The Science
Story Title: The Science
Author: applecede
Word Count: 1305
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Remus has had 11 years of practice cleaning up after Sirius Black. That is, in retrospect, a lot of practice.
Remus has had 11 years of practice cleaning up after Sirius Black. That is, in retrospect, a lot of practice. The longtime experience has been a learning one. The details of that full-time job includes picking up after him and taking care of him even when Remus’ definition of caring was clearly not the same one Sirius followed.
When Sirius received his letter informing him of his official, formal disinherited state accompanied by a long, haranguing discourse listing the reasons why he was shamed and that after this letter was sent he would be forgotten, James had cursed the Noble House of Black right along with him. Sirius, white-faced and disquietingly subdued in his feelings, had seemed to drawn strength from James’ curses. When Bellatrix came by to taunt her estranged cousin, James had hexed her so that she’d screamed bloody murder and ultimately James was suspended for a month from the Quidditch pitch, issued 30 days of janitorial work duty, and an essay on why he was in the wrong. And Peter had watched this with awe and admiration, nodding his head to the meter of James’ harsh insults of Bellatrix and what was pureblood.
Remus hadn’t known what to do. He wasn’t sure of the right words to console and comfort, and he wasn’t sure that was what Sirius had wanted anyway. So, instead Remus had gone around collecting Sirius’ homework assignments from the classes he missed and brought up soup and sandwiches from the kitchens, all of which Sirius had eschewed. It had been something that had needed doing, Remus had felt, and that was proper care for a sick boy. So with James constantly at Sirius’ side, Remus ponders over books abut what he can do. Hours later he will show up in their room and set a cup of tea nervously at Sirius’ nightstand, or lend Sirius one of his books, mumbling something like he hopes it will distract Sirius, and Sirius will give him a resigned look that says he has accepted Remus for who he is a long time ago.
On various occasions, Remus has had to explain to McGonagall that no, Sirius isn’t insane, he was just repressed when he had been growing up by his father’s expectations and his mother’s ideals…and McGonagall would raise one hand, close her eyes, and tell him to stop trying to rationalize Sirius Black’s behavior with psychology.
The Marauders had spent two weeks of their summer before sixth year touring the isles of Greece. They had spent 12 out of their 14 days island-hopping, Remus getting badly sunburned, Sirius jumping into the water every chance he got, Peter gagging on foods that didn’t taste as he expected, James spending half his time languishing over Lily and the other half indulging in Sirius’ ideas. Their remaining two days had been spent in a less pleasant fashion: Peter had worried and hovered anxiously just behind Remus while Remus frantically gathered up the fine of several hundred Galleons to retrieve Sirius and James from a Greek prison.
Sirius is the action; Remus is the reaction. When Sirius dungbombs the dungeons, Remus attempts to restore order.
When years later he finds himself running through the Shrieking Shack again, feeling a familiar twinge of exhilaration and excitement, his body conditioned long ago to recognize that the nights on which he changed were Marauder nights, owned solely by the four of them, Remus is trying to fix something Sirius Black has done again.
When he bursts in on the tense scene, Sirius whirling around, Harry raising his wand defensively, Remus’ head turns back and forth so fast that Harry for one moment is exactly like James. But he is only looking for Padfoot this time. He sees the two of them reflected in the blackness of a pane of glass that has remained intact: he looks old, and Sirius looks wild-eyed, desperate, a wounded animal backed in a corner. They both look haunted.
“Wait,” Remus tells Harry above Sirius’ bungling impatience, “Let us explain.”
Afterwards, when Sirius is safely hidden away, he sends Remus a more detailed explanation of his escape from Azkaban. Remus reads in between the lines at the end, where Sirius says lightheartedly, good thing you were there, Moony, doing your job as Establisher of Peace. I reckon James would be glad to know that there are some things that haven’t changed, his heart warms from his tea, and knows that Sirius is saying, I was counting on you from the beginning.
This night began as warm night; leftover sun from the day had carried on into the night. Sirius was upstairs treating Buckbeak’s wound when Snape interrupted Remus’ evening with an old tome Dumbledore had lent him on his last visit to Grimmauld Place.
Snape’s face was pinched; his explanation brief and terse, delivered in clipped tones that revealed nothing of what he thought.
“Don’t tell Black,” Snape had warned, just as Sirius, same as ever for intruding, entered Remus’ room.
When the old enemies saw each other, the Potions Master said, “I'll contact Dumbledore,” touched a Portkey, and vanished, but not before he sent a sneer in Sirius’ direction.
Sirius had looked expectantly at Remus. “Moony?” he had inquired, swiping his hair out of his eyes.
