(no subject)
Happy Birthday, mrsronweasley , I'm so so glad to have met you, and to share this little corner of the internet with you. There is one hell of a lot about you that gives me joy, and it's kind of fitting that your rekindling of Remus/Sirius love a while back has meant I've been writing stuff again. This is a snippet of fic that takes place after Prisoner of Azkaban, and is an AU in the sense that Peter gets caught, and so Sirius isn't a fugitive.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Length: 1380 words
Rating: PG-13
The cottage is small, sturdy against the wind and the driving rain. In this part of Wales the houses are all a mark of defiance- the weather creates a grim and belligerent sense of purpose, in the dark stone and the slates, the way the houses cling squatly to the hillsides. Llew, who owns the cottage that they’re renting, is a small wizard with blue eyes that seem to see everything at once. He is taciturn, as all the Welsh wizards who haven’t forgotten the Old Ways, the scars and the raids of the burning times, seem to be. His spells are half in the English way, half in the Old tongue, cantrips and little runes sketched carelessly in the air. It seems wilder somehow- Remus wants to question him, to take notes. Sirius watches him with a half smile, as he tries to measure the boundaries of the power, the way it differs from the smooth wand movements of the English way, the Hogwarts way. Snape has a similar style sometimes, a certain rawness to his spellwork when he thinks no one can see.
Llew’s wards are strong, with an earthier smell than the Hogwarts ones, and the house feels secure, protected. It’s clean, too, sparsely but adequately furnished, with whitewashed walls and patched curtains. He offers no tour of the house, just looks at them both and says “Storm soon,” with the air of someone who is Right About the Weather. Sirius looks like he wants to laugh, and Remus treasures it. He finds that he is storing up pictures and memories of him with greedy zeal, a desperate eagerness to watch him live. He’d feel guilty if Sirius hadn’t been doing the exact same thing. If they hadn’t caught Peter- if he hadn’t taken wolfsbane-
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, thanks Llew, who nods and leaves without a smile, and leans back against the kitchen table. “I recognise him, I think,” Sirius says. “One of the skirmishes. Faced down Bella- kept using spells she had never heard of, fired ‘em off like he was singing. Never saw him at Hogwarts.”
“There’s a school in Caerleon, teaches some of the old spells. Some went to Hogwarts, but some- well, there are old wounds. Goblin rebellion, invasions, Glyndwr- we’re lucky they fought for us at all.”
“It was for the sake of the fight,” Sirius says, looking down at the table. “They enjoyed it. We all did, sometimes. I- I don’t like remembering that.”
Remus starts to make a pot of tea, unsure what to say. Sirius hasn’t had the chance to live normally in this new, fragile, peace. He looks out of the window at the grey and the sheep, the town far below them, remembering dragonfire and campfires, sibilant words and intricate spells, the raids and skirmishes, and how sometimes he’d want to laugh as he was fighting. “I like it here,” Sirius says, coming to lean against the worktop. Remus moves around him, that old remembered dance. “Hope Harry does too- there isn’t much to do around here.”
“He has flying, and you,” Remus reminds him, leaning against him briefly, nudging his foot with his own. “He doesn’t seem to need much, anyway.”
Not like James. Not like them. In Harry, Remus recognises the desperate hunger of one who is always looking in, who clutches greedily at every scrap that is given to him. Sirius was so sure, when he first met him. Secure in the knowledge that the Most Noble and Ancient House Of Black would get him where he needed to be. The rest would be down to his looks, his charm. Sirius Black. Now- well, he’s like Remus in the way he drinks everything in with desperate eagerness. All this will go informs his every movement.
“Do you still take your tea weak as Krup’s piss?” he asks. Sirius blinks, frowns.
“Yes. Does yours strip your tongue still?”
Remus smiles, pours Sirius’ mug out, then swirls the tea in the pot as Sirius watches, an oddly gentle smile on his face.
“Like riding a bike,” he murmurs, then his face lights up. “My bike! Oh, she’ll have missed me. Does Hagrid still have her?”
“You make it sound like a girlfriend,” Remus says, half dreading that he won’t take the bait.
“Hell of a ride.”
Test passed. Sirius leers. It’s like picking at a scab, seeing what he’s forgotten. He finds the biscuit tin- Llew is thorough, and he’d asked for everything- puts biscuits on a plate, steers Sirius to the sitting room, hands him the plate. Sirius is too thin, and if he has to coax him, he damn well will.
“I admire your faith in chocolate, Moony,” Sirius tells him with a smile, blowing across his tea.
“It’s an effective remedy, as well you know,” and oh, it feels so easy, this talk of theirs, Remus sinking back into being mildly reproving, Sirius goading, teasing, always aware that all this was a charade of sorts, a comforting substitute for conversations too dark to be contained with words. Sirius takes a biscuit, holding it delicately and examining it.
