(no subject)
Resurrection (HP; S/R; PG-13; Set in the June before OoTP takes place. Remus moves into Number Tweleve Grimmauld Place.)
It had been a matter of course, when Sirius moved back into the house he had not lived in since he was sixteen and which had never truly been his home, that Remus would within days be unpacking his battered trunk in one of the myriad of spare bedrooms. Well, maybe not a matter of course; Dumbledore, certainly, was as utterly unperturbed as if he had made the suggestion himself, and McGonagall had only blinked twice when Remus left an Order meeting by going upstairs rather than through the door, but Molly had seemed flustered and Arthur had gone a little red and stuttering. He wasn’t really expecting those reactions, or any reaction, hadn’t really thought about it. It had simply seemed to him to be a matter of course, and so he didn’t even mention it to Sirius, just left one night from a meeting and come back the next morning with his trunk. He had knocked, and Sirius had answered and gone back to de-pixieing the third floor bathroom while Remus folded his sweaters into the dresser of the least offensive spare bedroom.
He didn’t know what he expected, really. He knew before he made the abrupt and unquestionable decision to move in that he was not going to force things, was not going to unpack his things in Sirius’s bedroom or appear one night in Sirius’s bed uninvited or mention at all their seventh year, or the summer after it, or who had been sleeping in whose bed in the nights before the world shattered. He was not going to do that, not to himself, not to Sirius. He was just going to be there.
Still, he was surprised- no, more than that, he was shocked, or almost shocked, as close to shocked as his numb mind had come in fifteen years- when Sirius didn’t invite him, when Sirius didn’t appear as if by magic or miracle in his own bed. The Sirius he had grown up with would have, had, in fact, that was how the whole thing started- but that Sirius was dead, he told himself savagely. Killed by time and life. Hell, that Remus was dead. They all were. Everything was different, and he was here to be the friend, the best friend if he could. He would never be James, and he would never be the seventeen-year-old Remus. But he would be here. And that would be enough.
It was several weeks before Number Twelve Grimmauld Place began to feel more like home than like headquarters. By that time, Molly was coming by almost every afternoon to cook them supper and meetings were being held that way, around the big table in the dining room with plates of Shepherd’s pie or pasta for the lot of them and Kingsley sitting five places down from Remus exactly has he had always done at Hogwarts. Home.
So it was no surprise, really, when meeting began to drag on after business was completed and missions were handed out, when they began to feel a little less like the desperate bid for goodness that they were and more like something warm and close. Remus didn’t expect Dumbledore to stay past the point where the Order dissolved a little into a group of friends. He was too busy, too important. But one night near the end of June, the Hogwarts Headmaster just stayed in his seat at the head of the table, smiling benignly and letting his eyes twinkle in that way of theirs. That was why, Remus would be certain later, that was why talk had gone in the direction it did.
Sirius broke out a bottle of wine once it seemed certain that Dumbledore was staying. “1328,” he said with a sparkle in his dark-ringed eye, “Starlight vinery. Vintage. Mother’s favorite. Shall we?” They had earned it, they all felt, earned the slight buzz and the relaxation of muscles and minds taut with fear. Everything was so frightening. They all accepted glasses.
And then it was Hogwarts this and Hogwarts that, with everyone stealing sly glances at the Headmaster, and was Binns still droning on, and remember the year Hufflepuff actually won the cup, and Quidditch.
“Quidditch,” Kingsley muttered, “Huh. Modern kids haven’t had Quidditch. We had Quidditch.” His voice slurred. He shook his head once, making the candlelight that reflected off of his bald scalp bounce wildly, and downed his glass.
“The Gryffindor team is exceptional,” Dumbledore said with his mild smile.
“Pshaw,” Sirius snorted, leaning forward. “We all love Harry, of course, but they’ll never measure up. Why, James was the fastest damn thing on a broom. Just a big red blur on a broom. Fastest man alive. And did we ever lose?” He punctuated his words with stabs of his finger in Dumbledore’s direction, grinning.
“Wasn’t that fast,” Kingsley said in an undertone and with a childish snigger. So drunk, thought Remus. Bet he doesn’t even know what he’s-
He didn’t finish the thought, because Kingsley continued. “Not faster than You-Know-Who, was he?”
The silence would have been deafening, would have been deadening, deadly. But there was Sirius, his chair hitting the floor with such force that one of the legs gave a resounding crack.
“James,” he said, almost spitting, his voice unrecognizable, “was…he was-“he didn’t finish, didn’t look like he could finish.