Sirius still, Remus had thought, had a nose for sensing trouble. Padfoot’s eyes were alert, the lean body coiled with energy.
“It’s Harry,” Remus said finally. He doesn’t waste time trying to convince Sirius not to go. You didn’t stay Sirius Black’s friend by trying to change him or sway his mind. You had to understand.
Remus is determined not to let Sirius lose him, so he hurries grimly after Sirius as Sirius races through the house, shouting things over his shoulder. At the Ministry of Magic, Sirius is running through the corridors five steps ahead of the rest of them, and Remus sprints after him, eyes on Sirius’ black.
They end up here.
Remus hears Sirius laughing, and he turns his head in the direction of the sound. It isn’t the joyous, puppy-like exuberant laughter of Padfood, it’s a bitterly triumphant one, mocking, mocking, mocking. It upsets the boy in Remus, stirs in him memories of a vicious Sirius who is spoiling for a fight and damn the consequences. It means a lot of clean up work afterwards.
Sirius looks alive. He moves surely and confidently, still one of the best duelers around, and Remus watches, fascinated. He has forgotten what it’s like to watch Sirius do magic. When they graduated, Sirius and James would spar wands occasionally for practice. A better matched pair could not be found. Watching them had been a lesson in defensive and offensive hexes and curses; they were inventive and quick.
The expression on Sirius’ face is intent: like when he was showing off his motorcycle proudly to Remus. Gleaming metal, chrome, silver and black paint, smooth. Sirius had been enraptured. Suddenly, Remus finds himself thinking of all the little thoughts of Sirius, the ones he hadn’t known he’d forgotten. That infuriating, devil-may-care grin. The cocksureness. He is interrupted by Sirius’ taunt.
“Come on,” Sirius howls, something decidedly wolfish about the sound, “You can do better than that.”
Sirius falls through the veil. His body, wound tight with adrenaline and bundles of reflexes for springing, lunging, ducking-uncoils gracefully as he arches backwards, body curving into the veil, which flutters but once.
Once again Remus does not know what to do for Sirius.
Beside him, Harry scrambles on hands to his knees, and Remus remembers with a sort of absentmindedness-oh, this is what he does-maybe useless, maybe not what Sirius needs immediately, but something to be done for Sirius. He lunges, just manages to catch James’ son, grabs Harry tight and refuses to let go.
Author: applecede
Word Count: 1305
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Remus has had 11 years of practice cleaning up after Sirius Black. That is, in retrospect, a lot of practice.
Remus has had 11 years of practice cleaning up after Sirius Black. That is, in retrospect, a lot of practice. The longtime experience has been a learning one. The details of that full-time job includes picking up after him and taking care of him even when Remus’ definition of caring was clearly not the same one Sirius followed.
When Sirius received his letter informing him of his official, formal disinherited state accompanied by a long, haranguing discourse listing the reasons why he was shamed and that after this letter was sent he would be forgotten, James had cursed the Noble House of Black right along with him. Sirius, white-faced and disquietingly subdued in his feelings, had seemed to drawn strength from James’ curses. When Bellatrix came by to taunt her estranged cousin, James had hexed her so that she’d screamed bloody murder and ultimately James was suspended for a month from the Quidditch pitch, issued 30 days of janitorial work duty, and an essay on why he was in the wrong. And Peter had watched this with awe and admiration, nodding his head to the meter of James’ harsh insults of Bellatrix and what was pureblood.
Remus hadn’t known what to do. He wasn’t sure of the right words to console and comfort, and he wasn’t sure that was what Sirius had wanted anyway. So, instead Remus had gone around collecting Sirius’ homework assignments from the classes he missed and brought up soup and sandwiches from the kitchens, all of which Sirius had eschewed. It had been something that had needed doing, Remus had felt, and that was proper care for a sick boy. So with James constantly at Sirius’ side, Remus ponders over books abut what he can do. Hours later he will show up in their room and set a cup of tea nervously at Sirius’ nightstand, or lend Sirius one of his books, mumbling something like he hopes it will distract Sirius, and Sirius will give him a resigned look that says he has accepted Remus for who he is a long time ago.
On various occasions, Remus has had to explain to McGonagall that no, Sirius isn’t insane, he was just repressed when he had been growing up by his father’s expectations and his mother’s ideals…and McGonagall would raise one hand, close her eyes, and tell him to stop trying to rationalize Sirius Black’s behavior with psychology.
