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In the summer, it's easier. A house full of Weasley children is a house full of distraction and noise and laughter, and then there's Harry — as eager to spend time with Sirius as Sirius is to spend time with him. Even Molly, disapproving and combative and wary, helps, gives Sirius someone to argue with and vent about.
"She's like my mother," Sirius says, after their last semi-disastrous Order meeting. "Without any of her redeeming qualities."
Remus laughs, in spite of himself. He pushes the bottle across to Sirius, even though it's late and he has to be gone early tomorrow. He loves Sirius like this: mellow and talkative, telling Remus the things nobody else gets to hear. "You know that's not fair."
Sirius grins back, transformed as always when he does. "I do. But I'm not wrong about Harry. He should know what's going on." He pauses, looking intently at the Firewhiskey as it slops into his glass. "Secrecy isn't exactly a winning strategy, and I don't know why we're all pretending we don't know that."
"Dumbledore knows what he's doing," Remus says, and this must be the most interesting Firewhiskey either of them has ever seen, because Remus spends a long time looking at his, too.
When he glances up, Sirius is blowing his fringe out of his eyes, better, probably, to reveal how disgusted he looks. "It's a war, Remus. Nobody knows what they're doing. If anybody did, they wouldn't be doing it."
Remus resists downing his whole glass in one go. Sirius's logic has almost always been too sharp for his own good. But this is a dangerous road for Remus. Cowardice isn't his problem, no matter what Snape thinks. It's lack of conviction — always has been. It amounts to the same thing, in the end, but Remus likes to know the root causes of things. It's important.
"We have to trust that he does," he says, because fuck knows what they'll do if they don't.
"I don't," Sirius says. "And I probably won't." At Remus's look, he shrugs. "I'm not going to do anything stupid, either. Not yet, anyway."
"That's not nearly as reassuring as you meant it to be," Remus says. But he's smiling again — in spite of himself again. And if there's ever been a way of summing Sirius up for Remus, that's it.
"Best I can do," Sirius says. He knuckles his eyes and yawns. In the low light of the fire, he looks softer. More like the boy Remus tried to forget, less like the hollow-eyed, jagged man Remus got back. Remus badly wants to reach out for him. He thinks Sirius's hair would be familiar if he did, tangled and soft, just like it used to be when he'd run for hours as Padfoot. And the rest of him would be easier for Remus to learn again with his hands, the changes Azkaban worked not so much like loss if he could discover them that way.
"You should go to bed," Remus says, in self-preservation. What they had was years past and different people ago, and Sirius has no reason to want it it again.
If Sirius notices anything, he doesn't show it. "Big day ahead of me," he says. "I'm going down to the basement. There's every chance I could meet my end by some cursed household object." He sighs dramatically. "I remember there were some particularly disturbing teapots."
Remus knows he hates being left behind, but there's no resentment in his voice, and his hand is warm on Remus's shoulder as he floats the glasses into the sink. "Bring me back some fudge," he says. He squeezes once and lets go. "And be careful, obviously."
Remus stands, stays close as he follows him out. "I'm going to a meeting with some people who might know some people who know some werwolves. The basement's probably more dangerous."
"You're just saying that to make me feel better," Sirius says, but the corners of his mouth are still turned up, and Remus can't look away from him even as he walks towards his bedroom. Hope is a stupid, pointless thing, and Remus is like a drunk, always stumbling into it instead of taking the right door home.
That, of course, was then. After, the kids go back to school, and Molly goes back home, and Sirius stays right where he is. Remus's contacts start to pay off, and more and more, he leaves Sirius behind in frosty silence, comes back to find him drunk or pacing or sleepless — if he's lucky, all three.
"This isn't forever," Remus tells him, in November, though it feels like it's been too long already.
And Sirius just throws his hands up, ever dramatic. "No, probably just until one of us is dead. At least there's a war on, so it shouldn't take too long."
Which is exactly the point, obviously, but Sirius is relentless. "I'm not suggesting I go out and take Voldemort on. I'm suggesting I do something more than hang around here and hope nothing terrible happens while I'm having a nap."
