My first HP fic!
Title: The Difference, Part 1
Rating: PG
Pairing: Remus/Tonks - but really, Remus/Sirius
Summary: It should be the happiest day of his life, but Remus mourns the past. ~2500 words.
Warnings: Major spoilers for Deathly Hallows.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. No money being made.
Constructive criticism welcome -- I am afraid the italics may get a bit confusing but couldn't figure a better way to do it -- anyway, here it is. It's angsty, and I hope it's not too ... I don't know, mushy, sappy, what have you. I tried not to fall into that ditch. Part 2 is a mirror fic from Tonks' POV, will be posted as soon as I'm done editing it!
A baby. Tiny, delicate (despite the outlandish turquoise hair) - utterly helpless. So unlike anything Remus (who is, himself, a bit frail looking, belying his true strength) has known before.
The child feels strange in his arms, yet Remus is somehow peaceful. Though his mind is having a hard time catching up with the past day’s events, somewhere inside, an instinct has kicked in, and he cradles the boy against himself, against his heart, watching the tiny hands clenching and unclenching, the small pink mouth forming a little “O” as the boy sleeps, breathing heavily.
It has been a long day, the house bustling with family and well-wishers, wizards and witches Apparating in to meet the baby and hug Tonks and clap Lupin on the back, temporarily ignoring the war they’re all fighting - and the whole affair has been rather overwhelming. Remus was glad when Teddy dozed off and he could retreat to the nursery, settling into a soft armchair, humming a lullaby to his son in the quiet, empty room.
For a long time, when he was a very young man (not a man - really, a boy, he thinks now), Remus had convinced himself that his life was destined to be lonely. He was not meant for love, for a proper family. Even his friends had been stripped away: James and Lily dead, Peter dead, and Sirius - Sirius had betrayed them all. That loss had been the most painful. Though suspicion and mistrust had crept into their relationship long before the murders, blanketing their home with a quiet despair, Remus had still felt as though the better part of himself died the day Sirius was thrown into Azkaban.
And he wonders sometimes which is more painful. The lonely life, or the one full of love and inevitable loss?
The life of love, of course. But Remus would choose it again given the chance. For the man he believed a murderer had come back, had escaped to clear his name (if only to his friends) and to have a second chance at the life they should have had together.
There will be no such reunion now. The person who first made Remus believe his life did not have to be lonely, did not have to be loveless, cannot come back again. This time, he really is gone. Has been for two years.
This doesn’t make Remus feel any less guilty for marrying Dora Tonks.
He cares for her - of course he does, he would never have married her if he didn’t … would he? - but still, still, though it has been two years since Sirius passed through the veil and out of Remus’ reach forever, he cannot say the words I love you without thinking of the man he has loved for more than half his life.
Dora’s company is pleasant, and her friendship was a comfort when he felt he was losing his mind. She looked in on him and cooked him dinner and made him laugh.
But it isn’t the same. It isn’t what he needs. He can’t quite articulate it - which is strange, for him. He is used to logic and facts, but love, he realizes, isn’t about logic. It wasn’t logic that made two 16-year-old boys fall for each other while their best mates chased after girls. And it wasn’t logical that almost two decades later they were still in love, despite everything that had happened.
Sirius was his partner - an equal in every way. When they were young, it had all been sort of quiet and they weren’t really sure what they were doing, they couldn’t really explain it, even when they shared a flat and everyone knew but didn’t talk about it. It just worked. And this time, older and stronger and somehow more fiercely attached to one another than before, it had still worked - it was the only thing that worked, as the world began to fracture around them.
They were supposed to survive the war together. Have a real life together. Every milestone, every significant moment brings his thoughts painfully, sharply back to Sirius. He is there at every turn (and sometimes Remus frankly wonders if he’s gone round the twist, seeing his dead lover’s face all the time, hearing his voice - ).