For a moment it looked like he was going to leap on Kingsley, and even though Sirius was sunken and skeletal from years in Azkaban and Kingsley was a behemoth, Remus would not have laid odds on the bigger man’s life. But then Sirius was just gone, out of the room and audible on the stairs, the air shimmering in his wake. Or perhaps only quivering with the released breath of a roomful of people, people whom Remus was soon ushering out the door with an apologetic smile. What am I doing? He thought, This isn’t my home. Why am I acting like this place is mine to play host of? And then the thought, stark and empty, Maybe I shouldn’t be here after all.
Dumbledore clapped him on the shoulder then, and so Remus shut the door and turned back into the house that wasn’t quite his. He washed the dishes, one by one and by hand, letting the water and the soft scent of the soap shush his jangling nerves, quench his desire to run after Kingsley and punch him in the eye. For James or for Sirius? A part of him wondered. He told it unceremoniously to shut up.
The hall was utterly black when he went upstairs. He still knew right where to pause and turn. He stared at the place where he would have, had there been any light, been able to see Sirius’s door for long minutes. But. No, he thought abruptly, I’m just going to be here, remember? Let him work this out on his own. If he needed me, he wouldn’t be shut up in his own room. His hand dropped without knocking and he continued down the corridor.
The sweater he put on for sleeping was too small, even stretched out as it was by years of being borrowed by a boy with a lot more muscle mass than he. It was a relic from school, the red wool faded almost to peach, one of the thumbholes that Sirius had cut into it without permission frayed to the edge of the sleeve. He felt he needed the comfort. His bed seemed to be made of broomsticks and the words “Not faster than…” and the hard darkness of the corridor outside.
When the door opened, he wasn’t asleep, though he had almost convinced himself that he was close. He sat up quickly and whispered “Lumos,” and in the dim light he watched Sirius sit down on the edge of his bed, almost but not quite leaning against his knees.
The silence lasted for two minutes, five. Remus stopped counting.
“He was faster than anybody,” Sirius said finally.
“I know,” Remus whispered.
“And braver. When I think- I can see him, standing there. In front of the door. Letting Lily run. Only his wand and…staring Voldemort in the face. Right in the face. It’s not that he wasn’t fast enough,” Sirius insisted, sounding for all the world like a pleading child. “It’s that he didn’t run.”
“I know.”
“Moony,” Sirius said, and even at a whisper his voice shook.
Remus reached out, dropping his wand. It rolled under the bed and the light went, but he didn’t care because his hand was finding Sirius’s anyway and gripping tightly and the grip that was returned was even tighter, almost crushing. They stayed that way for a long time, and then Sirius was hugging him with a force that sent him backwards onto the bed, and he could feel his friend trembling hard, and he wrapped his arms around Sirius and held on as close as he could, thinking, Padfoot.
For a long time, maybe hours, maybe eternity, it was just like that, just about comfort and life rafts as Sirius cried himself violently out. And slowly the shaking stopped, and the sobbing stopped, and Remus could hear both of them breathing in the dark.
“Moony,” Sirius said again, his voice different, and all at once Remus was aware that Sirius was hard. And so was he. Merlin, he thought, Circe, Nimue, Zeus.
He shifted, pushing Sirius off of himself just enough that he could move his arms. And then he was sliding his hands under the torn, dirty black t-shirt that Sirius had taken to wearing, undressing Sirius. In his mind were all the mornings that Sirius had done this, had peeled from his body the tattered, sweat-soaked, bloodied clothes and kissed his chest, his neck, his scars, most of all his scars, and brought him back to himself. Thank you, he thought, for teaching me how, because all of a sudden, he believed, again, in resurrection. Bringing you back to yourself.
Later, after, there was Sirius’s head against his shoulder and Sirius’s arm over his chest. It was at once jarring and familiar- once, Sirius had never wanted to stay close after the act. He had done it, on those mornings after the full moon when Remus needed closeness, but he had always done it for Remus. He had never stayed close for himself.
“Padfoot?” Remus whispered, trying to keep his voice mild. He knew by the way Sirius looked up that he had failed. Sirius must have read something in his voice or in his eyes, because something about his expression became, for an instant, just like the old Sirius. The laughing boy. For the first time in fifteen years, Sirius Black kissed Remus Lupin, and somehow it was more than everything else. Somehow Remus felt tears in his eyes, he felt those fifteen years in his eyes, and all the ones before them, stolen moments in the dormitory and kicking each other under the table and shared sweaters and Dumbledore’s voice when he said, gently, “It was Sirius. They’re taking him to Azkaban. I’m sorry, lad.” And the first time he had howled as a human. But I’m here now, he thought. He’s here. I’m here. And this time, there would be no leaving. They had always been able to bring each other back. They always would be.
