FIC: August 1995
Once there was a community called dogdaysofsummer. And it was good. Prompts were given each day of August 2005, and writers could write based from the prompt, draw from the prompt, or just write/draw about Remus/Sirius.
I wrote a ficlet for each day set in August, 1995 (after the events of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire). All ficlets are related and are part of a series.
The series was orginially posted at dogdaysofsummer. All the ficlets are posted together here. Cut into different parts due to length.
Written August 2005.
All usual disclaimers apply.
August 1.
The first of August is the first time Sirius kisses him. After.
Sirius has been here a couple days, a few days, several weeks of days already, heralded by an owl from Dumbledore (Remus had been a bit disappointed not to see Hedwig at some point, too). Heralded by feathers and nips at Remus' fingertips. Love bites. Heralded by claws on wood, scratching on the corner of Remus' backdoor, scratches so deep, so varied and so thorough it looks as though Remus could have done the damage himself, one full moon, though he knows that's not true because there's Wolfsbane and the cement basement. Heralded by a lolling pink tongue, the same slate eyes, matted fur and a knotted belly. Remus thought at the time the knots were the mats on Padfoot's underside, but he is too self-aware not to acknowledge the twists and turns and muddied sloshing of his own stomach.
Sirius kisses him, in the kitchen, because he's Sirius, even though Remus wanted to go first, wanted to say, I believe, but again Sirius has beaten him to it, lighting the pilot light on the stove with matches (12) like a Muggle and then standing up, fisting Remus' t-shirt and planting his lips on Remus', open mouthed, but chaste. Giving, not seeking, strange for Sirius, always the seeker.
Remus realizes that he must have already said I believe or Sirius would never have done it. He doesn't remember saying it, doesn't know if it's signified in the warm tea or the oscillating fan or the dusty books or the way he lets Sirius leave toast crumbs in the butter and or the way the shoulders of Remus' shirts are now stretched out, Sirius broader there than Remus even now, but he knows it's there.
And that's enough.
August 2
They are reading together on the couch. Or rather, Sirius is reading and Remus is watching him read, watching Sirius alternately bring the book closer to his face, then farther away; watching the scrunch of his brow and the squinting of his eyes. Remus watches until he can help himself no longer and laughs.
Sirius cranes his neck to look at Remus.
"You need glasses," Remus says.
"Do not," Sirius replies, as if they are again twelve years old.
Remus mimes Sirius' recent actions with the book, exaggerating the squinting a bit. Sirius huffs.
"We can get you some in town, the next time we go. It's not a problem."
"I can't go into town as myself," Sirius says.
Remus thinks that over. Sirius, when he comes into the village with Remus (which is rare enough), does always come as Padfoot; Remus had assumed that was a security measure, but one designed more to protect Sirius from the still unfamiliar feel of humanity, of the salt of the air when people gather in one place, rather than to keep him from being apprehended as a fugitive. There is no real reasonable answer; the village is vastly Muggle (Remus knows of one other wizarding family, but has little contact with them) and even more vastly secluded (where else for a werewolf to live?)--it's unlikely news of Sirius Black has ever reached them. Not up to reasoning out this latest puzzle, Remus decides to go the easy route and appeal to Sirius' vanity.
"Of course you can. Besides which, glasses will be infinitely more handsome on you than all the squinting you do now."
"I don't care how I would look in them. I don't need them." Sirius' vanity seems to have disappeared along with other several crucial parts of him.
"Sirius, you must be joking," Remus says, though he knows Sirius is not. "You need glasses; we'll get you glasses. That's the end of the discussion." Remus knows he sounds like he's admonishing a Hogwarts' fourth year, but no longer cares.
Sirius doesn't respond right away. Measuring his options, probably, Remus thinks. He looks away as he says, "It's the light, Remus."
"What?"
"It's the light. There's too much of it. It hurts my eyes; that's why reading is difficult." He pauses. "Do they make glasses to deal with that, Remus?" he asks, and Remus notices he can't keep the acrid edge out of his voice.
There is a long silence before Remus finally says: "Yes, Sirius. They're called sunglasses, you utter, utter berk."
Sirius looks stunned, then suddenly throws his head back and laughs, the first real laugh Remus has heard from him in fourteen years.
That afternoon after lunch, Remus slips down to the village. It's August, and sunglasses are cheap. He makes sure to leave a pair in the bathroom next to Sirius' toothbrush. Sirius wears them to bed, and smiles.
August 3
Sirius is sitting on the front steps, wearing the second of the three pairs of sunglasses Remus bought him. Remus prefers to squint into the wavy haze near the road, coming to sit next to Sirius. He can't see Sirius' eyes behind the glasses, and this discomfits him. Sirius is enough of a cipher these days without his eyes hidden behind the reflection of the lawn.
They don't speak for a while, but this is fine with Remus. He is used to silence.
"I said yes, of course," Sirius finally comes out with.
"You didn't have to."
Sirius turns his head to face Remus, but Remus still can't see his eyes. He can imagine what is in them, though, remembering the anger and blind pain of Sirius, seventeen and fresh out of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He repeats: "You didn't have to."
At that, Sirius snorts, reassuringly and painfully like Padfoot's nasal tones.
Remus doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. Sirius' face has turned back toward the lawn and the lane. In spite of the heat, Remus puts his chin on Sirius' shoulder, and inhales the smell of Sirius' neck: grass, sweat, dog.
Sirius takes Remus' hand, and Remus knows what he's being asked.
Remus plants a kiss on Sirius' neck to say yes.
August 4
Remus watches Sirius devour the ice cream, his fourth bowl in what seems like as many minutes. He can't help it that his mouth gapes open a bit. James used to say that Sirius' appetite was so huge and varied that he'd happily eat grass--as a human. But since he's come to stay with Remus, Sirius has been, if not a picky eater, a small one. Two or three bites of a meal and he'll push the plate away until Remus' look of concern mixed with incredulity forces him to pick his fork back up. In retaliation, Sirius has started calling Remus "Lily" at mealtimes, a synonym for "mum," Remus knows, since Lily was the only good mother Sirius ever had any regular contact with.
But Remus bought ice cream at the market for dessert tonight, and though Sirius ate a grand total of half a bowl of soup at dinner, he has plowed through almost the entire carton of ice cream. Remus' own serving is melting rapidly in his bowl as he stares at Sirius.
Finally Sirius pauses for breath. "What?" he asks, ice cream nestled in the crook of his mouth, there on the left.
Remus' only possible answer to that is to lean across the table, place his palm against the back of Sirius' head, and pull Sirius' mouth towards him, covering it with his own. He presses hard, opening Sirius' lips with his tongue, aching to feel the coolness, the slickslide of Sirius' tongue, tasting of vanilla bean. By the time he pulls away, they are both breathless.
Breathing hard, Sirius asks again: "What?"
Remus shakes his head, surprised by the way his throat closes up. "Nothing. Just eat," he says.
Sirius does, finishing the carton of ice cream, and Remus' helping, too.
August 5
Packing, such as it is, is a simple affair. Remus has very little, and Sirius has even less. Besides, most of what Remus has will stay at his own house; it's been in his family for five generations, and will remain so. No one will worry about what remains in the house but the mice.
Remus calls Sirius for lunch from the kitchen, and when he doesn't come, Remus sets out to find him. The last place he saw Sirius was Remus' bedroom; he was packing a bag of Remus' meager shirts, slacks and robes. Remus stops in the doorway but doesn't see Sirius at first. There is a full bag sitting at the foot of the bed, and Remus' case professing Professor R.J. Lupin is already packed and sitting in front of the nightstand. Remus is about to move on down the hall, perhaps check the small den where Sirius is sleeping, when he catches sight of black fur visible even in the darkness of the closet.
"Sirius?" he asks, to no answer. Remus enters the room and sees Padfoot, awake but not moving, curled up inside the closet. Remus approaches where Padfoot is, his eyes following Remus, but still not moving. The closet is sparsely cluttered; Sirius must have packed almost everything in it, aside from a few books and some random shoeboxes full of mementos or photographs or just junk.
"Sirius?" Remus asks again, crouching down next to the big black dog. He's mildly alarmed; Sirius still hasn't moved as Padfoot, and when Remus gets a good look at the dog's eyes, he sees they are huge, pupils dilated, and overwhelmingly sad. He moves slightly, a little shift of his feet in order to gain more balance, and the heel of his foot catches a photograph, along with a rise of dust. Looking up, Remus sees one of his boxes perched precariously on the shelf above them; looking down, Remus picks up the photograph by the corner, thinking it must have fallen out of the box.
