Fic: The Rising of Thanatos
For Sarah, who likes this one so much she almost wouldn’t let me share it with anyone (and who worked her ass off researching for me).
(Thanks to my wonderful betas, again.)
"Hear me, O Thanatos, whose empire unconfined extends to mortal tribes of every kind. [...] Not youth itself thy clemency can gain, vigorous and strong, by thee untimely slain. In thee the end of nature’s works is known, in thee all judgment is absolved alone. No suppliant arts thy dreadful rage control, no vows revoke the purpose of thy soul. O blessed power, regard my ardent prayer, and human life to age abundant spare." (Orphic Hymn 87 to Thanatos, trans. Taylor, Greek hymns C3rd B.C. to 2nd A.D.)
January 11, 1981
The Canterbury Cathedral is immense. It stands white against a blue sky, like something from a fairy tale. Inside, tall windows let in long squares of sunlight but do nothing for warmth. Sirius finds that he needs to keep his coat on inside the building. The soaring ceilings hold no heat. He wanders through the upstairs, pausing to look into each chapel and give a moment of respect to the dead settled into the walls. In time, he ambles into the crypt, pulling his scarf closer and tucking his hands into his pockets.
He has been exiled to this solidarity for fifteen days, seven hours, and thirteen minutes. He’s had no choice, really; he could have argued with the decision to send him into hiding, but there was no value in such a verbal row. Dumbledore always got what he wanted in the end.
What Dumbledore wanted, it appeared, was for him to contemplate his sanity for a fortnight and then find some sort of comfort here in this ancient building. Here he was in the company of the dead whose names were etched in the stones of the cathedral. He wonders, not for the first time, what it takes to be deemed “worthy” of the honor of being placed under a stone in the floor. Surely this woman and her husband at his feet, and those whom slept in that column to his left, were truly devout.
He could not be lain here; he is not one among the pious. Wizards are not typically a religious people. Many find there is no need for God and his absolution when one can conjure one’s needs. Regardless, Sirius pauses before the self-serve prayer candles. His eyes linger on the small white tape that reads “2 CANDLES 50P” and he wonders what they would do with a Sickle instead.
Then a long, slender-fingered hand is reaching past him and dropping a large silver coin into the box. Sirius is transfixed at the sight of that hand. He knows that hand.
Its owner takes two candles and hands one to Sirius.
“Say a prayer for me, pilgrim,” a warm, gentle voice says softly.
Sirius knows that voice. It is the voice he would know awake or asleep, as its owner has often talked with him in life and in dream. He finds himself raising his eyes to meet golden irises and a smile, one given to strangers, not to his lover. Sirius reminds himself that they are to be strangers to any onlooker, so he returns with a gruff “thank you.”
Sirius watches Remus walk away, with light, careful steps. Sirius follows him, hoping not to appear impatient. Shortly, he finds that Remus has settled into a pew of the chapel honoring those lost in the Muggle World War I. It is strangely fitting, he thinks; just like those thousands of men, the wizarding world is perched on the edge of war-the extent of damage no one yet knows. Remus’s candle stands brightly lit and melting before a wreath of flowers.
Sirius lights his candle from the flame of Remus’s candle, smiling as he does so. This is the way it is; Remus gives him everything, his hope, his love, his very life come from Remus. He places his tiny taper next to Remus’s. He steps back and takes in the sight of the two tiny candles attempting to light the dark arches of the Romanesque crypt. He hopes that their own plight against Voldemort does not seem this hopeless.
He moves with venerated respect and eases into the pew in front of Remus. Sirius picks up a Bible from its sheath inside a pew and pretends to read. Remus is leaning forward, his hair pouring over his face. For all purposes, he appears to be in prayer.
“Hello, Padfoot,” he says gently.
Sirius smiles.
“Hello, Moony.”
“I’ve been tailed all day. I don’t think I’ve managed to lose him yet; don’t turn around.” Remus’s voice is hard now. Sirius is concerned how wary he sounds.
