Professor Lupin brings one steaming cup of tea at a time into the room. He sits across from Harry, hands folding and unfolding on top of the dining table.
Disoriented, Harry picks up where he left off. "How long were you two…?"
Together, he supposes he should finish the sentence, but can't quite bring himself to—can't quite bring himself to admit that this part of Sirius's life was so thoroughly kept from him.
Lupin just nods, understanding. "That's a complicated question."
Harry doesn't want to look at his eyes. Doesn't want to see how sad they are. Doesn't want to share any part of Sirius, least of all a part of Sirius he can't have, never could have. But Harry forces himself to stare back, forces himself to feel even though he'd rather run away from more grief, more feelings. Even though he is already drowning in them and has been for as far back as he can remember.
"Tell me, then." Harry tries to keep his voice steady, gentle. It is at least partially brittle.
"Ah," Lupin says, rubbing a hand over his face. He looks down at his hands again. "I've spent so many years keeping this to myself, you understand, it's hard for me to…it's hard to know where to begin."
This, of all things, softens Harry. Doesn't he know—more than most—how it feels to be utterly alone in the world? And he's had Ron, Hermione, Ginny, all of the Weasleys. Sirius, for a time. Lupin, too. Other professors and friends.
Who has Remus had, all this time?
His heart breaks over and over and over again.
"It's alright," Harry says, offering a small smile. "Start wherever you'd like."
Lupin looks up again, smiling back in a similarly sad and small way. "Thank you, Harry. You are very kind."
Taking a deep breath, he seems to gather his strength.
And he begins to tell the story.
"We were kids when it started," he says, far-off look in his eyes, "although we didn't know it was starting at the time. Sirius turned seventeen with a big party in the Common Room—you know the sort. We'd been dancing around each other for ages. There was a war looming, making everything feel urgent. You understand?"
Harry nods. He does understand. He thinks back to his own time at Hogwarts, how it became increasingly difficult to ignore the mounting war, just on the other side of the castle walls. How it made things feel high-stakes, all the time. The sense of urgency he'd developed as a result.
Lupin goes on. "It hit me all at once, that night. How quickly adulthood was coming. I'm not always the brightest, but even I could see the writing on the wall. I'm a werewolf, Harry, I'm not…I've never been happier than those times at Hogwarts. With your father, and Sirius, of course, and…Peter. All those full moons I didn't have to be a…alone."
The story stops here, Lupin taking great, shuddering breaths. His eyes are far off and out of focus.
Harry waits and tries not to count the number of moons Lupin has spent alone since Sirius's death.
"I left the party early and Sirius…he came and found me. In our room, of course. Hiding. He'd been drinking. Not too much, just enough to loosen his lips. Just enough to make him honest, for once. Anyway, he walked right in and sat on the edge of my bed and didn't say anything at all. Not for a long time. Then, finally, he said, 'Moony, I'm afraid if I don't kiss you tonight, I'll die before I ever get the chance.'"
Twenty-eight.
That's the answer. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry has been counting anyway. Lupin has spent twenty-eight moons alone since Sirius died. Yet his sorrow, his grief feels profound, like it's only been a few days. Like Sirius just died yesterday, leaving them alone together at his childhood dining table.
Lupin's voice is hoarse when he picks the story up again. "That was the first time he kissed me. And I remember thinking I'd never be the same, not ever. Because Sirius Black fancied me, Sirius Black kissed me. Me, and I couldn't figure how or why, but I knew we didn't have much time. He was right, we might die—it was happening more frequently by then, and we knew what was waiting for us after we finished school. So I let him kiss me, and we never stopped after that."
Harry feels like there's a hole punched straight through his heart. He can picture the whole scene so clearly—how frightened they'd been, how brave Sirius had to be to say those words out loud.
How badly he wishes Sirius were the one telling him this story, instead of it coming through a proxy.
Instead of feeling satisfied by the answer, Harry feels even more questions begin to formulate in his mind. Now, he's even less sure what answers he's hoping he'll find.
Because, really, what he wants to know are things only Sirius could tell him—how did you know to be brave, how did you know you fancied Remus, why didn't you ever tell me this yourself?
He's angry at Lupin, he's angry at Sirius, he's angry at himself for not putting the pieces together sooner. So, naturally, it comes out angry when he says, "You let him rot in Azkaban, then? You loved him, so surely you knew he couldn't have–"
Harry's throat catches and closes, he can't finish the sentence. But of course that's where his heart leads him, right back to Azkaban and all those lost years. Years he could have spent caring for Harry—keeping him away from the Dursleys. If Lupin knew Sirius, he should have known that Sirius would never harm anyone, least of all his parents.
So why then? Why did he do nothing–
Lupin hangs his head, ashamed.
This question sits between them for a very long time. Too long. Harry hears the tick, tick, tick of some ancient and noble clock, hanging on a distant wall.
"Look at me, Harry," Lupin says, head still tilted down like he's saying a prayer. "I'm a werewolf. I've got no status, no money, no resources. Who would have…no one believed me. I tried, I swear to you I tried, but…then I started to question it. All of it—the evidence didn't make sense. And yes, I loved him. But I loved him, and he didn't tell me about the change in Secret Keeper. About Peter. I was in the dark and I couldn't find a way to set him free—because I didn't know anything. Do you understand?"