The photograph is a wizarding photo. Remus remembers with a still sharp pang when it was taken: in the summer, right before seventh year, at the Potter's house. A couple of miles behind the house, on the back of the property, there was a small pond, full of frogs and vaguely greenish water, and surrounded by soft grass and large trees. James' father always joked that the pond had been a result of a failed, and rather explosive, potion in his youth, and the crater had just filled with rainwater; Remus remembers the story of how James had fully believed the tale until he was at least eleven. He also remembers Mr. Potter telling the story, his wide smile and pride in James evident, even in a story meant to illustrate his son's shortcomings.
The photo had been taken by Remus himself, probably one of the only reasons he'd even kept it; so many of his school things had gotten purposely lost or left behind along the way after James and Lily died. For some reason, Remus had not parted with this one: it is of James and Sirius, posing in front of the lake. And they are posing, Remus thinks wryly as he looks at the photograph; James and Sirius are alternately positioned like professional models, then with arms slung around each other's shoulders like casual school boys, then scuffling as embraces turn to fake chokeholds turn to pushes and wrestling and laughter. The photo comes back around before it times out with the boys breaking apart, and Sirius flinging the fringe out of his eyes dramatically, once again striking the pose of a missing member of the royal family, which, Remus reflects, was probably more true than not.
Remus looks from the photo, which has brought something of a smile to his face, down to Padfoot. He takes Padfoot's jaw in the hand not holding the photograph, bringing the dog's face up so that his eyes will meet Remus'.
"Sirius," he says for the third time, though this time it is more of a command than a question. He holds Padfoot's eyes, and refuses to break away. They stay like that for a long time, so long that Remus thinks he will lose this particular moment, but then Sirius suddenly changes back, becomes flesh and bone and man all at once, his jeans dirty from the dust in the closet.
His chin is still in the palm of Remus' hand, and his eyes are still as gray and blank and sad. Remus moves his hands so that the palms are on each side of Sirius' face, and he still doesn't break their gaze.
Finally Sirius says, "James," his voice a cross between the whine of Padfoot and the gravelly whisper of Sirius.
"I know," Remus says. "I know."
August 6
Remus notes that Sirius either has the good sense (which he has to admit he halfway doubts) or the survival instinct (which he admits Sirius has in spades) to wait until Severus has flooed back to Hogwarts until he appears in the living room.
"Did that big-nosed, greasy-haired, self-absorbed, cruel, sexually frustrated, egotistical ponce finally go back go Hogwarts?"
Survivial instinct, Remus decides.
"Do you see him anywhere, Sirius?" Remus answers, his tone implying grow up, you ponce, a language Sirius apparently understands, because he quickly changes the subject.
"Are you ready to go then?" Sirius asks.
Remus draws breath to protest, but Sirius cuts him off. "We agreed," he says.
"But . . ."
"It's one night."
"Not any night."
"That's rather the point."
Remus gestures with the smoking goblet in his hand. "The Wolfsbane . . ."
"Will keep. Put it in a fucking thermos, Moony. This isn't the middle of the sixth century. Why does Snivillus insist on using a goblet anyway?"
"He does have a flair for the dramatic."
"Before you say he's not the only one, either, put that god-awful concoction in a storage device or drink it so we can go."
Remus draws breath again, but again, Sirius is faster. Always was, Remus thinks.
"It's one night. One moon. One time when we can run under it again." Sirius pauses before his eyes lower, and he drives the point home. "You promised. One more time to be free."
When they were twenty, Remus would have thought Sirius was purposely manipulating him. Now that they aren't, Remus finds Sirius' eyes, as much as he tries to keep them on the carpet, and knows that what Sirius says is only the thing he wants most.
So they go. Remus drinks down the potion, and Sirius opens the door. They walk to the village, buy tickets for the rickety old train that will take them on a two hour trip to the shore. Remus spends the trip down with his head on Sirius' shoulder, dozing, and then they are there. They walk to the sand and they sit side by side, waiting for the sun to go down and the moon to rise.
Finally, when the last of the indigo has disappeared from the sky, and the moon is full and rich and lovely to anyone who isn't Remus; finally, when Remus has Changed, and Sirius has become Padfoot, and the sand is a moonlit, pure white under their paws, finally, finally, they run. They run, wolf and dog; Remus and Sirius; Padfoot and Moony. There's nothing but the salt of the ocean and the scent of sunbathers and them.
And they are both happy.
August 7
They spend the afternoon sleeping. The Change still wears Remus out, not just after all of these years, but especially after all of these years. Sirius sleeps now like he eats: fitfully, sparingly. But today he has cause to feel tired, to feel content, and so they sleep, clothed in loose Muggle t-shirts and khaki shorts.
They sleep curled around each other, woven together gently; they are not a tangle of entwined limbs or crushed arms, but only the flat of Sirius' palm on Remus' stomach, a huff of Remus' breath on Sirius' shoulder. It is the first time they have shared a bed in fourteen years.
Sirius must have woken first, because Remus blinks himself into existence again with a head on his shoulder, warm puffs of breath, slightly wet, against his neck. When he sees Remus' eyes open, Sirius brushes the graying fringe from Remus' forehead. He doesn't smile, but Remus sees the idea of a smile in Sirius' eyes.
They are happy to stay there together, not speaking, just breathing. Remus doesn't know how long they stay like that. Toward dusk, a steel gray owl appears at the window, settling on the ledge and hooting softly at the men on the bed. They both know who the owl is from, and what it means.
Sirius stirs to get off the bed, but Remus stops him with a hand on Sirius' shoulder, pushing him back.
"Later," he says.
Sirius complies, his head once again settling onto Remus, this time onto his chest, where he can hear Remus' heart beat.
August 8
Sirius has to write down the address to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, in his scratchy handwriting, all sharp lines and inconsistently open, friendly loops, before Remus can even properly see the house. When he does, he realizes for the first time, really understands, what a monstrosity the thing is. It is a sprawling Victorian sandwiched into the middle a quite ordinary, and now quite Muggle, London street. Remus is immediately struck by how the house could have been the main character in any number of old horror films, and he privately thinks it probably was.
They enter through the front door, which gives way easily under Sirius' turn of the lock and knob. Sirius remarks that he's a bit surprised the door hasn't been spelled to block him, but Remus barely hears him, nodding absently. The house is dark and dusty and cold, even in the middle of August. There is an umbrella stand near the door, looking woeful and unused, but surprisingly clean and ready to be filled with umbrellas, and Remus can't imagine why it is there, until he figures out that Molly Weasley must have been here prior to their arrival. He realizes that he will now irreparably associate Molly Weasley with this umbrella stand for the rest of his natural life, and Remus doesn't know how to take this news. He settles for bemused.
Sirius sneezes violently, three times in a row, and Remus' hand is already on his back, ready to soothe, when a shrill voice emerges from the shadows.
"More blood traitors come to sully my ancestral home and final resting place?" Then an unimaginable shriek rises from the darkness, "Kreacher, Kreacher!"
Remus has no idea what is going on, one hand already reaching for his wand, the other still resting on a now stock-still Sirius' back. Suddenly Sirius stands up straight and stalks forward; his strides are purposeful and his footsteps sound loudly in the hall as Remus' palm finally wraps around the wand in his pocket.
Halfway down the hall Sirius turns to face the wall; squinting, Remus can barely make out what looks like a frame.
"Positioned yourself right in the goddamn entry way, did you?" Sirius asks. "How very bloody typical."
"TRAITOR!" the voice shrieks. "TRAITOR! MUDBLOOD LOVER! YOU ARE NO LONGER ANY PART OF ME! LEAVE THIS HOUSE THIS INSTANT, YOU VILE, REPULSIVE, RECKLESS EXCUSE OF A SON! GOING TO AZKABAN WAS THE BEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO YOU!"
Remus moves forward down the hallway, coming up next to Sirius, who is surprisingly calm. Sirius turns to look at him, and quirks an eyebrow.
What Remus now understands is a wizarding portrait hasn't stopped speaking, though. "THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! ALLOWING THE HOUSE OF MY ANCESTORS TO BE USED TO PLOT AGAINST OUR LORD'S GOOD NAME AND GOOD WORKS . . . AND WHO DID YOU BRING WITH YOU, ANOTHER BLOOD TRAITOR?" Remus thinks seriously that if the portrait were capable of spitting in disgust, it would have done so.
Sirius leans forward and grins, a grin that Remus never really got used to, one that used to spell a certain doom for Severus Snape or anyone else who crossed Sirius. Remus suddenly has a strong feeling the woman in the portrait is capable of the same grin. "Actually, he's a Dark Creature. A werewolf, to be exact."