“I know. I also know that you have a sweet tooth- several, in fact- and that you smile with a ridiculous amount of bliss when you eat it, and your eyes slide shut. Strange, the parts of you I loved the most went first. I lost you, piece by piece- oh god, Moony,” he says and it’s a gasp, a hoarse, broken sound. Remus looks up at him, stood in the centre of the room trying to be brave and feels a rush of love so powerful it scares him.
“I’m here,” he says unnecessarily, and tries to work out exactly the right thing to say.
Sirius smiles. “I know.”
He’s become unused to touching, these past twelve years. He sets the cup of tea down and walks over to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, resting it there. They have to work each other out again before Harry comes, find a pattern that works, that makes sense. Sirius is looking at him with wide, scared eyes. “I love you,” he says; it wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all.
“I had forgotten,” Sirius says quietly, eyes downcast. Remus keeps his hand there and they stay still, waiting each other out. There’s an impotent rage coiled in loops, just under his skin, and he doesn’t know who to hate, where to direct it. It feels more futile than it has in a long while. Whole cities lost. He takes a step back, and endures the feeling of a test failed.
“Yes. I suppose you would have. Is- does it come back”
“Joy takes me by surprise, sometimes. Sometimes the memory of it, sometimes the real thing. When- yesterday, you smiled, and the light caught your eyes. Then it was something so strong, it was like ‘I’d die for him’-a bludger to the chest. It’s wonky somehow, a little...grim, dark, but it’s close to joy. A terrifying sort of joy. Grand gestures and jumping off cliffs- too much.”
“Like Gideon, when his wand warped,” Remus muses, retreating safely to theory. “Everything he did was more like a blast than a spell.”
“Yes- yes, and Fabian was there laughing, as fireworks went off around them, and all he’d wanted was to reheat his tea. Merlin, we hero-worshiped those two.”
“Fred and George, Molly’s two- twins. It’s like seeing them again. Best minds in their year. Terrified me- if they’d known who I was, they would’ve- there are probably shrines.”
“Molly Prewett- she must be mortified,” Sirius says, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Proud. Underneath it all, she loved them- idolised them. Strange to be discussing this. Albus and the past are uneasy bedfellows, in some ways.”
“As are we all.”
His smile turns to something grimmer, like Mad-eye in the worst of the Rise. Remus embraces him then, just holds him tight and closes his eyes, breathing in and memorising. He still smells of damp stone and metal bars, but underneath it all he’s coming back to smelling like himself. Remus smiles and doesn’t let go for a long while.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Length: 1380 words
Rating: PG-13
The cottage is small, sturdy against the wind and the driving rain. In this part of Wales the houses are all a mark of defiance- the weather creates a grim and belligerent sense of purpose, in the dark stone and the slates, the way the houses cling squatly to the hillsides. Llew, who owns the cottage that they’re renting, is a small wizard with blue eyes that seem to see everything at once. He is taciturn, as all the Welsh wizards who haven’t forgotten the Old Ways, the scars and the raids of the burning times, seem to be. His spells are half in the English way, half in the Old tongue, cantrips and little runes sketched carelessly in the air. It seems wilder somehow- Remus wants to question him, to take notes. Sirius watches him with a half smile, as he tries to measure the boundaries of the power, the way it differs from the smooth wand movements of the English way, the Hogwarts way. Snape has a similar style sometimes, a certain rawness to his spellwork when he thinks no one can see.
Llew’s wards are strong, with an earthier smell than the Hogwarts ones, and the house feels secure, protected. It’s clean, too, sparsely but adequately furnished, with whitewashed walls and patched curtains. He offers no tour of the house, just looks at them both and says “Storm soon,” with the air of someone who is Right About the Weather. Sirius looks like he wants to laugh, and Remus treasures it. He finds that he is storing up pictures and memories of him with greedy zeal, a desperate eagerness to watch him live. He’d feel guilty if Sirius hadn’t been doing the exact same thing. If they hadn’t caught Peter- if he hadn’t taken wolfsbane-
He shakes his head to clear his thoughts, thanks Llew, who nods and leaves without a smile, and leans back against the kitchen table. “I recognise him, I think,” Sirius says. “One of the skirmishes. Faced down Bella- kept using spells she had never heard of, fired ‘em off like he was singing. Never saw him at Hogwarts.”
“There’s a school in Caerleon, teaches some of the old spells. Some went to Hogwarts, but some- well, there are old wounds. Goblin rebellion, invasions, Glyndwr- we’re lucky they fought for us at all.”
“It was for the sake of the fight,” Sirius says, looking down at the table. “They enjoyed it. We all did, sometimes. I- I don’t like remembering that.”