“How are you?” Sirius whispers, turning his head so that he practically speaking into his shoulder.
“Tired. I’m so very tired, Sirius.”
Sirius wants nothing more than to turn around and gather his lover into his arms. He wants to take Remus home and care for him. Remus deserves to be lying in bed, sipping freshly brewed tea, and laughing as Sirius reads the Daily Prophet articles to him with his best impression of the Minister of Magic. Instead, here they are, unable to even properly look at one another while speaking. Sirius is getting tired of hiding.
“The moon is the day after tomorrow,” Sirius says, with the same tone he would use as if he were announcing the time.
“I’ll be fine.”
“I want to be with you.”
“We’ll see,” Remus says shortly.
Sirius can hear the varied emotions in Remus’s voice. The prominent one speaks of practiced authority and indifference. The other, however, is a tremor, the part of Remus who wants Sirius with him as well.
“When am I coming home?” Sirius whispers, his desire to return to the small life they’ve carved out for themselves evident.
Remus is silent for a long moment.
“Danny Longbottom is dead.”
Sirius closes his eyes. The silence of this place is tightening around him. The dead, with whom Danny Longbottom now stands among the ranks, wait in this crypt. They swarm into that tiny chapel, collapsing the air and holding Sirius fast.
“Then I’ve been marked his equal.”
Remus’s silence answers him.
Sirius opens his eyes and finds that his fingers linger on the story of Jesus in a boat with his disciples. The men in the boat are terrified as a storm thunders around them, tossing their small ship on hard waves. Jesus sleeps through the insanity until one of his disciples wakes him. The men are terrified for their lives, fearing they will drown. Jesus, however, rebukes them. He tells them that they have no faith and then, without magic, but with authority, calms the very sea.
“I love you,” Sirius says, with his own authority, and the dead retreat.
“Look at me,” Remus whispers, his voice desperate.
Sirius turns in the pew, looking to most as if he is simply getting more comfortable with his reading. He lifts his face slightly and meets those beloved golden eyes peering out from between tawny locks.
“Say it again,” Remus begs, still leaning in prayer, and Sirius cannot deny him his plea.
“I love you, Remus.”
Remus’s eyes flutter closed and his face softens. He appears to be savoring the words, much like he savors a bite of Honeyduke’s Finest in the reddish pink wrapper. Sirius’s heart clinches at this and he cannot stop himself from renewing the vow.
“I love you, Remus, it will always be you.”
Remus leans closer, as if he wants to rest his forehead on Sirius’s shoulder. Sirius wants to take him into his arms and hold him. Both men restrain themselves.
“Death Eaters attacked the Longbottoms. They were in hiding. Danny was at his mother’s. Augusta and he were killed. Frank and Alice were tortured when they tried to defend Danny. They’re alive, but they’ve… they’ve lost their minds, Sirius.”
Sirius swallows. He wants to tell Remus that he loves him again. He wants the power of that emotion, of his love, to force away these terrible truths.
“Alice had a baby just before Lily,” he says instead.
“The baby is fine. Dumbledore has hidden him somewhere. There’s no one to raise the kid now.”
Sirius leans into the pew back, closing his eyes again.
“Anyone else? Have they gotten---“
“---There was an attack on Diagon Alley again two nights ago. Seven people were killed.”
Sirius lets his eyes reopen.
“Sirius,” Remus says heavily, “they’ve infiltrated the Ministry. Moody thinks it’s only a matter of time…”
“How can all of this have happened in a fortnight?” Sirius asks incredulously.
“Death Eaters haven’t stopped their toil just because we sent you into hiding,” Remus mummers as he runs his hand along the worn wood railing at Sirius’s back.
Sirius notices a stripe of silver mixing with Remus’s feathery brown hair. It was not there a few weeks ago. He longs to brush it through his fingers and somehow make it disappear. The strain is not good for Remus; he is a strong young man, yet the wolf will cut his life shorter than most wizards. Remus does not need something else to abbreviate his days.