As much as Harry didn't want to understand, he did. A little more now than he might've when he was younger. The complexity of war, the paranoia, not knowing who you can trust. Turning on one's friends.
"And he forgave you?"
Maybe Sirius was a better man than Harry will ever be—he's not sure how he's supposed to forgive either of them now. Sirius for keeping this from him. Lupin for betraying him, in Harry's eyes.
He could try, though. He might.
"Yes," Lupin nods, earnest. "Everything you saw that day in the shack…was real. He forgave me in an instant, and I–"
There are wet tears on Lupin's cheeks now. Harry thinks he might be crying too, but he can't tell for sure. Not until he tastes salt, a few seconds later, and feels the dampness near his eyes. He wipes his face, Lupin's mirror image.
They both sniff, taking deep breaths.
"I didn't deserve him, I know that, Harry," Lupin says at long last. "I never did. I never…I never understood what he saw in me. What kept him coming back. It's not just you, I don't…none of it made any sense to me, either. And I thought we'd have more time. I know how foolish it sounds—things were more dire the second time 'round than the first, but I somehow convinced myself that it would all work out, we'd make it through, we'd find a place together in the countryside, relax, for once. And then I'd make it up to him, all of it. I'd take care of him, properly, and prove myself, but I never got the chance."
Furrowing his brow, Harry is overcome with the sudden urge to reach across the table and take Lupin's hand. He hesitates for just a moment, then gives in to his whims, clasping his professor's palm.
"If Sirius loved you," Harry says, "then I don't think you should question why. He was very principled and very loyal. I don't see him giving his love and trust and forgiveness out to anyone who didn't deserve it."
This seems to break Lupin in half, a great, cracking fault line crumpling his features, caving him in on himself. Sobs wrack his body, shaking. A part of Harry feels embarrassed to witness this, then fortunate. How awful. How beautiful a thing. What a wonder to love someone this much that their absence is a gaping wound, even now. Even after all this time.
Harry does not let go of Lupin's hand.
Not until his sobs slow, then stop. He pulls his hand away to wipe his face, casting a grateful look Harry's way.
"There are good memories, too," Lupin says, offering a watery smile. "So many stories I can tell you now, if you'd like."
Here it is: a path forward. Harry could ignore this suggestion. He could ignore this other life of Sirius's, one he never knew about. Pretend his heart has not been shattered, at least a little, by this revelation.
Or.
Or, he could take Lupin up on the offer. He could discover more about Sirius, and his father too, most likely. And Lupin could become someone he's close to, someone part of his rag-tag, makeshift family, the one he's assembling after the war.
Harry knows what he'll do before he even weighs the decision in his mind. In the end, there is no choice at all.
Love is the only way forward. He knows this more than most. Even when love hurts, which has been more often than not in his life so far. Still, it's the only salvation. The only balm for these grief-stricken wounds. Harry will listen because of love.
Love is all he has left of Sirius. So yes, he does cling onto it.
"Please," Harry says, voice hardly audible.
And Lupin smiles, a soft thing. Like this—wide open and vulnerable—Harry knows exactly why Sirius fell in love with him. He should tell him so—he vows to do so, once he's collected his thoughts and gathered his ability to speak once more.
"Let's start with a letter," Lupin says, voice slipping back into that of the professor who'd once taught Harry nearly everything he knows about Defense Against the Dark Arts. "I know just the one."
With a flick of his wand and a murmured Accio, they wait for a few seconds before a folded letter floats down the stairs and into Lupin's open palm.
He gives it to Harry. "I'm an open book, Harry. I'm so sorry this has been kept from you for so long. But if you'd like, I'd love to tell you absolutely everything. We can remember him. Together. I hope showing you this letter, in particular, shows you how very earnest I am in opening myself to you."
An ache blossoms in Harry's chest. This time, he welcomes it. The pain of remembering those we've lost. It's not an awful sting, not at all.
There at the table, Harry begins to read.
28 October 1977
My dearest, darling Remus,
It's the morning after the full and you're still sleeping. I'm watching you now, the gentle rise and fall of your chest. Is it too much to say I'm counting each breath of yours, just waiting for you to finally wake? Probably is. This is what you've turned me into.
Moony, my moony. What a wonder to watch you now, sleeping peacefully, not a single new wound on your body. I think back to first year sometimes, how brutally the wolf treated you then, although I didn't recognize it for what it was at the time. I'm so grateful to have met you, so grateful to be your Padfoot and keep you safe once a month. It feels like a bargain.
I promise you'll never spend another full moon alone as long as I live. Even if we split up (don't get any ideas, Moons), I'd still come to yours once a month just to keep the wolf company. After all, he probably didn't do anything wrong. Really, it would probably be my fault.
You're lecturing me as you're reading this, I know you are. I can hear your voice in my ear already. What a pair we make. Is it foolish to think we'll make it through all this? Together? Intact in every way?
If it's foolish, I'm honoured to be your fool. Wake up soon, love. I'll be right here when you do.
Yours forever,
Sirius