The Marauders had spent two weeks of their summer before sixth year touring the isles of Greece. They had spent 12 out of their 14 days island-hopping, Remus getting badly sunburned, Sirius jumping into the water every chance he got, Peter gagging on foods that didn’t taste as he expected, James spending half his time languishing over Lily and the other half indulging in Sirius’ ideas. Their remaining two days had been spent in a less pleasant fashion: Peter had worried and hovered anxiously just behind Remus while Remus frantically gathered up the fine of several hundred Galleons to retrieve Sirius and James from a Greek prison.
Sirius is the action; Remus is the reaction. When Sirius dungbombs the dungeons, Remus attempts to restore order.
When years later he finds himself running through the Shrieking Shack again, feeling a familiar twinge of exhilaration and excitement, his body conditioned long ago to recognize that the nights on which he changed were Marauder nights, owned solely by the four of them, Remus is trying to fix something Sirius Black has done again.
When he bursts in on the tense scene, Sirius whirling around, Harry raising his wand defensively, Remus’ head turns back and forth so fast that Harry for one moment is exactly like James. But he is only looking for Padfoot this time. He sees the two of them reflected in the blackness of a pane of glass that has remained intact: he looks old, and Sirius looks wild-eyed, desperate, a wounded animal backed in a corner. They both look haunted.
“Wait,” Remus tells Harry above Sirius’ bungling impatience, “Let us explain.”
Afterwards, when Sirius is safely hidden away, he sends Remus a more detailed explanation of his escape from Azkaban. Remus reads in between the lines at the end, where Sirius says lightheartedly, good thing you were there, Moony, doing your job as Establisher of Peace. I reckon James would be glad to know that there are some things that haven’t changed, his heart warms from his tea, and knows that Sirius is saying, I was counting on you from the beginning.
This night began as warm night; leftover sun from the day had carried on into the night. Sirius was upstairs treating Buckbeak’s wound when Snape interrupted Remus’ evening with an old tome Dumbledore had lent him on his last visit to Grimmauld Place.
Snape’s face was pinched; his explanation brief and terse, delivered in clipped tones that revealed nothing of what he thought.
“Don’t tell Black,” Snape had warned, just as Sirius, same as ever for intruding, entered Remus’ room.
When the old enemies saw each other, the Potions Master said, “I'll contact Dumbledore,” touched a Portkey, and vanished, but not before he sent a sneer in Sirius’ direction.
Sirius had looked expectantly at Remus. “Moony?” he had inquired, swiping his hair out of his eyes.
Sirius still, Remus had thought, had a nose for sensing trouble. Padfoot’s eyes were alert, the lean body coiled with energy.
“It’s Harry,” Remus said finally. He doesn’t waste time trying to convince Sirius not to go. You didn’t stay Sirius Black’s friend by trying to change him or sway his mind. You had to understand.
Remus is determined not to let Sirius lose him, so he hurries grimly after Sirius as Sirius races through the house, shouting things over his shoulder. At the Ministry of Magic, Sirius is running through the corridors five steps ahead of the rest of them, and Remus sprints after him, eyes on Sirius’ black.
They end up here.
Remus hears Sirius laughing, and he turns his head in the direction of the sound. It isn’t the joyous, puppy-like exuberant laughter of Padfood, it’s a bitterly triumphant one, mocking, mocking, mocking. It upsets the boy in Remus, stirs in him memories of a vicious Sirius who is spoiling for a fight and damn the consequences. It means a lot of clean up work afterwards.
Sirius looks alive. He moves surely and confidently, still one of the best duelers around, and Remus watches, fascinated. He has forgotten what it’s like to watch Sirius do magic. When they graduated, Sirius and James would spar wands occasionally for practice. A better matched pair could not be found. Watching them had been a lesson in defensive and offensive hexes and curses; they were inventive and quick.
The expression on Sirius’ face is intent: like when he was showing off his motorcycle proudly to Remus. Gleaming metal, chrome, silver and black paint, smooth. Sirius had been enraptured. Suddenly, Remus finds himself thinking of all the little thoughts of Sirius, the ones he hadn’t known he’d forgotten. That infuriating, devil-may-care grin. The cocksureness. He is interrupted by Sirius’ taunt.
“Come on,” Sirius howls, something decidedly wolfish about the sound, “You can do better than that.”
Sirius falls through the veil. His body, wound tight with adrenaline and bundles of reflexes for springing, lunging, ducking-uncoils gracefully as he arches backwards, body curving into the veil, which flutters but once.
Once again Remus does not know what to do for Sirius.
Beside him, Harry scrambles on hands to his knees, and Remus remembers with a sort of absentmindedness-oh, this is what he does-maybe useless, maybe not what Sirius needs immediately, but something to be done for Sirius. He lunges, just manages to catch James’ son, grabs Harry tight and refuses to let go.