The portrait doesn't even find words at this new indignity, just lets out an ear-piercing scream. Remus is fairly sure he hears glass shatter in a nearby room before Sirius suddenly reaches out and viciously pulls the cord to close the drapes around the portrait.
Sirius turns back to face Remus, a smile still on his face, though it is grimmer and entirely less amused.
"Remus, meet my mum," he says.
August 9
Molly Weasley has indeed been to Grimmauld Place, and now that Sirius and Remus have arrived, it seems the Weasleys are set to move in for the remainder of the summer. Remus is partly annoyed and partly relieved; he is surprisingly jealous of Sirius and reluctant to share him now that he marginally has him back, but Sirius' dark moods are darker than they used to be, and inconsolable. Sirius tolerates the loud jangle of bodies and noise that constitutes the Weasley clan for most of the morning, but quickly retreats upstairs after lunch to feed Buckbeak, and he is gone too long for Remus' comfort.
Remus dawdles for close to an hour with Molly, discussing the various merits of Doxie solution, before he makes his excuses and goes to find Sirius. He passes George and Fred on the stairs where they are tinkering with some experiment or another, something that looks like an earlobe on a string. They say hello as he passes, and Remus is oddly happy that he can be amused by their antics instead of having to inquire and possibly take away points.
Sirius is not in the room they are keeping Buckbeak, and it takes Remus a while to find him. When he does, Sirius is in a room on the second floor. It is a simple room, square in shape, though large, what looks like a king sized bed in the middle with a dressing table, nightstand, and several trunks. There are no decorations or paintings on the walls, which are bare, save for a rather masculine looking, striped wallpaper. A coat of dust covers almost every available surface, and the air is recycled, the stench of a room unopened for years drifting into Remus' nostrils. Sirius is sitting cross-legged on the floor, a trunk open before him. He's just looking into the contents; his hands are still folded in his lap. He looks almost hypnotized.
"Sirius?" Remus ventures, entering the room carefully.
Sirius looks up, a far away look in his eyes before he blinks and says, "Remus."
Remus takes a seat on the floor next to Sirius. "Your room?"
Sirius shakes his head. "Mum razed my room after I left, I'm sure; it was on the third floor."
Remus tilts his head, a silent signal for Sirius to continue.
When he does, it's: "Regulus."
"Ah." With this new information, Remus takes the room in again, and everything makes a bit more sense: the stale, tomb-like feeling of the room, the tell-tale trinkets (even a watch with a serpent coiled about the face) scattered on the various pieces of furniture.
Remus places his hand on Sirius' arm, ready to lead him away, when Sirius suddenly reaches into the trunk in front of them.
To Remus' great surprise, Sirius pulls a marijuana joint out of the trunk.
"Huh," Sirius says. "Would never have thought Regulus . . . wonder if he stole it from me." He stops for a minute, then holds the joint out toward Remus.
"You want to?" he asks.
Remus raises an eyebrow. "Molly would have a fit."
"Even better," Sirius says.
"I agree," Remus agrees, grinning.
In answer, Remus can hear Fred and George laughing on the stairs.
August 10
Besides the Weasleys, who have camped out in several of the rooms on the upper floors, Hermione is the first child to arrive. She looks tanned, freckled from being in the sun, and mostly happy, though Remus does note the slight bit of worry around her eyes--it is a look he recognizes from years of seeing it in his own reflection.
Hermione had been on holiday with her parents on the French shore, and she brings with her, almost as a housewarming gift, a bucket of crabs fresh from the beach. Molly is absolutely delighted, and sets about cooking while Ginny finds Hermione and quickly drags her off.
Remus watches the girls go, working out the logistics of picking Harry up from the Dursleys with Arthur and Moody at the table, when he sees a big, black dog pad in from the doorway. Remus frowns for a moment, wondering why Sirius would choose to change into Padfoot, but Molly beats him to the punch.
"I know you're no stray, Sirius," she says, tapping a crab with her wand to break the shell. "Go nuzzle up to someone else if you're looking for food."
Remus laughs, and Padfoot turns at the sound, then lopes slowly toward the chair Remus is in. When he gets there, Padfoot puts his head upon Remus' knee and looks up with eyes that are part quizzical, part amused. Remus scratches behind the dog's right ear a bit before he mutters an "Accio" and a crab comes flying out of Molly Weasley's capable hands and into his own.
"Here," Remus says, placing the crab on the floor, where Padfoot already has his nose to the crab's belly before Remus' fingers have even fully let go. "Don't say I never did anything for you," he says.
Padfoot looks up, and barks, before going back to the crab.
August 11.
The sun rose higher. Blue waves, green waves swept a quick fan over the beach, circling the spike of sea-holly and leaving shallow pools of light here and there on the sand. Remus stands barefoot on the sand, curling his toes. Suddenly, when he looks back up to the sky, it is deep night, clear and full of stars. The moon is full and in reflex Remus looks down, only to find himself human. There is immense relief followed by confusion as the waves crash on the shore, increasingly harder. The water is up to Remus' knees now, and he feels the absolute certainty of someone who knows that the water will come, higher and higher, until he is swept away. He can feel the undertow pulling, pulling . . .
Pulling him upright, gasping. It takes Remus a few moments to realize where he is--the room he is sharing with Sirius at Grimmauld Place. The moon is filtering in through the open window, but it is waxing, not full. Remus takes a deep breath to steady himself and notices for the first time that Sirius is not in the bed beside him. He has a moment of helpless panic before he leans over to swing his feet out of bed, and sees Sirius on the floor, sleeping.
There is no pillow under Sirius' head, no blankets covering him. Remus creeps out of bed and down onto his knees, cupping Sirius' shoulder in his hand. He shakes gently, not wanting to startle the other man.
It doesn't take Sirius long to wake; his eyes are open almost instantly, but Remus can't make out the irises in the black and white of the dark, moonlit room.
"Remus," Sirius says.
"Sirius . . . Sirius. Why, why are you on the floor?"
"Couldn't sleep," Sirius answers, briefly closing his eyes.
Remus is wide awake by now. "And you thought the floor would help with that? You had a small stroke and couldn't make it back to the bed after getting water? What?"
Sirius shakes his head, the back of his hand covering his eyes, blocking out the little light there is in the room. "No . . . couldn't sleep. The bed. Too soft. Too comfortable. I'm . . . not used to it."
With those words it once again crashes in on Remus all of the small but profound ways Azkaban has irreparably changed Sirius Black.
Remus struggles for a minute, but leans down to place a kiss on Sirius' chest where it is visible above the button of his pajamas. He starts to get off his knees, to rise, and feels Sirius' hand come up to clutch, instinctively, though it only lasts for a moment before Sirius' palm comes to rest upon his belly.
Remus doesn't get up and back into bed, as Sirius must have thought he was going to. Instead, he rises far enough to grab the heavy quilt and pull, bringing it down to the floor. It takes him all of a moment to stretch out next to Sirius, pillowing his head on Sirius' chest and shoulder and wrapping the blanket around them.
He carefully wraps his arms around Sirius, holding on tightly until he feels the slackening of muscles, the loss of tension in Sirius' body, until Sirius' arm is holding him in return. He tilts his head up to kiss the underside of Sirius' chin, his jaw, wherever he can reach, until his own eyelids start to feel heavy.
Remus settles again and says, "You'll get used to it eventually."
The silence lasts for so long Remus thinks Sirius has fallen back asleep, until he hears, softly, a whisper into his hair: "Moony."
August 12
The solemn light behind the barns,
The rising moon, the cricket's call,
The August night, and you and I-
from, "August Moonlight", by Richard le Gallienne.
It has been a long day. Harry has finally arrived, along with most of the Order. The house is full now, and they are working on it diligently, but Remus sometimes thinks they never make any progress--the layers of dirt and dust and soil are barely wearing away under the toil of Remus and his fellows.
Sirius comes into their room, looking exhausted, but with a bit of light in his eyes that Remus knows can be credited merely to Harry's presence.
"He's down for the night," Sirius announces, coming up to where Remus is standing by the bureau, attempting to unbutton the cuffs of his Oxford.
Remus grins. "He's fifteen, not a newborn, Sirius."
Sirius smiles back, amused, but not abashed. "So I've noticed," he says, taking Remus' wrist in both of his hands gently, fingers nimbly undoing the button. He repeats the action with Remus other wrist, touch feather-light, and the feel of Sirius' fingertips has left Remus sensitive, a flitter of electricity flashing up his spine. Remus opens his mouth, to say what, he doesn't know, but Sirius cuts him off, leaning in for a kiss. Lips slide against lips, then tongues against tongues until they part, Remus' lips wet and his lungs ready to burst.