Remus starts to make a pot of tea, unsure what to say. Sirius hasn’t had the chance to live normally in this new, fragile, peace. He looks out of the window at the grey and the sheep, the town far below them, remembering dragonfire and campfires, sibilant words and intricate spells, the raids and skirmishes, and how sometimes he’d want to laugh as he was fighting. “I like it here,” Sirius says, coming to lean against the worktop. Remus moves around him, that old remembered dance. “Hope Harry does too- there isn’t much to do around here.”
“He has flying, and you,” Remus reminds him, leaning against him briefly, nudging his foot with his own. “He doesn’t seem to need much, anyway.”
Not like James. Not like them. In Harry, Remus recognises the desperate hunger of one who is always looking in, who clutches greedily at every scrap that is given to him. Sirius was so sure, when he first met him. Secure in the knowledge that the Most Noble and Ancient House Of Black would get him where he needed to be. The rest would be down to his looks, his charm. Sirius Black. Now- well, he’s like Remus in the way he drinks everything in with desperate eagerness. All this will go informs his every movement.
“Do you still take your tea weak as Krup’s piss?” he asks. Sirius blinks, frowns.
“Yes. Does yours strip your tongue still?”
Remus smiles, pours Sirius’ mug out, then swirls the tea in the pot as Sirius watches, an oddly gentle smile on his face.
“Like riding a bike,” he murmurs, then his face lights up. “My bike! Oh, she’ll have missed me. Does Hagrid still have her?”
“You make it sound like a girlfriend,” Remus says, half dreading that he won’t take the bait.
“Hell of a ride.”
Test passed. Sirius leers. It’s like picking at a scab, seeing what he’s forgotten. He finds the biscuit tin- Llew is thorough, and he’d asked for everything- puts biscuits on a plate, steers Sirius to the sitting room, hands him the plate. Sirius is too thin, and if he has to coax him, he damn well will.
“I admire your faith in chocolate, Moony,” Sirius tells him with a smile, blowing across his tea.
“It’s an effective remedy, as well you know,” and oh, it feels so easy, this talk of theirs, Remus sinking back into being mildly reproving, Sirius goading, teasing, always aware that all this was a charade of sorts, a comforting substitute for conversations too dark to be contained with words. Sirius takes a biscuit, holding it delicately and examining it.
“I know. I also know that you have a sweet tooth- several, in fact- and that you smile with a ridiculous amount of bliss when you eat it, and your eyes slide shut. Strange, the parts of you I loved the most went first. I lost you, piece by piece- oh god, Moony,” he says and it’s a gasp, a hoarse, broken sound. Remus looks up at him, stood in the centre of the room trying to be brave and feels a rush of love so powerful it scares him.
“I’m here,” he says unnecessarily, and tries to work out exactly the right thing to say.
Sirius smiles. “I know.”
He’s become unused to touching, these past twelve years. He sets the cup of tea down and walks over to him, puts a hand on his shoulder, resting it there. They have to work each other out again before Harry comes, find a pattern that works, that makes sense. Sirius is looking at him with wide, scared eyes. “I love you,” he says; it wasn’t what he’d meant to say at all.
“I had forgotten,” Sirius says quietly, eyes downcast. Remus keeps his hand there and they stay still, waiting each other out. There’s an impotent rage coiled in loops, just under his skin, and he doesn’t know who to hate, where to direct it. It feels more futile than it has in a long while. Whole cities lost. He takes a step back, and endures the feeling of a test failed.
“Yes. I suppose you would have. Is- does it come back”
“Joy takes me by surprise, sometimes. Sometimes the memory of it, sometimes the real thing. When- yesterday, you smiled, and the light caught your eyes. Then it was something so strong, it was like ‘I’d die for him’-a bludger to the chest. It’s wonky somehow, a little...grim, dark, but it’s close to joy. A terrifying sort of joy. Grand gestures and jumping off cliffs- too much.”
“Like Gideon, when his wand warped,” Remus muses, retreating safely to theory. “Everything he did was more like a blast than a spell.”
“Yes- yes, and Fabian was there laughing, as fireworks went off around them, and all he’d wanted was to reheat his tea. Merlin, we hero-worshiped those two.”
“Fred and George, Molly’s two- twins. It’s like seeing them again. Best minds in their year. Terrified me- if they’d known who I was, they would’ve- there are probably shrines.”
“Molly Prewett- she must be mortified,” Sirius says, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.
“Proud. Underneath it all, she loved them- idolised them. Strange to be discussing this. Albus and the past are uneasy bedfellows, in some ways.”
“As are we all.”
His smile turns to something grimmer, like Mad-eye in the worst of the Rise. Remus embraces him then, just holds him tight and closes his eyes, breathing in and memorising. He still smells of damp stone and metal bars, but underneath it all he’s coming back to smelling like himself. Remus smiles and doesn’t let go for a long while.