There is an echoing clang from somewhere outside their chapel. It sounds like a metal chair being dropped against the stone floor. Both men straighten back to the alertness they’d abandoned for a few moments.
A breath passes. Sirius turns the rice paper pages, filling the silence.
“If they take the Ministry?” he asks.
“The Order will work ten times harder.”
Sirius snorts, irritated, “I was hoping for some specifics, you prat.”
A man enters the chapel. His patent leather shoes make a brisk tap-tap on the stone floor. He bows his head over his candle, whispers a prayer, kisses the wax, and lights it. He places the candle in the holder, spaced far from Sirius and Remus’s pair. The man repeats the same process with his second candle and then houses next to his first. Sirius continues to read, turning a page slowly, as if he is finishing the last lines of the previous page.
Once the page is fully turned, the man who kisses his prayer candles has snapped his wand toward Sirius and Remus. The curse dies on his lips, as two twin spells ambush the Death Eater. Sirius pushes the Bible out of his lap and shoves his wand back into his sleeve.
Behind him, Remus lowers his wand, hand shaking.
Sirius casts all fear of being seen aside and grabs Remus. The pew is digging into his middle, but he can’t help himself, he hasn’t held this man in days. He clutches Remus to him, kissing his cheeks and his mouth. Remus clings to him, returning his kisses with fervor. While they are reunited, Remus reminds them of their task.
“Sirius,” he whispers between kisses, “let’s deal with the Death Eater.”
Sirius nods and breaks their embrace. Remus moves to their foe, towering over him. Sirius walks to the entrance of the chapel, slowly drawing his eyes around the rooms, looking for others. No one else is in the crypt.
He turns quickly when he hears the sound of dragging cloth. Remus is pulling the man back behind the pews. He is hidden to anyone whom is not directly beside the altar.
“Not much to deal with, eh, Moony?” Sirius jokes, gesturing to the dead man.
Remus straightens and walks to Sirius’s side.
“It’s less gory than I’ve seen this week,” Remus says, handing Sirius the man’s wand.
Sirius clasps the dark wood and puts it into his coat while questioning, “Missions, I take it?”
“Not here. Let’s go, Pads,” he commands.
Sirius glares at the option of being commanded, but like every moment since he has left his home, he is running blind. He remains completely helpless to the trustworthliness of his friends.
He submits to Remus and they leave the cathedral, exit through the gift shop, and hike down a cobble stone street. Remus leads them with a quick stride. Sirius matches him step-for-step as they duck through alleyways and around corners. Remus stops abruptly in a shadowy side street.
“Do you have your belongings?” he asks.
Sirius pats his pocket.
“All of them?” Remus asks again, eyeing the pocket.
“Yes, sir,” Sirius says, with a mock salute.
“Good, then we’re off.” Remus begins their trek with renewed vigor but without his customary eye roll. Sirius is beginning to worry that this trip is more serious than he is aware of.
They arrive at the train station and Remus only pauses to see the “arriving train information” chart before stepping up and ordering two single tickets to the train arriving the soonest. He hands a ticket to Sirius and they briskly exit to the tracks.
The train arrives and they board. Remus forces Sirius to walk ahead of him, guiding Sirius with his hand on the small of Sirius’s back. When they have reached the last seat in the last car, Remus shoves Sirius into it. Sirius scrambles into the seat near the window while Remus sits at the alley.
No one else is in the car. Remus opens an abandoned copy of The Post that he retrieved from an unoccupied seat. Sirius notices that he’s not really reading. Sirius lets his gaze fall to out the window. He is grateful when the train begins to move.
They sit in silence. Remus is staring at the paper’s text but not taking in the words. Sirius watches the trees zip past them like a blur of green. He feels Remus’s hand on his knee and he reaches down to cover it with his own. As soon as he does so, Remus’s hand flips over, palm up, to clasp their hands together.
For the first time since he was forced to abandon their home in Banbury, he relaxes. He lets his weight press his back into his chair. He sighs.