When he catches his breath, Remus asks, "What brought that on?"
For a moment, something flits across Sirius' eyes, and Remus thinks it is a something uncomfortably close to fear.
"I . . . you . . . you don't?" Sirius stammers until Remus stretches his hands up to tangle them into Sirius' hair.
Remus tilts Sirius' head downward until they are eye-to-eye. "You daft idiot. Of course I do. I just . . . want you to be ready."
At that, Sirius throws his head back and barks a laugh. "I’m not fifteen, Remus."
Remus grins, too. "Nor a blushing virgin."
"Exactly," Sirius says, his smile not only making his eyes crinkle, but reaching them, and Remus is so happy to see this, he almost forgets to hesitate.
"Sirius," he begins, but Sirius leans down again, touching his forehead to Remus'.
"Remus. Let's go to bed," Sirius says, all dancing eyes and serious voice.
And so, they do.
August 13
We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
- Van Morrison, 'Into the Mystic'
Remus is always the first one up in the morning. He is always the first one to wake. When he thinks about it, which is almost never, he thinks that his habit of early rising is yet another thing he can attribute to the wolf; even on every other day of any given month, Remus habitually wakes just after moonset. Most of the time he will lie still, soaking in the silence, but if he cannot will get up and putter around the kitchen. He has been this way for almost as long as he can remember; at Hogwarts, he was always the first boy in the dorms to be up, and he gladly took the prefect rounds that were scheduled for dawn, when the staff thought it just as likely there would be mischievous students trying to get back into portrait holes than as at midnight, after curfew. Before school he used to get up and make the morning tea for his mum, milk and lemon, just the way she liked.
Today is no different. Remus wakes to the first rays of the sun filtering in through the light curtains on the window, streaking bits of yellow across the white quilt and sheets of the bed.
What is different about today is that Sirius is sprawled next to Remus in the bed, not nearly as loose limbed and gangly as in their youth, but still a black tousle of hair against a white background, mouth open just a bit, a slight wheeze filling the room as Sirius breathes. What is different is that Sirius is relaxed, sleeping on his stomach, one arm down by his side, the other curling gently into the mattress near his pillow. His foot suddenly shakes, like the paw of a puppy in the midst of a dream, but other than that he is still except for the deep breaths in and out, in and out, in and out.
We are younger than the sun, at least, Remus thinks.
What is different about today is that Remus shifts, turns over carefully until he is facing Sirius. He snuggles further down in the covers, and puts his arm gently around the other man, resting his arm across Sirius' back, his fingers gently grazing the ribs on Sirius' opposite side.
Remus sighs, closes his eyes, and goes back to sleep.
Someone else can be the first to wake today.
August 14
Sirius steps into the library, and Remus laughs.
He laughs so hard, he doubles over.
When he manages to right himself, Sirius is, predictably, scowling, which only starts Remus off into another fit of laughter.
Remus finally manages to get a hold of himself. He is tempted to ask Sirius what happened, but it is obvious what happened: Sirius has spent too much time in the small garden of Grimmauld Place, and he is sunburned. Remus had wondered where Sirius had wandered off to after lunch, and now he knows. Sirius is a bright color, somewhere between red and pink and orange, from the tips of his ears through his face down to his arms where his t-shirt didn't cover and the backs of his hands. Remus can see that even the tops of his feet where they stick out from the hem of his denims are red.
Remus stifles another giggle.
"I fell asleep," Sirius says, very stiffly. And a tad too loudly.
"I see," Remus says, because he does.
"Lupin." Sirius manages, through gritted teeth.
"Lupin?" Remus echoes. "You really must be mad. I don't think you've called me Lupin since we were first years."
Sirius merely stands there, his arms out. "Third year. After the exploding cauldron incident."
"How is it that you remember that, but not to not fall asleep outside on an August afternoon?"
Sirius looks very, very ready to say something very, very naughty, possibly about where Remus can put his wand or about his mother's sexual past, when Remus suddenly stands up, taking pity on him. Remus pulls his wand out of his robe pocket.
"Come here, Sirius. I can take care of it," Remus says, and he does, gently tapping the tip of his wand on Sirius' ears, face, neck, hands, feet, everywhere he can see sunburn, and muttering the incantation. Fairly quickly, Sirius' skin turns back to its normal, milky white color, and Remus can see Sirius' shoulders start to relax.
"Thanks," Sirius mumbles. "Can't do that charm on yourself."
"Hmmm . . ." Remus agrees. "Most inconvenient."
"Indeed," Sirius answers, ready to turn away, when something suddenly occurs to Remus.
"I've never seen you sunburned before," Remus says aloud.
"No," Sirius turns back, answering, and it's not a question. "Never used to get sunburned before."
Remus realizes what before means, and what exactly a few hours in the sun can do to a man who hasn't seen much sun in fourteen years. He bites his lip, and opens his mouth, to say what, he's not sure, when Sirius holds up a hand.
"It's okay, Moony. It was funny. I'm sure I looked like a wanker." Sirius doesn't quite smile, but Remus knows it's close. He'll take close.
"Except for around the eyes. You must have been wearing your sunglasses," Remus says and smiles.
Sirius still doesn't quite make it to a smile, but he steps forward and places his hands on Remus' hips, a kiss to the side of Remus' mouth, where the skin is upturned.
"Yes, yes I was," Sirius whispers against Remus' mouth, still holding his hips.
August 15
When Remus walks into the kitchen, Sirius is in the middle of telling Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny the story of when Remus took his friends, summer before sixth year, to a Muggle carnival. Sirius is in full storyteller mode, gesticulating wildly in circles in order to recreate the spinning of a ferris wheel. Remus pours himself a cup of tea, grinning.
Sirius finishes with a rare booming laugh. "I don't think I had ever seen James that sick before, even after his first half-bottle of firewhiskey, and this was from a Quidditch player." Remus catches the fact that Sirius' voice catches a bit on the word "James," but he doesn't think the children notice.
Ron is grinning like a mad man, Hermione and Ginny smiling, but the expression on Harry's face is interested, but also politely neutral. Remus sets his mug down on the table, and takes a chair. "That day was so much fun, but he was a mess to get home."
Sirius laughs again. "We all told him not to eat that much junk."
Remus rolls his eyes, overplaying his incredulous expression for the kids. "So says the man who ate at least his own weight in candy that day. Honestly, Sirius."
"At least I didn't sick up all over you not once, but twice."
Remus nods at this. "You were his best friend, but he saw fit to vomit all over me."
"Eh, you were always good at cleaning charms, Remus. Don't act like it was a big burden."
"We'd see if you'd sit here and say that if it had been you. I had to throw out those trousers. Couldn't get rid of the smell. I liked those trousers," Remus says, and Sirius snickers a bit at that.
"I've never been to a carnival," Harry says, suddenly, and Sirius goes very still.
"Really, Harry?" Hermione is the first to speak. "There was never a fair in Little Whinging? Or anywhere you went on holiday?" Remus sees Ron give Hermione a look he can't quite decipher, but Hermione doesn't catch it.
Harry shrugs. "My aunt and uncle never took me anywhere with them. Not to the shore, not on holiday. They always left me with Mrs. Figg." He takes a sip out of whatever is in his own mug as the rest look on, except for Remus, who is watching Sirius carefully, watching flashes of emotion flicker across Sirius' gray eyes.
Hermione looks immediately contrite. "I'm sorry, Harry. I know about your aunt and uncle. That was stupid of me to say."
"Hermione," Ron starts, but Harry waves him off.
"Don't worry about it, Hermione," Harry says, and silence once again descends on the kitchen. Remus puts a hand on Sirius' thigh under the table, hoping to stall what he knows is Sirius' guilt. Thankfully for Remus, Ginny Weasley is even quicker than he is.
"Well. We can't go this summer," Ginny says practically, "but I can't wait to tell Dad about it. Just think Ron! He'll have to take us--he won't be able to help himself! My guess is he'll barely last until Christmas."
Ron, more than in on the joke, laughs. "I don't think what Sirius described would be very fun in the middle of winter."
"Dad won't care," Ginny counters.
"That he won't," Remus says, picturing Arthur Weasley with his head full of ferris wheels and other Muggle contraptions. "I think we'll have to explain this to him very carefully."
The two Weasleys at the table giggle, and even Harry and Hermione smile.
"Next summer, then," Sirius says, voice steady. Remus gives his thigh a bit of a squeeze.
"Right. Next summer," Harry says, before Ron drags him up for a delayed rematch at chess, the girls following, and Sirius leans his forehead against Remus' shoulder and sighs.