You married my cousin? he can almost hear Sirius teasing him. No - not almost. He hears him, saying - My female cousin? Well - at least you had the good sense to choose Andromeda’s kid, but really, Remus, aren’t you a bit old for Tonks?
That’s what I said, Remus thinks. Many times. Too old, too dangerous, too poor.
It sounds like a shopping list of Reasons Not to Marry Remus Lupin.
I didn’t care about any of those things.
That’s because you were old and dangerous too. Remus is smiling now and he hopes if anyone looks in on him, they will assume it’s due to the infant drooling on his robes. Sirius wouldn’t like being called old. He’d been shocked at the sight of himself, the first time he’d faced a mirror after his escape from prison.
“When did I get old?” he’d asked, frowning at the lines in his face, plucking in horror at a graying hair amid the black ones.
He looks just like you, Moony, says the voice in his head (is it in his head? Or - he wonders not for the first time - is it possible to communicate from beyond the - from beyond? No, surely not - he really may be going crazy. He accepts it and strokes the baby’s plump cheek with one finger.).
He has his mother’s - er, abilities, I think. Look at this hair.
A bit flashy for you, I suppose, my fashion-challenged Moony. I like the bold look. Your child has style.
My child has blue hair, Remus thinks fondly, already becoming used to the small bright head resting upon his heart. For a strange, gut-wrenching moment he thinks this should be our child, and on the heels of that comes don’t be stupid you know that’s not possible, and worse, you married Dora, stop thinking this way.
I’d have been bollocks at parenting, you know, says the voice which may or may not be a sign that Remus is insane. Irresponsible godfather and all.
You wouldn’t have been bollocks. You don’t have to subscribe to the Molly Weasley Way of Doing Things to be a good parent, Sirius. You know that. The boy is better for having known you.
He means this - really does, and he knows he should have told Sirius while he was alive. He told him in his own way, of course. Defending Sirius to Molly wasn’t always easy, but Remus had appointed himself a buffer between the two, who both loved Harry fiercely and wanted the best for him but stood at complete odds more often than not.
I shouldn’t have encouraged him to be like us. His life’s been dangerous enough anyway.
We weren’t so bad, Padfoot. We turned out all right.
Ha. Did we? Two murdered - one a Death Eater - one in prison. But I suppose you turned out all right, Moony. Professor R. J. Lupin of the Extremely Patched Robes.
Former professor, you mean. And I’ll thank you to leave my robes out of this. People who hear laughter in their heads should probably go to St. Mungo’s, he tells himself as Sirius’ bark-like laugh echoes in his ears.
I wouldn’t have to chastise your fashion choices if you’d do as I asked.
I can’t take your money.
It was our money, Remus. What good is it to me now?
Then I’ll have it transferred to Harry’s vault.
James left Harry a small fortune, and you know it. The boy will never have to worry about money. I want to take care of you.
You always wanted to.
Would it have been so bad to let me?
The baby stirs in Remus’ arms, opens large grey eyes to look up at his father. Remus’ chest feels very full, tight, and he is afraid some of the emotion may be spilling out of his eyes, because his face suddenly feels very hot. A tear runs down his scarred cheek and plops onto the baby’s forehead.
If not for yourself, for your child, Sirius’ voice nudges him. Your name’s on the account, may as well make use of it. Fat lot of good it’s doing me.
I can’t -
Why can’t you? Don’t be so proud, Remus. Take the sodding money. The little bloke will need cauldrons and spellbooks before you know it and - you don’t have to use it for yourself. You can wear your patched robes all you like.
The voice is quiet a while, and Remus watches the baby struggling against sleep. His large round eyes flutter open and closed, then pop open again as if he is too curious to give in to slumber.
Really is a good-looking chap. You see his eyes, there, takes after his uncle in that respect. A pause. Uncle? Cousin, third cousin of some sort? Illegitimate stepfather from the afterlife? Me, that’s the point, you see.