It was enough.
It had been a matter of course, when Sirius moved back into the house he had not lived in since he was sixteen and which had never truly been his home, that Remus would within days be unpacking his battered trunk in one of the myriad of spare bedrooms. Well, maybe not a matter of course; Dumbledore, certainly, was as utterly unperturbed as if he had made the suggestion himself, and McGonagall had only blinked twice when Remus left an Order meeting by going upstairs rather than through the door, but Molly had seemed flustered and Arthur had gone a little red and stuttering. He wasn’t really expecting those reactions, or any reaction, hadn’t really thought about it. It had simply seemed to him to be a matter of course, and so he didn’t even mention it to Sirius, just left one night from a meeting and come back the next morning with his trunk. He had knocked, and Sirius had answered and gone back to de-pixieing the third floor bathroom while Remus folded his sweaters into the dresser of the least offensive spare bedroom.
He didn’t know what he expected, really. He knew before he made the abrupt and unquestionable decision to move in that he was not going to force things, was not going to unpack his things in Sirius’s bedroom or appear one night in Sirius’s bed uninvited or mention at all their seventh year, or the summer after it, or who had been sleeping in whose bed in the nights before the world shattered. He was not going to do that, not to himself, not to Sirius. He was just going to be there.
Still, he was surprised- no, more than that, he was shocked, or almost shocked, as close to shocked as his numb mind had come in fifteen years- when Sirius didn’t invite him, when Sirius didn’t appear as if by magic or miracle in his own bed. The Sirius he had grown up with would have, had, in fact, that was how the whole thing started- but that Sirius was dead, he told himself savagely. Killed by time and life. Hell, that Remus was dead. They all were. Everything was different, and he was here to be the friend, the best friend if he could. He would never be James, and he would never be the seventeen-year-old Remus. But he would be here. And that would be enough.
It was several weeks before Number Twelve Grimmauld Place began to feel more like home than like headquarters. By that time, Molly was coming by almost every afternoon to cook them supper and meetings were being held that way, around the big table in the dining room with plates of Shepherd’s pie or pasta for the lot of them and Kingsley sitting five places down from Remus exactly has he had always done at Hogwarts. Home.
So it was no surprise, really, when meeting began to drag on after business was completed and missions were handed out, when they began to feel a little less like the desperate bid for goodness that they were and more like something warm and close. Remus didn’t expect Dumbledore to stay past the point where the Order dissolved a little into a group of friends. He was too busy, too important. But one night near the end of June, the Hogwarts Headmaster just stayed in his seat at the head of the table, smiling benignly and letting his eyes twinkle in that way of theirs. That was why, Remus would be certain later, that was why talk had gone in the direction it did.
Sirius broke out a bottle of wine once it seemed certain that Dumbledore was staying. “1328,” he said with a sparkle in his dark-ringed eye, “Starlight vinery. Vintage. Mother’s favorite. Shall we?” They had earned it, they all felt, earned the slight buzz and the relaxation of muscles and minds taut with fear. Everything was so frightening. They all accepted glasses.
And then it was Hogwarts this and Hogwarts that, with everyone stealing sly glances at the Headmaster, and was Binns still droning on, and remember the year Hufflepuff actually won the cup, and Quidditch.
“Quidditch,” Kingsley muttered, “Huh. Modern kids haven’t had Quidditch. We had Quidditch.” His voice slurred. He shook his head once, making the candlelight that reflected off of his bald scalp bounce wildly, and downed his glass.
“The Gryffindor team is exceptional,” Dumbledore said with his mild smile.
“Pshaw,” Sirius snorted, leaning forward. “We all love Harry, of course, but they’ll never measure up. Why, James was the fastest damn thing on a broom. Just a big red blur on a broom. Fastest man alive. And did we ever lose?” He punctuated his words with stabs of his finger in Dumbledore’s direction, grinning.
“Wasn’t that fast,” Kingsley said in an undertone and with a childish snigger. So drunk, thought Remus. Bet he doesn’t even know what he’s-
He didn’t finish the thought, because Kingsley continued. “Not faster than You-Know-Who, was he?”
The silence would have been deafening, would have been deadening, deadly. But there was Sirius, his chair hitting the floor with such force that one of the legs gave a resounding crack.
“James,” he said, almost spitting, his voice unrecognizable, “was…he was-“he didn’t finish, didn’t look like he could finish.