I wrote a ficlet for each day set in August, 1995 (after the events of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire). All ficlets are related and are part of a series.
The series was orginially posted at dogdaysofsummer. All the ficlets are posted together here. Cut into different parts due to length.
Written August 2005.
All usual disclaimers apply.
August 1.
The first of August is the first time Sirius kisses him. After.
Sirius has been here a couple days, a few days, several weeks of days already, heralded by an owl from Dumbledore (Remus had been a bit disappointed not to see Hedwig at some point, too). Heralded by feathers and nips at Remus' fingertips. Love bites. Heralded by claws on wood, scratching on the corner of Remus' backdoor, scratches so deep, so varied and so thorough it looks as though Remus could have done the damage himself, one full moon, though he knows that's not true because there's Wolfsbane and the cement basement. Heralded by a lolling pink tongue, the same slate eyes, matted fur and a knotted belly. Remus thought at the time the knots were the mats on Padfoot's underside, but he is too self-aware not to acknowledge the twists and turns and muddied sloshing of his own stomach.
Sirius kisses him, in the kitchen, because he's Sirius, even though Remus wanted to go first, wanted to say, I believe, but again Sirius has beaten him to it, lighting the pilot light on the stove with matches (12) like a Muggle and then standing up, fisting Remus' t-shirt and planting his lips on Remus', open mouthed, but chaste. Giving, not seeking, strange for Sirius, always the seeker.
Remus realizes that he must have already said I believe or Sirius would never have done it. He doesn't remember saying it, doesn't know if it's signified in the warm tea or the oscillating fan or the dusty books or the way he lets Sirius leave toast crumbs in the butter and or the way the shoulders of Remus' shirts are now stretched out, Sirius broader there than Remus even now, but he knows it's there.
And that's enough.
August 2
They are reading together on the couch. Or rather, Sirius is reading and Remus is watching him read, watching Sirius alternately bring the book closer to his face, then farther away; watching the scrunch of his brow and the squinting of his eyes. Remus watches until he can help himself no longer and laughs.
Sirius cranes his neck to look at Remus.
"You need glasses," Remus says.
"Do not," Sirius replies, as if they are again twelve years old.
Remus mimes Sirius' recent actions with the book, exaggerating the squinting a bit. Sirius huffs.
"We can get you some in town, the next time we go. It's not a problem."
"I can't go into town as myself," Sirius says.
Remus thinks that over. Sirius, when he comes into the village with Remus (which is rare enough), does always come as Padfoot; Remus had assumed that was a security measure, but one designed more to protect Sirius from the still unfamiliar feel of humanity, of the salt of the air when people gather in one place, rather than to keep him from being apprehended as a fugitive. There is no real reasonable answer; the village is vastly Muggle (Remus knows of one other wizarding family, but has little contact with them) and even more vastly secluded (where else for a werewolf to live?)--it's unlikely news of Sirius Black has ever reached them. Not up to reasoning out this latest puzzle, Remus decides to go the easy route and appeal to Sirius' vanity.
"Of course you can. Besides which, glasses will be infinitely more handsome on you than all the squinting you do now."
"I don't care how I would look in them. I don't need them." Sirius' vanity seems to have disappeared along with other several crucial parts of him.
"Sirius, you must be joking," Remus says, though he knows Sirius is not. "You need glasses; we'll get you glasses. That's the end of the discussion." Remus knows he sounds like he's admonishing a Hogwarts' fourth year, but no longer cares.
Sirius doesn't respond right away. Measuring his options, probably, Remus thinks. He looks away as he says, "It's the light, Remus."
"What?"
"It's the light. There's too much of it. It hurts my eyes; that's why reading is difficult." He pauses. "Do they make glasses to deal with that, Remus?" he asks, and Remus notices he can't keep the acrid edge out of his voice.
There is a long silence before Remus finally says: "Yes, Sirius. They're called sunglasses, you utter, utter berk."
Sirius looks stunned, then suddenly throws his head back and laughs, the first real laugh Remus has heard from him in fourteen years.
That afternoon after lunch, Remus slips down to the village. It's August, and sunglasses are cheap. He makes sure to leave a pair in the bathroom next to Sirius' toothbrush. Sirius wears them to bed, and smiles.
August 3
Sirius is sitting on the front steps, wearing the second of the three pairs of sunglasses Remus bought him. Remus prefers to squint into the wavy haze near the road, coming to sit next to Sirius. He can't see Sirius' eyes behind the glasses, and this discomfits him. Sirius is enough of a cipher these days without his eyes hidden behind the reflection of the lawn.
They don't speak for a while, but this is fine with Remus. He is used to silence.
"I said yes, of course," Sirius finally comes out with.
"You didn't have to."
Sirius turns his head to face Remus, but Remus still can't see his eyes. He can imagine what is in them, though, remembering the anger and blind pain of Sirius, seventeen and fresh out of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. He repeats: "You didn't have to."
At that, Sirius snorts, reassuringly and painfully like Padfoot's nasal tones.
Remus doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. Sirius' face has turned back toward the lawn and the lane. In spite of the heat, Remus puts his chin on Sirius' shoulder, and inhales the smell of Sirius' neck: grass, sweat, dog.
Sirius takes Remus' hand, and Remus knows what he's being asked.
Remus plants a kiss on Sirius' neck to say yes.
August 4
Remus watches Sirius devour the ice cream, his fourth bowl in what seems like as many minutes. He can't help it that his mouth gapes open a bit. James used to say that Sirius' appetite was so huge and varied that he'd happily eat grass--as a human. But since he's come to stay with Remus, Sirius has been, if not a picky eater, a small one. Two or three bites of a meal and he'll push the plate away until Remus' look of concern mixed with incredulity forces him to pick his fork back up. In retaliation, Sirius has started calling Remus "Lily" at mealtimes, a synonym for "mum," Remus knows, since Lily was the only good mother Sirius ever had any regular contact with.
But Remus bought ice cream at the market for dessert tonight, and though Sirius ate a grand total of half a bowl of soup at dinner, he has plowed through almost the entire carton of ice cream. Remus' own serving is melting rapidly in his bowl as he stares at Sirius.
Finally Sirius pauses for breath. "What?" he asks, ice cream nestled in the crook of his mouth, there on the left.
Remus' only possible answer to that is to lean across the table, place his palm against the back of Sirius' head, and pull Sirius' mouth towards him, covering it with his own. He presses hard, opening Sirius' lips with his tongue, aching to feel the coolness, the slickslide of Sirius' tongue, tasting of vanilla bean. By the time he pulls away, they are both breathless.
Breathing hard, Sirius asks again: "What?"
Remus shakes his head, surprised by the way his throat closes up. "Nothing. Just eat," he says.
Sirius does, finishing the carton of ice cream, and Remus' helping, too.
August 5
Packing, such as it is, is a simple affair. Remus has very little, and Sirius has even less. Besides, most of what Remus has will stay at his own house; it's been in his family for five generations, and will remain so. No one will worry about what remains in the house but the mice.
Remus calls Sirius for lunch from the kitchen, and when he doesn't come, Remus sets out to find him. The last place he saw Sirius was Remus' bedroom; he was packing a bag of Remus' meager shirts, slacks and robes. Remus stops in the doorway but doesn't see Sirius at first. There is a full bag sitting at the foot of the bed, and Remus' case professing Professor R.J. Lupin is already packed and sitting in front of the nightstand. Remus is about to move on down the hall, perhaps check the small den where Sirius is sleeping, when he catches sight of black fur visible even in the darkness of the closet.
"Sirius?" he asks, to no answer. Remus enters the room and sees Padfoot, awake but not moving, curled up inside the closet. Remus approaches where Padfoot is, his eyes following Remus, but still not moving. The closet is sparsely cluttered; Sirius must have packed almost everything in it, aside from a few books and some random shoeboxes full of mementos or photographs or just junk.
"Sirius?" Remus asks again, crouching down next to the big black dog. He's mildly alarmed; Sirius still hasn't moved as Padfoot, and when Remus gets a good look at the dog's eyes, he sees they are huge, pupils dilated, and overwhelmingly sad. He moves slightly, a little shift of his feet in order to gain more balance, and the heel of his foot catches a photograph, along with a rise of dust. Looking up, Remus sees one of his boxes perched precariously on the shelf above them; looking down, Remus picks up the photograph by the corner, thinking it must have fallen out of the box.