Yes, I see. It had been the first thing he noticed, well, after the blue hair. He had tried to smile when Dora pointed it out. He finds it both very odd and strangely comforting to remember that the boy is related to Sirius, but to see his lover’s eyes in his son’s face - it sort of knocked him off balance. Is it really you? Should I check myself in to St. Mungo’s?
The laugh again - so familiar, so real -
What do you think?
I don’t know. Maybe I just miss you so much that I’ve been imagining this. Touched in the head and all. Two years, and he hasn’t been able to shake the loneliness of living without Sirius. Even Dora, much as he cares for her, doesn’t fill it, and he knows it’s unfair to her to live this way, but -
I don’t want you to be lonely. Tonks is a good woman. I really am glad for you, Remus. You can’t mourn forever.
I wasn’t trying to - she’s not - I’m not trying to replace you. Nothing could. I miss you every second, you know. When you - I thought maybe - it would just be easier - I wanted to follow you.
I know.
We should have had more time. He doesn’t like to be this bitter - not when he is holding his sleeping son, so soft and small and innocent, so new. He feels painfully disloyal to the baby who would not have existed if not for the death of his lover.
I know.
It isn’t fair. It isn’t like Remus to complain. He grew up knowing better than to complain. Accept your lot in life, deal with it the best you can. That’s the only way to get through the hard parts.
I know. It’s a strange reversal - in life, Sirius was the moody one, the one who sulked about Grimmauld Place whinging about being shut up indoors. And it had been Remus to say I know, I know, it will change soon, just try to make the best of it.
Death has calmed you down, it would seem, Remus thinks wryly.
Well. Perspective and all.
So it is you, then. I’d like to know I’ve not gone mad. Dora may need some help with the childrearing and the diapers and of course there’s a war on.
There is no answer.
Gone mad it is, I suppose.
The child stirs and makes a little sighing noise. Remus kisses the blue-haired head gently, inhaling the baby’s sweet scent.
“You are a handsome little bloke,” he murmurs. “Take after your mum’s side. There have been a few good people to come out of that family, never mind the rest of your relatives. You’ll be all right.” The baby makes a gurgling noise in his sleep, his tiny mouth opening and closing. His eyes are moving behind the pale, almost transparent lids. Is he dreaming? Remus doesn’t know much about babies. Do babies dream?
He keeps speaking - very quietly, so as not to disturb his son. “We’ll put the world right, you’ll see. Things aren’t so good right now, I’m afraid. But it won’t always be like this.”
He wants to believe these words. Wants to believe that his son will grow up in a safer world than the one into which he’s been born. Wants to believe that good people, those dear to him - James, Lily, Albus, Sirius - have not died in vain.
Again he finds that he is crying, more than a stray single tear this time, but great rolling tears, unchecked, the joy and pride of this day and sorrow over the past commingling and filling him until there really is nowhere else to go but out, through his eyes. Splashing onto his (admittedly very patched-up) robes.
“You’ll be all right,” he says again in a rather unsteady voice, and though he is speaking to the baby it is himself he is trying to comfort. “You’ll be all right.”
The baby opens his eyes again, innocence and wisdom in the silvery grey irises, so large and bright in the small face. Remus is filled with love, fierce and strong and protective and, he knows, eternal. The kind of love that isn’t deterred by the boundaries of time - of distance - of even death. He has known this love before. He doesn’t always know what to do with it. But he knows it still. It’s the kind of love that hurts the most, because it doesn’t fade. Nothing can dull it, or change it, or break it apart.
He knows he was right to stay, not to throw himself through the veil as he wanted to do two years ago, grief-stricken and shocked. And he thinks maybe, maybe when it is his turn and he passes through, they may yet have another chance.
Wait for me, he says, for whether it was his imagination before or not, he hopes that somehow Sirius will hear him. I love you. There are things I need to do here, but - wait for me, Sirius.