For a moment it looked like he was going to leap on Kingsley, and even though Sirius was sunken and skeletal from years in Azkaban and Kingsley was a behemoth, Remus would not have laid odds on the bigger man’s life. But then Sirius was just gone, out of the room and audible on the stairs, the air shimmering in his wake. Or perhaps only quivering with the released breath of a roomful of people, people whom Remus was soon ushering out the door with an apologetic smile. What am I doing? He thought, This isn’t my home. Why am I acting like this place is mine to play host of? And then the thought, stark and empty, Maybe I shouldn’t be here after all.
Dumbledore clapped him on the shoulder then, and so Remus shut the door and turned back into the house that wasn’t quite his. He washed the dishes, one by one and by hand, letting the water and the soft scent of the soap shush his jangling nerves, quench his desire to run after Kingsley and punch him in the eye. For James or for Sirius? A part of him wondered. He told it unceremoniously to shut up.
The hall was utterly black when he went upstairs. He still knew right where to pause and turn. He stared at the place where he would have, had there been any light, been able to see Sirius’s door for long minutes. But. No, he thought abruptly, I’m just going to be here, remember? Let him work this out on his own. If he needed me, he wouldn’t be shut up in his own room. His hand dropped without knocking and he continued down the corridor.
The sweater he put on for sleeping was too small, even stretched out as it was by years of being borrowed by a boy with a lot more muscle mass than he. It was a relic from school, the red wool faded almost to peach, one of the thumbholes that Sirius had cut into it without permission frayed to the edge of the sleeve. He felt he needed the comfort. His bed seemed to be made of broomsticks and the words “Not faster than…” and the hard darkness of the corridor outside.
When the door opened, he wasn’t asleep, though he had almost convinced himself that he was close. He sat up quickly and whispered “Lumos,” and in the dim light he watched Sirius sit down on the edge of his bed, almost but not quite leaning against his knees.
The silence lasted for two minutes, five. Remus stopped counting.
“He was faster than anybody,” Sirius said finally.
“I know,” Remus whispered.
“And braver. When I think- I can see him, standing there. In front of the door. Letting Lily run. Only his wand and…staring Voldemort in the face. Right in the face. It’s not that he wasn’t fast enough,” Sirius insisted, sounding for all the world like a pleading child. “It’s that he didn’t run.”
“I know.”
“Moony,” Sirius said, and even at a whisper his voice shook.
Remus reached out, dropping his wand. It rolled under the bed and the light went, but he didn’t care because his hand was finding Sirius’s anyway and gripping tightly and the grip that was returned was even tighter, almost crushing. They stayed that way for a long time, and then Sirius was hugging him with a force that sent him backwards onto the bed, and he could feel his friend trembling hard, and he wrapped his arms around Sirius and held on as close as he could, thinking, Padfoot.
For a long time, maybe hours, maybe eternity, it was just like that, just about comfort and life rafts as Sirius cried himself violently out. And slowly the shaking stopped, and the sobbing stopped, and Remus could hear both of them breathing in the dark.
“Moony,” Sirius said again, his voice different, and all at once Remus was aware that Sirius was hard. And so was he. Merlin, he thought, Circe, Nimue, Zeus.
He shifted, pushing Sirius off of himself just enough that he could move his arms. And then he was sliding his hands under the torn, dirty black t-shirt that Sirius had taken to wearing, undressing Sirius. In his mind were all the mornings that Sirius had done this, had peeled from his body the tattered, sweat-soaked, bloodied clothes and kissed his chest, his neck, his scars, most of all his scars, and brought him back to himself. Thank you, he thought, for teaching me how, because all of a sudden, he believed, again, in resurrection. Bringing you back to yourself.
Later, after, there was Sirius’s head against his shoulder and Sirius’s arm over his chest. It was at once jarring and familiar- once, Sirius had never wanted to stay close after the act. He had done it, on those mornings after the full moon when Remus needed closeness, but he had always done it for Remus. He had never stayed close for himself.
“Padfoot?” Remus whispered, trying to keep his voice mild. He knew by the way Sirius looked up that he had failed. Sirius must have read something in his voice or in his eyes, because something about his expression became, for an instant, just like the old Sirius. The laughing boy. For the first time in fifteen years, Sirius Black kissed Remus Lupin, and somehow it was more than everything else. Somehow Remus felt tears in his eyes, he felt those fifteen years in his eyes, and all the ones before them, stolen moments in the dormitory and kicking each other under the table and shared sweaters and Dumbledore’s voice when he said, gently, “It was Sirius. They’re taking him to Azkaban. I’m sorry, lad.” And the first time he had howled as a human. But I’m here now, he thought. He’s here. I’m here. And this time, there would be no leaving. They had always been able to bring each other back. They always would be.
It was enough.