"By the look of you, napping isn't something you're very good at." Sirius glares at him, and Remus sighs. "I'll talk to Dumbledore," he says, and if he's lucky, Dumbledore will tell him what he wants to hear.
"He's safe where he is," Dumbledore says, obligingly. They're in Hogwarts, Remus reporting back on his last assignment and stalling for time, because whatever Dumbledore's answer, Remus doesn't much want to deliver it. "And if Sirius is safe, Harry isn't distracted, and the Order has a base."
All of them valid points. All of them what Remus tells Sirius every time it comes up. Only, well — "A prison's a prison, Albus," McGonagall says, pretty treacherously. She doesn't disagree with Dumbledore often, but then, she always had a soft spot for Sirius, no matter what she claimed.
"Speaking as someone who was locked in a trunk for a year," Moody says, "I'm inclined to agree."
"And I'm not." Albus leans back in his chair, looking, for the first time, how someone who's 150 should look. "One prison isn't like another, just as one punishment isn't like another. Azkaban is worse than any prison you can imagine, and a Dementor's kiss is worse again. He only just escaped last time. A second time isn't likely to end so well. And being captured by Voldemort would be — do you think he would be merciful? The Godfather of his greatest enemy? A man he wanted dead even before Harry was born?"
"Fair enough," Moody says. "But none of this is going to do you much good if he cracks up in the meantime." He pauses at the door, and says, "It's extraordinarily unnerving to find that I'm the person most concerned about his mental state. Albus, make sure I'm still who we think I am. It's not like it's unprecedented for me not to be."
He leaves without waiting for a response, his uneven tread echoing down the staircase, and Remus knows he's only imagining that it sounds disapproving.
"I'm concerned about it, too," Albus says, once it's quiet again. "But I want him alive. I want the things wrong with him to be things we can fix."
And Remus does, too. More than Dumbledore. More, even, than Harry. Remus remembers what it was like without him, remembers the exact second and the exact feeling when he came back. Which is why, when he finally gets home to Grimauld Place and finds Sirius in the kitchen, clean-shaven and bright-eyed, he shakes his head, and doesn't regret it as much as he should.
"Dumbledore doesn't think it's a good idea."
Sirius drums his fingers on the tabletop, while all the rest of him goes still. "Saw that coming," he says. "Problem is, I'm not sure why Dumbledore gets to decide."
"That was the deal."
Sirius barks out laughter, all derision and no amusement. "It wasn't. That's what you decided."
"Sirius —"
"Listen, we're all in danger. All of us. All the time. There's no reason I should be locked up here. There's no reason I can't come with you—"
"—What with you not being a massively famous wanted criminal—"
"—If only there was some sort of, I dunno, something we could do to change my appearance. Don't you wish we knew a little magic?" He's standing now, fists clenched tight, angry and wild like he was that night in the Shrieking Shack all those months ago, and the annoying thing about Moody is how right he is so much of the time.
"Look," Remus says, trying for gentle, and Sirius thumps the table, hard enough that the glasses and plates he's laid out rattle.
"Don't you start," he says. "I'm not crazy, Remus, and if you use that tone of voice on me, I'm not going to have been wrongly convicted of murder at all."
"Fine," Remus snaps, because the things he wants to say, he won't be able to take back. "You need to stay here because Harry needs you to be safe. You can't just be running off to be heroic and—whatever the bloody hell it is you think you'd be doing. You don't have anything to prove. We all know how good you are—Why the fuck are you laughing?" Sirius is, face screwed up with it, all the fight draining out of him. "Bang up job of convincing me you're not crazy."