The photograph is a wizarding photo. Remus remembers with a still sharp pang when it was taken: in the summer, right before seventh year, at the Potter's house. A couple of miles behind the house, on the back of the property, there was a small pond, full of frogs and vaguely greenish water, and surrounded by soft grass and large trees. James' father always joked that the pond had been a result of a failed, and rather explosive, potion in his youth, and the crater had just filled with rainwater; Remus remembers the story of how James had fully believed the tale until he was at least eleven. He also remembers Mr. Potter telling the story, his wide smile and pride in James evident, even in a story meant to illustrate his son's shortcomings.
The photo had been taken by Remus himself, probably one of the only reasons he'd even kept it; so many of his school things had gotten purposely lost or left behind along the way after James and Lily died. For some reason, Remus had not parted with this one: it is of James and Sirius, posing in front of the lake. And they are posing, Remus thinks wryly as he looks at the photograph; James and Sirius are alternately positioned like professional models, then with arms slung around each other's shoulders like casual school boys, then scuffling as embraces turn to fake chokeholds turn to pushes and wrestling and laughter. The photo comes back around before it times out with the boys breaking apart, and Sirius flinging the fringe out of his eyes dramatically, once again striking the pose of a missing member of the royal family, which, Remus reflects, was probably more true than not.
Remus looks from the photo, which has brought something of a smile to his face, down to Padfoot. He takes Padfoot's jaw in the hand not holding the photograph, bringing the dog's face up so that his eyes will meet Remus'.
"Sirius," he says for the third time, though this time it is more of a command than a question. He holds Padfoot's eyes, and refuses to break away. They stay like that for a long time, so long that Remus thinks he will lose this particular moment, but then Sirius suddenly changes back, becomes flesh and bone and man all at once, his jeans dirty from the dust in the closet.
His chin is still in the palm of Remus' hand, and his eyes are still as gray and blank and sad. Remus moves his hands so that the palms are on each side of Sirius' face, and he still doesn't break their gaze.
Finally Sirius says, "James," his voice a cross between the whine of Padfoot and the gravelly whisper of Sirius.
"I know," Remus says. "I know."
August 6
Remus notes that Sirius either has the good sense (which he has to admit he halfway doubts) or the survival instinct (which he admits Sirius has in spades) to wait until Severus has flooed back to Hogwarts until he appears in the living room.
"Did that big-nosed, greasy-haired, self-absorbed, cruel, sexually frustrated, egotistical ponce finally go back go Hogwarts?"
Survivial instinct, Remus decides.
"Do you see him anywhere, Sirius?" Remus answers, his tone implying grow up, you ponce, a language Sirius apparently understands, because he quickly changes the subject.
"Are you ready to go then?" Sirius asks.
Remus draws breath to protest, but Sirius cuts him off. "We agreed," he says.
"But . . ."
"It's one night."
"Not any night."
"That's rather the point."
Remus gestures with the smoking goblet in his hand. "The Wolfsbane . . ."
"Will keep. Put it in a fucking thermos, Moony. This isn't the middle of the sixth century. Why does Snivillus insist on using a goblet anyway?"
"He does have a flair for the dramatic."
"Before you say he's not the only one, either, put that god-awful concoction in a storage device or drink it so we can go."
Remus draws breath again, but again, Sirius is faster. Always was, Remus thinks.
"It's one night. One moon. One time when we can run under it again." Sirius pauses before his eyes lower, and he drives the point home. "You promised. One more time to be free."
When they were twenty, Remus would have thought Sirius was purposely manipulating him. Now that they aren't, Remus finds Sirius' eyes, as much as he tries to keep them on the carpet, and knows that what Sirius says is only the thing he wants most.
So they go. Remus drinks down the potion, and Sirius opens the door. They walk to the village, buy tickets for the rickety old train that will take them on a two hour trip to the shore. Remus spends the trip down with his head on Sirius' shoulder, dozing, and then they are there. They walk to the sand and they sit side by side, waiting for the sun to go down and the moon to rise.
Finally, when the last of the indigo has disappeared from the sky, and the moon is full and rich and lovely to anyone who isn't Remus; finally, when Remus has Changed, and Sirius has become Padfoot, and the sand is a moonlit, pure white under their paws, finally, finally, they run. They run, wolf and dog; Remus and Sirius; Padfoot and Moony. There's nothing but the salt of the ocean and the scent of sunbathers and them.
And they are both happy.
August 7
They spend the afternoon sleeping. The Change still wears Remus out, not just after all of these years, but especially after all of these years. Sirius sleeps now like he eats: fitfully, sparingly. But today he has cause to feel tired, to feel content, and so they sleep, clothed in loose Muggle t-shirts and khaki shorts.
They sleep curled around each other, woven together gently; they are not a tangle of entwined limbs or crushed arms, but only the flat of Sirius' palm on Remus' stomach, a huff of Remus' breath on Sirius' shoulder. It is the first time they have shared a bed in fourteen years.
Sirius must have woken first, because Remus blinks himself into existence again with a head on his shoulder, warm puffs of breath, slightly wet, against his neck. When he sees Remus' eyes open, Sirius brushes the graying fringe from Remus' forehead. He doesn't smile, but Remus sees the idea of a smile in Sirius' eyes.
They are happy to stay there together, not speaking, just breathing. Remus doesn't know how long they stay like that. Toward dusk, a steel gray owl appears at the window, settling on the ledge and hooting softly at the men on the bed. They both know who the owl is from, and what it means.
Sirius stirs to get off the bed, but Remus stops him with a hand on Sirius' shoulder, pushing him back.
"Later," he says.
Sirius complies, his head once again settling onto Remus, this time onto his chest, where he can hear Remus' heart beat.
August 8
Sirius has to write down the address to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, in his scratchy handwriting, all sharp lines and inconsistently open, friendly loops, before Remus can even properly see the house. When he does, he realizes for the first time, really understands, what a monstrosity the thing is. It is a sprawling Victorian sandwiched into the middle a quite ordinary, and now quite Muggle, London street. Remus is immediately struck by how the house could have been the main character in any number of old horror films, and he privately thinks it probably was.
They enter through the front door, which gives way easily under Sirius' turn of the lock and knob. Sirius remarks that he's a bit surprised the door hasn't been spelled to block him, but Remus barely hears him, nodding absently. The house is dark and dusty and cold, even in the middle of August. There is an umbrella stand near the door, looking woeful and unused, but surprisingly clean and ready to be filled with umbrellas, and Remus can't imagine why it is there, until he figures out that Molly Weasley must have been here prior to their arrival. He realizes that he will now irreparably associate Molly Weasley with this umbrella stand for the rest of his natural life, and Remus doesn't know how to take this news. He settles for bemused.
Sirius sneezes violently, three times in a row, and Remus' hand is already on his back, ready to soothe, when a shrill voice emerges from the shadows.
"More blood traitors come to sully my ancestral home and final resting place?" Then an unimaginable shriek rises from the darkness, "Kreacher, Kreacher!"
Remus has no idea what is going on, one hand already reaching for his wand, the other still resting on a now stock-still Sirius' back. Suddenly Sirius stands up straight and stalks forward; his strides are purposeful and his footsteps sound loudly in the hall as Remus' palm finally wraps around the wand in his pocket.
Halfway down the hall Sirius turns to face the wall; squinting, Remus can barely make out what looks like a frame.
"Positioned yourself right in the goddamn entry way, did you?" Sirius asks. "How very bloody typical."
"TRAITOR!" the voice shrieks. "TRAITOR! MUDBLOOD LOVER! YOU ARE NO LONGER ANY PART OF ME! LEAVE THIS HOUSE THIS INSTANT, YOU VILE, REPULSIVE, RECKLESS EXCUSE OF A SON! GOING TO AZKABAN WAS THE BEST THING THAT EVER HAPPENED TO YOU!"
Remus moves forward down the hallway, coming up next to Sirius, who is surprisingly calm. Sirius turns to look at him, and quirks an eyebrow.
What Remus now understands is a wizarding portrait hasn't stopped speaking, though. "THIS IS AN OUTRAGE! ALLOWING THE HOUSE OF MY ANCESTORS TO BE USED TO PLOT AGAINST OUR LORD'S GOOD NAME AND GOOD WORKS . . . AND WHO DID YOU BRING WITH YOU, ANOTHER BLOOD TRAITOR?" Remus thinks seriously that if the portrait were capable of spitting in disgust, it would have done so.
Sirius leans forward and grins, a grin that Remus never really got used to, one that used to spell a certain doom for Severus Snape or anyone else who crossed Sirius. Remus suddenly has a strong feeling the woman in the portrait is capable of the same grin. "Actually, he's a Dark Creature. A werewolf, to be exact."
