Work Text:
The room had no windows, but Remus could tell from the wind howling and the rain drumming on the roof that the storm showed no signs of slowing. His battered suitcase took up most of the bed, and he shifted it over, making space so he could sit on the hard mattress. He sighed, kneading his eyes with the tips of his fingers. A dim lamp flickered on the bedside table onto a piece of parchment, unfolded but heavily creased, with instructions written in thick, looping script.
Greyback. Tomorrow. The woods. Sundown, he thought over and over, methodically reciting it for the hundredth time. The thought of meeting Greyback made him feel ill, but Dumbledore’s orders outranked personal trauma.
A loud crack broke his concentration and he flinched, instinctively reaching for his wand before putting it down again. Just lightning. No one’s here.
He felt uneasy, though, and listened attentively — underneath the sounds of the storm, he heard something else: someone rattling the doorknob, murmuring a spell, swearing. Wand at the ready for real this time, he leaned against the wall of the bedroom, heart racing.
A click sounded at the door. Remus braced himself for the worst: the werewolves, Death Eaters, Voldemort himself —
Sirius Black, soaking wet, stepped in and closed the door before folding up his penknife and putting it back in his jacket pocket. He shook his hair out to dry and ran a hand through it to pull it away from his face.
“Remus,” he breathed, hugging him tightly.
Sirius’ touch momentarily made Remus forget every terrible thing in the world. He breathed in the smell of rain and leather and cologne. If he closed his eyes, they could be in their flat, listening to records as they cooked dinner. But they weren’t in their flat, he remembered, as a crash of thunder from outside pulled him back to reality.
“You shouldn’t have come. It’s not safe here,” Remus said, pulling away with a mixture of anger and relief at Sirius’ arrival.
“I had to, Moony, I had to. It’s not safe anywhere, anyway. London’s getting more dangerous by the minute, there’s all sorts of rumours—” he began to pace, “people talking about, about Voldemort and traitors, and I came to bring you home. You shouldn’t be out here alone. I’m worried for you.”
Every part of Remus yearned to Apparate home with Sirius, to leave behind the rickety shack in the middle of nowhere, but Dumbledore’s voice echoed in his head: “A special mission...uniquely suited...a ready-made spy...”
He exhaled heavily, shaking his head. “I can’t, Pads. I’m needed here.”
“'Here’? ” Sirius asked. “What’s 'here’? There’s nothing here, what Order business could possibly be in — what, the outskirts of Newcastle...?”
“You know I can’t tell you,” Remus said firmly. They’d had this same argument before. “Dumbledore’s —"
“Dumbledore’s orders, I know,” Sirius interrupted, with a twinge of frustration. “There are lives at stake though, Moony, James and Lily—”
“—are under a Fidelius Charm, and safe for the time being.”
“How can you talk like that about your friends?” Sirius burst out. “So cold and analytical — they’re in danger, and Harry too, and you’re willing to just trust that no one has turned them over to Voldemort?”
“Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I don’t think about that every waking moment — about how at any second everything could fall apart?” Remus shuddered at the thought. “I’m terrified, Sirius, you know that. I wish it could be different, I wish I could tell you everything, but I can’t. There’s too much at stake.” He thought about grasping Sirius’ hand, but clenched his fists instead.
“I’m just saying — there’s a lot of dodgy stuff happening, and keeping secrets doesn’t look good.” Sirius wouldn’t meet Remus’ eye.
Cold realisation washed over Remus.
“Me. You think it’s me. You think that I’m the one who’s turned traitor.” Remus felt as though he was going to be sick.
“How would I know otherwise when you won’t tell me anything?” Sirius shot back.
“Sirius, you know damn well why I can’t tell you anything. If I could, I would, you have to believe me.”
“Why should I believe you when you don’t even trust me? Me, Remus!” He beat a hand against his chest roughly, angrily. “I’ve lied for you, I became an Animagus for you, I love you, I’ve done everything I can for you and you’re lying to me!”
“I trusted you once and it almost got people killed, so you can see why I’m hesitant,” Remus said coolly. It took every ounce of willpower he had to not betray his emotions on his face. Saying the words felt like he’d been stabbed, and the look on Sirius’ face was the twist of the knife. This was dangerous territory now — old wounds that never really healed.
Tears shone suddenly in Sirius’ ash grey eyes, narrowed with anger.
“Well, we can’t all be as good at keeping secrets as you, werewolf,” he spat. “Forgive me if I’m not as well-trained in the art of lying — I haven’t had a lifetime of practice.”
Remus had gotten the reaction he wanted — Sirius’ unbridled, reckless anger — but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. He knew Sirius was capable of cruelty, he’d seen it in school, but to have it directed at him was something new and excruciating.
He swallowed thickly in an effort to keep the emotion out of his voice.
“I have nothing more to say to you. You asked me what I’m doing out here, I told you it’s work for Dumbledore. If you don’t believe me, fine. Leave. Now.” His voice nearly broke on the last syllable, but he hoped Sirius was too angry to notice.
They locked eyes one last time until Sirius turned resolutely and stormed out of the shack, slamming the door behind him. Another loud crack confirmed his departure, and Remus sighed as he collapsed to the floor, a sob ripping its way from his chest. His wand clattered and rolled away, forgotten — he laughed miserably at the thought of someone coming in to ambush him and being met with a weeping, wandless werewolf, too overcome by emotion to even fight back. A small part of him almost wished they would come. The image of Sirius’ face before he left was seared into his mind — no matter how tightly he closed his eyes, Sirius was there. Werewolf echoed in his ears, the first time Sirius had ever used it as an insult. He deserved it, he had asked for it by provoking him, but it hurt like nothing else had ever hurt before.
A crack sounded outside and his heart stopped, thinking it was Sirius — they could apologize, things would be fixed, he could tell Sirius he didn’t mean it and promise to come home after tomorrow — but after several minutes of waiting and hearing only the rain outside, he accepted the truth: that it was only lightning this time, and Sirius was not coming back.
He felt hollow.
He slept there on the floor, curled against the wall, until he was awoken by the sounds of an owl’s beak pecking determinedly at the door.
He blinked hard, his eyes bloodshot and stinging. After locating his wand, he stumbled to the door and opened it, finding a tawny barn owl with a folded letter tied to its foot. He knelt and took it, furrowing his brow — who would run the risk of sending him a letter?
The moment he unfolded the parchment, everything seemed to happen in slow motion.
He read the letter twice, three times, four times, and still only absorbed the bare minimum of Dumbledore’s message — Godric’s Hollow, Voldemort, Lily and James dead, Harry is safe, Peter Pettigrew, Sirius Black, traitor, Azkaban.
Dead. Sirius Black. Traitor.
Every part of him was on fire.
This is what dying feels like, he thought suddenly — it was a thought he had had many times after the full moon, but he meant it now, he was sure of it this time.
He stayed on the floor, letter clutched in his white-knuckled hand, for what felt like a thousand years.
Everyone he loved was gone, and the person he had loved the most had done it.
The hollow feeling, he realized, was permanent.