Sirius sinks to the floor, rubs his hands over his face. "You're an idiot, Remus," he says. "You think I want to prove myself? You think I want to fight the good fight? Why the fuck would I want to do that?" He looks up at Remus, and he looks pissed off now, but like how a sane person would. "It's a war," he says, as if Remus is very stupid. "What I want is to be on a beach somewhere, a few thousand miles away. But since I can't be—"
"You were. You could have—"
"Merlin's balls, shut up. Since I can't be, I want to know that the people I care about are safe." He pauses, hesitates, and then, being Sirius, goes right ahead. "Those people being you and Harry, in case you're having trouble with that, too. Harry's in school. Nothing I can do for him. But you're doing whatever half-baked thing it is Dumbledore's got you doing, while I'm shut in here, hoping that this time maybe our luck won't be so unfailingly shite as the first time. And do you know what a low bar that is? Because, Remus. Our luck was fucking terrible last time." He shakes the hair out of his face, and doesn't look at all embarrassed to be making speeches, even sitting on the floor with his arms around his knees.
"I know," Remus says, and it comes out raspy and small.
"You should have backup, and I'm incredibly good backup."
Remus knows he must have been breathing for the last few minutes, because his vision isn't blacking out or anything, but for the life of him, he doesn't know how. He drops to the floor beside Sirius, with none of the grace Sirius showed earlier. "Padfoot," he says.
"Seriously, really good backup. I can do magic and bite the fuck out of people."
"And that's even before you turn into a dog." Sirius smiles, but it's fleeting, and then he's back to watching Remus, with all the unwavering intensity he's capable of. "I need something, Remus. Something that's not just—this." He waves his hand around the kitchen, still cold and cheerless, because that's what this house is, what it will always be.
Remus reaches out his hand, curls his fingers around Sirius's wrist. He's not Sirius; he can't just launch into things, but there's a fragile certainty creeping in, the kind that wants to be noticed.
"The thing about you is," Remus says. "The thing about you is, you always made me believe in stuff. Stupid stuff, you know? Like dying for your friends and being better than everyone else thought you could be. You were incredibly infuriating."
"I was incredibly charming. What does—"
"I should have kept believing in you, even when it got hard. And yes, obviously, that goes for you too." Sirius looks like he's about to interrupt again, probably to ask what exactly Remus is saying. "You can't come with me. It's a undercover. But I can't stop you going outside — or maybe I could try, but I won't. But I'm asking you to stay here, even though it's hard, even though you're locked up with nothing but a crazy house elf and a mad painting for company."
"I really do hate it, Remus," Sirius says, low and quiet. "I sometimes think maybe I didn't get out."
Remus moves closer, his hand sliding up Sirius's arm, cupping the back of his neck. "You did," he says. "You know you did." He takes a breath, leans in closer still. "I'm asking you to stay for me. And for me to be something you can stay for. I mean, stay for Harry, if that's easier for you. But I've always been selfish, and I'm not asking for him. I'll be safer with a reason to come home, and I want something else, too — something that's not just about defeating Voldemort. I want an after. I want to believe that's possible this time. I want to believe you'll be there for it."
Sirius hasn't moved, either to pull away or reach out. He stays quiet so long that Remus starts to panic. Then he says, "Defeating Voldemort isn't a worthy enough goal for you? You're quite demanding, aren't you?"
"Shut up," Remus says. "You know what I mean."
Sirius nods, and he reaches out, wraps an arm around Remus's shoulders. "I do. And I understand. I probably am more rewarding than defeating the world's most dangerous and powerful wizard."
"You're insufferable," Remus says, and he means it.
"I mean it," he says, just so Sirius knows.
"I know." Sirius leans in anyway, and Remus does too. In his memory, Sirius always tasted of cigarettes and chocolate; he was always warm, shifting muscle in Remus's arms. Now he tastes of coffee and mint, and he's sharp and angular when Remus pulls him in. But he kisses like Sirius always has, all entitled urgency, sure that Remus wants to give him everything Sirius is taking. Which is fine, because Remus does; Remus always has.
He pushes Sirius back against the counter, settles between his legs, laughing into Sirius's mouth when he finds they're both already getting hard. "Lot of rooms in this house," he says. "And we've got a lot of time to make up for."
Sirius grins, mumbles against his neck between kisses. "Good thing I'm not going anywhere, then."