An automated voice informs them that the train will be calling at Ashford, Hastings, Eastbourne, and Brighton. Sirius falls asleep before they reach the first station. Remus is squeezing his hand awake sooner than he’d like.
Remus abandons the paper and leads him off the train, through the station, and out onto the street. In the distance, under a low-hanging gray fog, Sirius can see the sea.
They walk in silence down a steep hill lined with squished, colored shops. There are a large number of Muggle arcades full of echoing zings! and pows! and sweets shops that sell mallows shaped like mouths and ice cream cones. They walk all the way to the end of that long, steep road and Sirius can smell the salt of the sea.
Remus reaches out and pulls Sirius close to him, holding him close at the waist. Sirius begins to say something about “being in public” and “hate crimes,” but Remus seems to read his mind.
“We’re in Brighton, Sirius,” he says with a smile.
And thoughts of news articles about homosexual men found dead in gutters flee from his mind to be replaced with articles proclaiming Brighton, England as the gay capital of the United Kingdom. He intertwines his fingers with Remus’s hand at his waist.
The combination of this loving, causal touch and the rail nap has left Sirius relaxed. But Remus cannot forget the war and continues to keep their steps quick and his eyes alert. Sirius wonders if he is feeling this detached because he has not worn the blood of his enemies in several weeks. They turn at Bedford Square, a quiet circle filled with stone buildings. It sits two blocks from the ocean and Sirius hopes he can go down and stand on the white pebbles and let the tide lap at his toes.
Remus continues to guide him until they reach “the Miami Hotel.” It looks like any other British building, a stone exterior with a covered step and a black wrought iron gate. Remus fishes a key out of his trouser pocket and lets them into the building. He doesn’t pause to explain where they are, he just pulls Sirius up a flight of steps and then another one and then another one.
They turn down a hallway, open a door, and then climb another set of steps.
“Merlin, don’t they have a lift?” Sirius gasps.
Remus shushes him with a glare.
At the top of the steps they exit another door and walk down a cramped corridor, from there they turn into an even smaller corridor, and stand at a dead end. Sirius is about to ask Remus if he’s lost the way to where ever they are going when Remus sticks a piece of parchment into his hands.
Sirius looks down and recognizes James’s handwriting.
Remus Lupin and Sirius Black live at 9e, The Miami Hotel, 22 Bedford Square, Brighton.
He looks up to ask Remus what this means and is surprised to find a door marked “9e” directly in front of him. Remus unlocks the door, shoves Sirius through it, casts a suspicious look around the empty hallway, and then enters the room. After he has secured the lock, Remus begins warding the room.
While Remus runs his wand up and down the door, Sirius takes a moment to look around the room. It is long and seems huge due to its lack of furnishings. A single bed is stuffed in the corner directly behind the door, allowing the person sleeping a few extra seconds to barricade themselves if someone were to burst into the room. A television is sits precariously on a cardboard chest of drawers. In the center of the room is a brown vinyl office chair. There is a stack of Campbell’s condensed chicken noodle soup and Heinz’s baked beans cans in the corner of the room and a pile of books on the wall next to, what Sirius assumes is, the balcony. There is a tiny closet without doors housing a Muggle gym bag and a few of Remus’s robes. On the same wall, a second doorway leads to a bathroom that looks big enough for one person to fill.
Sirius turns to ask Remus how long he’s been here and why such a palace has James Potter as its secret keeper, when Remus grabs him by the back of the head and pulls him into a rough kiss. Remus is walking them backward while yanking at Sirius’s coat, undoing buttons with the same clumsy desperation that he is kissing with. As they fall onto the bed, Sirius is sure that he hears Remus’s head hit the wall, but neither of them stops their snogging. Clothing falls onto the floor, article after article.
They wind around one another, thrusting their bodies against each other until they are one.
They lay together and Sirius feels Remus relaxing into his side. Suddenly, he feels angry with Remus for letting him nap on the train when the moon is so close to full. Remus is the one who needs the rest, not him. He pulls his lover closer and rubs circles into the taunt shoulders.