For the briefest moment he thinks he can feel the brush of a hand on his shoulder, of gleaming black hair against his cheek, and he can almost hear the echo of a voice, and he knows the answer is yes.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Remus/Tonks - but really, Remus/Sirius
Summary: It should be the happiest day of his life, but Remus mourns the past. ~2500 words.
Warnings: Major spoilers for Deathly Hallows.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. No money being made.
Constructive criticism welcome -- I am afraid the italics may get a bit confusing but couldn't figure a better way to do it -- anyway, here it is. It's angsty, and I hope it's not too ... I don't know, mushy, sappy, what have you. I tried not to fall into that ditch. Part 2 is a mirror fic from Tonks' POV, will be posted as soon as I'm done editing it!
A baby. Tiny, delicate (despite the outlandish turquoise hair) - utterly helpless. So unlike anything Remus (who is, himself, a bit frail looking, belying his true strength) has known before.
The child feels strange in his arms, yet Remus is somehow peaceful. Though his mind is having a hard time catching up with the past day’s events, somewhere inside, an instinct has kicked in, and he cradles the boy against himself, against his heart, watching the tiny hands clenching and unclenching, the small pink mouth forming a little “O” as the boy sleeps, breathing heavily.
It has been a long day, the house bustling with family and well-wishers, wizards and witches Apparating in to meet the baby and hug Tonks and clap Lupin on the back, temporarily ignoring the war they’re all fighting - and the whole affair has been rather overwhelming. Remus was glad when Teddy dozed off and he could retreat to the nursery, settling into a soft armchair, humming a lullaby to his son in the quiet, empty room.
For a long time, when he was a very young man (not a man - really, a boy, he thinks now), Remus had convinced himself that his life was destined to be lonely. He was not meant for love, for a proper family. Even his friends had been stripped away: James and Lily dead, Peter dead, and Sirius - Sirius had betrayed them all. That loss had been the most painful. Though suspicion and mistrust had crept into their relationship long before the murders, blanketing their home with a quiet despair, Remus had still felt as though the better part of himself died the day Sirius was thrown into Azkaban.
And he wonders sometimes which is more painful. The lonely life, or the one full of love and inevitable loss?
The life of love, of course. But Remus would choose it again given the chance. For the man he believed a murderer had come back, had escaped to clear his name (if only to his friends) and to have a second chance at the life they should have had together.
There will be no such reunion now. The person who first made Remus believe his life did not have to be lonely, did not have to be loveless, cannot come back again. This time, he really is gone. Has been for two years.
This doesn’t make Remus feel any less guilty for marrying Dora Tonks.
He cares for her - of course he does, he would never have married her if he didn’t … would he? - but still, still, though it has been two years since Sirius passed through the veil and out of Remus’ reach forever, he cannot say the words I love you without thinking of the man he has loved for more than half his life.
Dora’s company is pleasant, and her friendship was a comfort when he felt he was losing his mind. She looked in on him and cooked him dinner and made him laugh.
But it isn’t the same. It isn’t what he needs. He can’t quite articulate it - which is strange, for him. He is used to logic and facts, but love, he realizes, isn’t about logic. It wasn’t logic that made two 16-year-old boys fall for each other while their best mates chased after girls. And it wasn’t logical that almost two decades later they were still in love, despite everything that had happened.
Sirius was his partner - an equal in every way. When they were young, it had all been sort of quiet and they weren’t really sure what they were doing, they couldn’t really explain it, even when they shared a flat and everyone knew but didn’t talk about it. It just worked. And this time, older and stronger and somehow more fiercely attached to one another than before, it had still worked - it was the only thing that worked, as the world began to fracture around them.
They were supposed to survive the war together. Have a real life together. Every milestone, every significant moment brings his thoughts painfully, sharply back to Sirius. He is there at every turn (and sometimes Remus frankly wonders if he’s gone round the twist, seeing his dead lover’s face all the time, hearing his voice - ).
You married my cousin? he can almost hear Sirius teasing him. No - not almost. He hears him, saying - My female cousin? Well - at least you had the good sense to choose Andromeda’s kid, but really, Remus, aren’t you a bit old for Tonks?