The portrait doesn't even find words at this new indignity, just lets out an ear-piercing scream. Remus is fairly sure he hears glass shatter in a nearby room before Sirius suddenly reaches out and viciously pulls the cord to close the drapes around the portrait.
Sirius turns back to face Remus, a smile still on his face, though it is grimmer and entirely less amused.
"Remus, meet my mum," he says.
August 9
Molly Weasley has indeed been to Grimmauld Place, and now that Sirius and Remus have arrived, it seems the Weasleys are set to move in for the remainder of the summer. Remus is partly annoyed and partly relieved; he is surprisingly jealous of Sirius and reluctant to share him now that he marginally has him back, but Sirius' dark moods are darker than they used to be, and inconsolable. Sirius tolerates the loud jangle of bodies and noise that constitutes the Weasley clan for most of the morning, but quickly retreats upstairs after lunch to feed Buckbeak, and he is gone too long for Remus' comfort.
Remus dawdles for close to an hour with Molly, discussing the various merits of Doxie solution, before he makes his excuses and goes to find Sirius. He passes George and Fred on the stairs where they are tinkering with some experiment or another, something that looks like an earlobe on a string. They say hello as he passes, and Remus is oddly happy that he can be amused by their antics instead of having to inquire and possibly take away points.
Sirius is not in the room they are keeping Buckbeak, and it takes Remus a while to find him. When he does, Sirius is in a room on the second floor. It is a simple room, square in shape, though large, what looks like a king sized bed in the middle with a dressing table, nightstand, and several trunks. There are no decorations or paintings on the walls, which are bare, save for a rather masculine looking, striped wallpaper. A coat of dust covers almost every available surface, and the air is recycled, the stench of a room unopened for years drifting into Remus' nostrils. Sirius is sitting cross-legged on the floor, a trunk open before him. He's just looking into the contents; his hands are still folded in his lap. He looks almost hypnotized.
"Sirius?" Remus ventures, entering the room carefully.
Sirius looks up, a far away look in his eyes before he blinks and says, "Remus."
Remus takes a seat on the floor next to Sirius. "Your room?"
Sirius shakes his head. "Mum razed my room after I left, I'm sure; it was on the third floor."
Remus tilts his head, a silent signal for Sirius to continue.
When he does, it's: "Regulus."
"Ah." With this new information, Remus takes the room in again, and everything makes a bit more sense: the stale, tomb-like feeling of the room, the tell-tale trinkets (even a watch with a serpent coiled about the face) scattered on the various pieces of furniture.
Remus places his hand on Sirius' arm, ready to lead him away, when Sirius suddenly reaches into the trunk in front of them.
To Remus' great surprise, Sirius pulls a marijuana joint out of the trunk.
"Huh," Sirius says. "Would never have thought Regulus . . . wonder if he stole it from me." He stops for a minute, then holds the joint out toward Remus.
"You want to?" he asks.
Remus raises an eyebrow. "Molly would have a fit."
"Even better," Sirius says.
"I agree," Remus agrees, grinning.
In answer, Remus can hear Fred and George laughing on the stairs.
August 10
Besides the Weasleys, who have camped out in several of the rooms on the upper floors, Hermione is the first child to arrive. She looks tanned, freckled from being in the sun, and mostly happy, though Remus does note the slight bit of worry around her eyes--it is a look he recognizes from years of seeing it in his own reflection.
Hermione had been on holiday with her parents on the French shore, and she brings with her, almost as a housewarming gift, a bucket of crabs fresh from the beach. Molly is absolutely delighted, and sets about cooking while Ginny finds Hermione and quickly drags her off.
Remus watches the girls go, working out the logistics of picking Harry up from the Dursleys with Arthur and Moody at the table, when he sees a big, black dog pad in from the doorway. Remus frowns for a moment, wondering why Sirius would choose to change into Padfoot, but Molly beats him to the punch.
"I know you're no stray, Sirius," she says, tapping a crab with her wand to break the shell. "Go nuzzle up to someone else if you're looking for food."
Remus laughs, and Padfoot turns at the sound, then lopes slowly toward the chair Remus is in. When he gets there, Padfoot puts his head upon Remus' knee and looks up with eyes that are part quizzical, part amused. Remus scratches behind the dog's right ear a bit before he mutters an "Accio" and a crab comes flying out of Molly Weasley's capable hands and into his own.
"Here," Remus says, placing the crab on the floor, where Padfoot already has his nose to the crab's belly before Remus' fingers have even fully let go. "Don't say I never did anything for you," he says.
Padfoot looks up, and barks, before going back to the crab.
August 11.
The sun rose higher. Blue waves, green waves swept a quick fan over the beach, circling the spike of sea-holly and leaving shallow pools of light here and there on the sand. Remus stands barefoot on the sand, curling his toes. Suddenly, when he looks back up to the sky, it is deep night, clear and full of stars. The moon is full and in reflex Remus looks down, only to find himself human. There is immense relief followed by confusion as the waves crash on the shore, increasingly harder. The water is up to Remus' knees now, and he feels the absolute certainty of someone who knows that the water will come, higher and higher, until he is swept away. He can feel the undertow pulling, pulling . . .
Pulling him upright, gasping. It takes Remus a few moments to realize where he is--the room he is sharing with Sirius at Grimmauld Place. The moon is filtering in through the open window, but it is waxing, not full. Remus takes a deep breath to steady himself and notices for the first time that Sirius is not in the bed beside him. He has a moment of helpless panic before he leans over to swing his feet out of bed, and sees Sirius on the floor, sleeping.
There is no pillow under Sirius' head, no blankets covering him. Remus creeps out of bed and down onto his knees, cupping Sirius' shoulder in his hand. He shakes gently, not wanting to startle the other man.
It doesn't take Sirius long to wake; his eyes are open almost instantly, but Remus can't make out the irises in the black and white of the dark, moonlit room.
"Remus," Sirius says.
"Sirius . . . Sirius. Why, why are you on the floor?"
"Couldn't sleep," Sirius answers, briefly closing his eyes.
Remus is wide awake by now. "And you thought the floor would help with that? You had a small stroke and couldn't make it back to the bed after getting water? What?"
Sirius shakes his head, the back of his hand covering his eyes, blocking out the little light there is in the room. "No . . . couldn't sleep. The bed. Too soft. Too comfortable. I'm . . . not used to it."
With those words it once again crashes in on Remus all of the small but profound ways Azkaban has irreparably changed Sirius Black.
Remus struggles for a minute, but leans down to place a kiss on Sirius' chest where it is visible above the button of his pajamas. He starts to get off his knees, to rise, and feels Sirius' hand come up to clutch, instinctively, though it only lasts for a moment before Sirius' palm comes to rest upon his belly.
Remus doesn't get up and back into bed, as Sirius must have thought he was going to. Instead, he rises far enough to grab the heavy quilt and pull, bringing it down to the floor. It takes him all of a moment to stretch out next to Sirius, pillowing his head on Sirius' chest and shoulder and wrapping the blanket around them.
He carefully wraps his arms around Sirius, holding on tightly until he feels the slackening of muscles, the loss of tension in Sirius' body, until Sirius' arm is holding him in return. He tilts his head up to kiss the underside of Sirius' chin, his jaw, wherever he can reach, until his own eyelids start to feel heavy.
Remus settles again and says, "You'll get used to it eventually."
The silence lasts for so long Remus thinks Sirius has fallen back asleep, until he hears, softly, a whisper into his hair: "Moony."
August 12
The solemn light behind the barns,
The rising moon, the cricket's call,
The August night, and you and I-
from, "August Moonlight", by Richard le Gallienne.
It has been a long day. Harry has finally arrived, along with most of the Order. The house is full now, and they are working on it diligently, but Remus sometimes thinks they never make any progress--the layers of dirt and dust and soil are barely wearing away under the toil of Remus and his fellows.
Sirius comes into their room, looking exhausted, but with a bit of light in his eyes that Remus knows can be credited merely to Harry's presence.
"He's down for the night," Sirius announces, coming up to where Remus is standing by the bureau, attempting to unbutton the cuffs of his Oxford.
Remus grins. "He's fifteen, not a newborn, Sirius."
Sirius smiles back, amused, but not abashed. "So I've noticed," he says, taking Remus' wrist in both of his hands gently, fingers nimbly undoing the button. He repeats the action with Remus other wrist, touch feather-light, and the feel of Sirius' fingertips has left Remus sensitive, a flitter of electricity flashing up his spine. Remus opens his mouth, to say what, he doesn't know, but Sirius cuts him off, leaning in for a kiss. Lips slide against lips, then tongues against tongues until they part, Remus' lips wet and his lungs ready to burst.