“I’ll keep watch, Moony.”
Remus is asleep instantaneously.
The hotel is busy, even in the dead of winter. The walls are paper-thin and Sirius can hear the neighbors screaming their arguments through the floor. The bed is rickety and far too small for two young men to curl up on. At the same time, it has been weeks since they were together. It seems fitting that even fate knows they need to be pressed together with only skin separating them.
Sirius watches the way the light creeps its way through the cheap, gauzy curtains and onto Remus’s face. He wishes they were home. There Remus could stretch out on their big, squishy bed and rest knowing they were safe. There Moony could run wild with Padfoot and maybe Prongs, if he wasn’t be a responsible family man, and maybe Wormtail, if he weren’t being an overworked scoundrel. There Sirius could tend to Remus’ wounds and aches with the small arsenal of ointments, potions, and bandages he had amassed.
Here, in this bare, indifferent room, both men feel the need to set the watch. Here there is no place for Moony to transform. Here Sirius will mend him as best he can with only his wand and soup.
Sirius rubs his forehead with his palm. This is not good.
A month ago, they were in the house in Banbury. They squabbled over which record to put on the victrola next. Remus had lay upside down in an armchair and had read A Farewell to Arms. Sirius had half-listened as his lover kept a running commentary on Hemmingway’s deadpan analysis of war. The late afternoon sun had warmed the room and Sirius had contemplated a nap. Then the wards sounded and there was a sharp knock at the door. Sirius had leapt to his feet and realized that he had unzipped his trousers at some point during his repose. He scrambled to redress and run for the door.
“Whose there?” Sirius bellowed.
From beyond the door a rich voice called back, “It is I, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore! Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry! Recipient of the Order of Merlin, first class for the Defeat of Gellert Grindelwald. You, Sirius Black, are my first student be placed in detention for transfiguring third year Slytherins into roofing shingles and tacking them up to ‘mend’ the roof after a storm.”
Sirius visibly relaxed and began to open the door. Remus began to frantically flick his wand at the amassed mess of their home. He stuffed books under the couch and dirty socks into the coal bucket.
“I am also in the company of one James Harold Potter, his wife Lily, and their son Harry.”
Sirius throws open the door and hauls his friends inside. Once the door is closed, however, he leveled his wand at James.
“Tell me something only you and I would know.”
“In third year, I got hexed and my arsecheeks stuck together for a week. You had to unstuck me because I was too embarrassed to go to the nurse,” James replied evenly.
Sirius smirked and lowered his wand.
“Well, now we all know,” Lily said with a slight giggle.
Sirius stepped into the entryway and hugged Lily tightly.
“Hullo, Lily! How is my godson?” he asked plucking the squirming five month old from his pseudo-sister-in-law’s arms.
Dumbledore didn’t let them linger with small talk. He herded them into the newly cleaned sitting area to discuss “an important matter.” Lily and James fidgeted in their seats, glanced at one another periodically, and then returned their attention to Sirius.
Sirius had teased Remus about being a proper host as he floated the tea things into the room. Remus had raised an eyebrow, but allowed Sirius to avoid helping as he was entertaining his godson.
As Remus had distributed teacups, Dumbledore had spoken.
“When I was a lad, I was an immense fan of old American western novels. In these stories, there was a Muggle who stood for all the values of polite society; all that was ‘right,’ if you will. And to match this cowboy, there was a Muggle who defied these social traditions at every chance. The pair, however, were completely and evenly matched. No one could defeat them but the other.” He paused and sipped his tea. “I have heard a prophesy; one that pertains to the destruction of Voldemort.”
Remus and Sirius had sat up and looked directly at the older wizard.
“It appears that Voldemort must decide whom his arch-nemesis is. He is given the choice between two men, as far as I can determine.”
He set his tea things down and folded his hands in his lap. After a beat he said, “I heard this prophesy last night.”
“Professor,” Lily urged, “share it with them.”
Dumbledore nodded and spoke.