That’s what I said, Remus thinks. Many times. Too old, too dangerous, too poor.
It sounds like a shopping list of Reasons Not to Marry Remus Lupin.
I didn’t care about any of those things.
That’s because you were old and dangerous too. Remus is smiling now and he hopes if anyone looks in on him, they will assume it’s due to the infant drooling on his robes. Sirius wouldn’t like being called old. He’d been shocked at the sight of himself, the first time he’d faced a mirror after his escape from prison.
“When did I get old?” he’d asked, frowning at the lines in his face, plucking in horror at a graying hair amid the black ones.
He looks just like you, Moony, says the voice in his head (is it in his head? Or - he wonders not for the first time - is it possible to communicate from beyond the - from beyond? No, surely not - he really may be going crazy. He accepts it and strokes the baby’s plump cheek with one finger.).
He has his mother’s - er, abilities, I think. Look at this hair.
A bit flashy for you, I suppose, my fashion-challenged Moony. I like the bold look. Your child has style.
My child has blue hair, Remus thinks fondly, already becoming used to the small bright head resting upon his heart. For a strange, gut-wrenching moment he thinks this should be our child, and on the heels of that comes don’t be stupid you know that’s not possible, and worse, you married Dora, stop thinking this way.
I’d have been bollocks at parenting, you know, says the voice which may or may not be a sign that Remus is insane. Irresponsible godfather and all.
You wouldn’t have been bollocks. You don’t have to subscribe to the Molly Weasley Way of Doing Things to be a good parent, Sirius. You know that. The boy is better for having known you.
He means this - really does, and he knows he should have told Sirius while he was alive. He told him in his own way, of course. Defending Sirius to Molly wasn’t always easy, but Remus had appointed himself a buffer between the two, who both loved Harry fiercely and wanted the best for him but stood at complete odds more often than not.
I shouldn’t have encouraged him to be like us. His life’s been dangerous enough anyway.
We weren’t so bad, Padfoot. We turned out all right.
Ha. Did we? Two murdered - one a Death Eater - one in prison. But I suppose you turned out all right, Moony. Professor R. J. Lupin of the Extremely Patched Robes.
Former professor, you mean. And I’ll thank you to leave my robes out of this. People who hear laughter in their heads should probably go to St. Mungo’s, he tells himself as Sirius’ bark-like laugh echoes in his ears.
I wouldn’t have to chastise your fashion choices if you’d do as I asked.
I can’t take your money.
It was our money, Remus. What good is it to me now?
Then I’ll have it transferred to Harry’s vault.
James left Harry a small fortune, and you know it. The boy will never have to worry about money. I want to take care of you.
You always wanted to.
Would it have been so bad to let me?
The baby stirs in Remus’ arms, opens large grey eyes to look up at his father. Remus’ chest feels very full, tight, and he is afraid some of the emotion may be spilling out of his eyes, because his face suddenly feels very hot. A tear runs down his scarred cheek and plops onto the baby’s forehead.
If not for yourself, for your child, Sirius’ voice nudges him. Your name’s on the account, may as well make use of it. Fat lot of good it’s doing me.
I can’t -
Why can’t you? Don’t be so proud, Remus. Take the sodding money. The little bloke will need cauldrons and spellbooks before you know it and - you don’t have to use it for yourself. You can wear your patched robes all you like.
The voice is quiet a while, and Remus watches the baby struggling against sleep. His large round eyes flutter open and closed, then pop open again as if he is too curious to give in to slumber.
Really is a good-looking chap. You see his eyes, there, takes after his uncle in that respect. A pause. Uncle? Cousin, third cousin of some sort? Illegitimate stepfather from the afterlife? Me, that’s the point, you see.