When he catches his breath, Remus asks, "What brought that on?"
For a moment, something flits across Sirius' eyes, and Remus thinks it is a something uncomfortably close to fear.
"I . . . you . . . you don't?" Sirius stammers until Remus stretches his hands up to tangle them into Sirius' hair.
Remus tilts Sirius' head downward until they are eye-to-eye. "You daft idiot. Of course I do. I just . . . want you to be ready."
At that, Sirius throws his head back and barks a laugh. "I’m not fifteen, Remus."
Remus grins, too. "Nor a blushing virgin."
"Exactly," Sirius says, his smile not only making his eyes crinkle, but reaching them, and Remus is so happy to see this, he almost forgets to hesitate.
"Sirius," he begins, but Sirius leans down again, touching his forehead to Remus'.
"Remus. Let's go to bed," Sirius says, all dancing eyes and serious voice.
And so, they do.
August 13
We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic
- Van Morrison, 'Into the Mystic'
Remus is always the first one up in the morning. He is always the first one to wake. When he thinks about it, which is almost never, he thinks that his habit of early rising is yet another thing he can attribute to the wolf; even on every other day of any given month, Remus habitually wakes just after moonset. Most of the time he will lie still, soaking in the silence, but if he cannot will get up and putter around the kitchen. He has been this way for almost as long as he can remember; at Hogwarts, he was always the first boy in the dorms to be up, and he gladly took the prefect rounds that were scheduled for dawn, when the staff thought it just as likely there would be mischievous students trying to get back into portrait holes than as at midnight, after curfew. Before school he used to get up and make the morning tea for his mum, milk and lemon, just the way she liked.
Today is no different. Remus wakes to the first rays of the sun filtering in through the light curtains on the window, streaking bits of yellow across the white quilt and sheets of the bed.
What is different about today is that Sirius is sprawled next to Remus in the bed, not nearly as loose limbed and gangly as in their youth, but still a black tousle of hair against a white background, mouth open just a bit, a slight wheeze filling the room as Sirius breathes. What is different is that Sirius is relaxed, sleeping on his stomach, one arm down by his side, the other curling gently into the mattress near his pillow. His foot suddenly shakes, like the paw of a puppy in the midst of a dream, but other than that he is still except for the deep breaths in and out, in and out, in and out.
We are younger than the sun, at least, Remus thinks.
What is different about today is that Remus shifts, turns over carefully until he is facing Sirius. He snuggles further down in the covers, and puts his arm gently around the other man, resting his arm across Sirius' back, his fingers gently grazing the ribs on Sirius' opposite side.
Remus sighs, closes his eyes, and goes back to sleep.
Someone else can be the first to wake today.
August 14
Sirius steps into the library, and Remus laughs.
He laughs so hard, he doubles over.
When he manages to right himself, Sirius is, predictably, scowling, which only starts Remus off into another fit of laughter.
Remus finally manages to get a hold of himself. He is tempted to ask Sirius what happened, but it is obvious what happened: Sirius has spent too much time in the small garden of Grimmauld Place, and he is sunburned. Remus had wondered where Sirius had wandered off to after lunch, and now he knows. Sirius is a bright color, somewhere between red and pink and orange, from the tips of his ears through his face down to his arms where his t-shirt didn't cover and the backs of his hands. Remus can see that even the tops of his feet where they stick out from the hem of his denims are red.
Remus stifles another giggle.
"I fell asleep," Sirius says, very stiffly. And a tad too loudly.
"I see," Remus says, because he does.
"Lupin." Sirius manages, through gritted teeth.
"Lupin?" Remus echoes. "You really must be mad. I don't think you've called me Lupin since we were first years."
Sirius merely stands there, his arms out. "Third year. After the exploding cauldron incident."
"How is it that you remember that, but not to not fall asleep outside on an August afternoon?"
Sirius looks very, very ready to say something very, very naughty, possibly about where Remus can put his wand or about his mother's sexual past, when Remus suddenly stands up, taking pity on him. Remus pulls his wand out of his robe pocket.
"Come here, Sirius. I can take care of it," Remus says, and he does, gently tapping the tip of his wand on Sirius' ears, face, neck, hands, feet, everywhere he can see sunburn, and muttering the incantation. Fairly quickly, Sirius' skin turns back to its normal, milky white color, and Remus can see Sirius' shoulders start to relax.
"Thanks," Sirius mumbles. "Can't do that charm on yourself."
"Hmmm . . ." Remus agrees. "Most inconvenient."
"Indeed," Sirius answers, ready to turn away, when something suddenly occurs to Remus.
"I've never seen you sunburned before," Remus says aloud.
"No," Sirius turns back, answering, and it's not a question. "Never used to get sunburned before."
Remus realizes what before means, and what exactly a few hours in the sun can do to a man who hasn't seen much sun in fourteen years. He bites his lip, and opens his mouth, to say what, he's not sure, when Sirius holds up a hand.
"It's okay, Moony. It was funny. I'm sure I looked like a wanker." Sirius doesn't quite smile, but Remus knows it's close. He'll take close.
"Except for around the eyes. You must have been wearing your sunglasses," Remus says and smiles.
Sirius still doesn't quite make it to a smile, but he steps forward and places his hands on Remus' hips, a kiss to the side of Remus' mouth, where the skin is upturned.
"Yes, yes I was," Sirius whispers against Remus' mouth, still holding his hips.
August 15
When Remus walks into the kitchen, Sirius is in the middle of telling Harry, Ron, Hermione and Ginny the story of when Remus took his friends, summer before sixth year, to a Muggle carnival. Sirius is in full storyteller mode, gesticulating wildly in circles in order to recreate the spinning of a ferris wheel. Remus pours himself a cup of tea, grinning.
Sirius finishes with a rare booming laugh. "I don't think I had ever seen James that sick before, even after his first half-bottle of firewhiskey, and this was from a Quidditch player." Remus catches the fact that Sirius' voice catches a bit on the word "James," but he doesn't think the children notice.
Ron is grinning like a mad man, Hermione and Ginny smiling, but the expression on Harry's face is interested, but also politely neutral. Remus sets his mug down on the table, and takes a chair. "That day was so much fun, but he was a mess to get home."
Sirius laughs again. "We all told him not to eat that much junk."
Remus rolls his eyes, overplaying his incredulous expression for the kids. "So says the man who ate at least his own weight in candy that day. Honestly, Sirius."
"At least I didn't sick up all over you not once, but twice."
Remus nods at this. "You were his best friend, but he saw fit to vomit all over me."
"Eh, you were always good at cleaning charms, Remus. Don't act like it was a big burden."
"We'd see if you'd sit here and say that if it had been you. I had to throw out those trousers. Couldn't get rid of the smell. I liked those trousers," Remus says, and Sirius snickers a bit at that.
"I've never been to a carnival," Harry says, suddenly, and Sirius goes very still.
"Really, Harry?" Hermione is the first to speak. "There was never a fair in Little Whinging? Or anywhere you went on holiday?" Remus sees Ron give Hermione a look he can't quite decipher, but Hermione doesn't catch it.
Harry shrugs. "My aunt and uncle never took me anywhere with them. Not to the shore, not on holiday. They always left me with Mrs. Figg." He takes a sip out of whatever is in his own mug as the rest look on, except for Remus, who is watching Sirius carefully, watching flashes of emotion flicker across Sirius' gray eyes.
Hermione looks immediately contrite. "I'm sorry, Harry. I know about your aunt and uncle. That was stupid of me to say."
"Hermione," Ron starts, but Harry waves him off.
"Don't worry about it, Hermione," Harry says, and silence once again descends on the kitchen. Remus puts a hand on Sirius' thigh under the table, hoping to stall what he knows is Sirius' guilt. Thankfully for Remus, Ginny Weasley is even quicker than he is.
"Well. We can't go this summer," Ginny says practically, "but I can't wait to tell Dad about it. Just think Ron! He'll have to take us--he won't be able to help himself! My guess is he'll barely last until Christmas."
Ron, more than in on the joke, laughs. "I don't think what Sirius described would be very fun in the middle of winter."
"Dad won't care," Ginny counters.
"That he won't," Remus says, picturing Arthur Weasley with his head full of ferris wheels and other Muggle contraptions. "I think we'll have to explain this to him very carefully."
The two Weasleys at the table giggle, and even Harry and Hermione smile.
"Next summer, then," Sirius says, voice steady. Remus gives his thigh a bit of a squeeze.
"Right. Next summer," Harry says, before Ron drags him up for a delayed rematch at chess, the girls following, and Sirius leans his forehead against Remus' shoulder and sighs.