Yes, I see. It had been the first thing he noticed, well, after the blue hair. He had tried to smile when Dora pointed it out. He finds it both very odd and strangely comforting to remember that the boy is related to Sirius, but to see his lover’s eyes in his son’s face - it sort of knocked him off balance. Is it really you? Should I check myself in to St. Mungo’s?
The laugh again - so familiar, so real -
What do you think?
I don’t know. Maybe I just miss you so much that I’ve been imagining this. Touched in the head and all. Two years, and he hasn’t been able to shake the loneliness of living without Sirius. Even Dora, much as he cares for her, doesn’t fill it, and he knows it’s unfair to her to live this way, but -
I don’t want you to be lonely. Tonks is a good woman. I really am glad for you, Remus. You can’t mourn forever.
I wasn’t trying to - she’s not - I’m not trying to replace you. Nothing could. I miss you every second, you know. When you - I thought maybe - it would just be easier - I wanted to follow you.
I know.
We should have had more time. He doesn’t like to be this bitter - not when he is holding his sleeping son, so soft and small and innocent, so new. He feels painfully disloyal to the baby who would not have existed if not for the death of his lover.
I know.
It isn’t fair. It isn’t like Remus to complain. He grew up knowing better than to complain. Accept your lot in life, deal with it the best you can. That’s the only way to get through the hard parts.
I know. It’s a strange reversal - in life, Sirius was the moody one, the one who sulked about Grimmauld Place whinging about being shut up indoors. And it had been Remus to say I know, I know, it will change soon, just try to make the best of it.
Death has calmed you down, it would seem, Remus thinks wryly.
Well. Perspective and all.
So it is you, then. I’d like to know I’ve not gone mad. Dora may need some help with the childrearing and the diapers and of course there’s a war on.
There is no answer.
Gone mad it is, I suppose.
The child stirs and makes a little sighing noise. Remus kisses the blue-haired head gently, inhaling the baby’s sweet scent.
“You are a handsome little bloke,” he murmurs. “Take after your mum’s side. There have been a few good people to come out of that family, never mind the rest of your relatives. You’ll be all right.” The baby makes a gurgling noise in his sleep, his tiny mouth opening and closing. His eyes are moving behind the pale, almost transparent lids. Is he dreaming? Remus doesn’t know much about babies. Do babies dream?
He keeps speaking - very quietly, so as not to disturb his son. “We’ll put the world right, you’ll see. Things aren’t so good right now, I’m afraid. But it won’t always be like this.”
He wants to believe these words. Wants to believe that his son will grow up in a safer world than the one into which he’s been born. Wants to believe that good people, those dear to him - James, Lily, Albus, Sirius - have not died in vain.
Again he finds that he is crying, more than a stray single tear this time, but great rolling tears, unchecked, the joy and pride of this day and sorrow over the past commingling and filling him until there really is nowhere else to go but out, through his eyes. Splashing onto his (admittedly very patched-up) robes.
“You’ll be all right,” he says again in a rather unsteady voice, and though he is speaking to the baby it is himself he is trying to comfort. “You’ll be all right.”
The baby opens his eyes again, innocence and wisdom in the silvery grey irises, so large and bright in the small face. Remus is filled with love, fierce and strong and protective and, he knows, eternal. The kind of love that isn’t deterred by the boundaries of time - of distance - of even death. He has known this love before. He doesn’t always know what to do with it. But he knows it still. It’s the kind of love that hurts the most, because it doesn’t fade. Nothing can dull it, or change it, or break it apart.
He knows he was right to stay, not to throw himself through the veil as he wanted to do two years ago, grief-stricken and shocked. And he thinks maybe, maybe when it is his turn and he passes through, they may yet have another chance.
Wait for me, he says, for whether it was his imagination before or not, he hopes that somehow Sirius will hear him. I love you. There are things I need to do here, but - wait for me, Sirius.
For the briefest moment he thinks he can feel the brush of a hand on his shoulder, of gleaming black hair against his cheek, and he can almost hear the echo of a voice, and he knows the answer is yes.