“The one with the power to defeat the Dark Lord lives,
Brother to those who have thrice defied him, born after the autumnal equinox in the year of the swine,
And the Dark Lord will mark him as his rival, but he will have power over the dead, for which the Dark Lord cannot control,
One must take the other’s life, for neither can exist whilst the other endures.”
James held his teacup, but it trembled in his saucer. It rattled louder when he spoke.
“There are only two people it can be. Frank Longbottom’s brother, Danny-“
“-but Danny is a squib!” Sirius interrupted him.
Lily’s face was pale when she nodded. Sirius had stared at her and James uncomprehendingly. At that same second, Remus’s teacup had fallen from his hands. Sirius had moved, setting Harry in his father’s lap and tapped his wand on the tea stained carpet.
“Moony?” he’d asked.
Remus grabbed him by the arm.
“We have to get you out of here. They know you live here… we have to get you safe.”
Sirius had allowed Remus to pull him to his feet, but hadn’t let him tug him away from the sitting room.
“Moony?” he asked again, digging in his heels in desperation for an explanation. The one that his mind is piecing together is simply too implausible.
“Autumnal equinox is in September, Sirius. Brother of people who defied the Dark Lord three times--- that’s us; the Marauders. You’re James’s brother. You’re born in September.”
“And according to the Chinese calendar, 1959 was the year of the pig,” Lily said sadly.
Sirius shook his head again and again with his shoulders set in tense denial.
“You’re wrong, it’s not me. James isn’t my brother by birth! Plus, you said something about power over the dead; I’m not raising corpses, Moony!” he’d claimed.
James had abandoned his son and his teacup on the sofa. He’d grabbed Sirius by the shoulders.
“Pads-Sirius!” James pleaded with a hint of desperation, “That rite after you came to live with me; we’re blood brothers. Biological relations or not, you know that rite counts as far as magic is concerned. We have to get you away from here. You’re it. You’re going to defeat Voldemort.”
They’d admitted that they had no clue about his foretold abilities to raise the dead and he’d huffed that it only proved that they were wrong. In his gut, however, he knew that they were correct. He had begged Remus to come with him as Remus had stuffed wads of rolled socks into a Muggle rucksack.
“I can’t,” Remus said sadly, “they’ll track two of us easier than one. Plus, the Order will need me.”
They’d shuffled him off with a rucksack and specific instructions on how to live like a Muggle. He was only to use magic in emergency situations.
Sirius had sulked and whined and told them he’d simply wait for Voldemort to find him from the comfort of his own home, thank you very much. But a terrifyingly livid Lily had taken him by the arm and, in the end, he’d gotten on the train as he was ordered. From his window, he watched his escort, a suddenly pale Lily Potter fidget and worry over him from her position on the platform. To anyone else, she’s simply been rubbing her lips with her fist. To a Marauder, she was blowing him a kiss.
This was one of the many changes brought into their lives by Harry’s birth. About an hour after Harry was born, Peter, Remus, and Sirius had met the tiny infant. James had beamed, handing him a teeny, blue knit blanket. Sirius had felt bewildered, looking to James for guidance, in the same way he’d waited for the play in a Quidditch match.
With a knowing reassurance, James had said, “Support his head, Pads.”
Sirius had done just that. He’d stared in awe at the red thing in his arms. Then Remus had leaned in close, lifted one of Harry’s little fists and kissed it.
“Hello, Harry Potter. I’m Remus Lupin; you may call me ‘Uncle Moony.’ Sirius and I have been waiting nine months to meet you. We’re your godfathers.”
That had cemented it, as far as Sirius was concerned. Every time he said goodbye to Harry, he’d kissed that growing fist. Lily had teased the boys about becoming sentimental gits upon delivery of the sprog, but Peter had dismissed Lily as an alarmist. She’d laughed.
That day, as he watched her pressing her own fist to her lips, he’d wanted to tease her about being tables being turned in the sentimental git category. He couldn’t, of course, because he was chosen by the Dark Lord to defeat or be defeated and he had to keep his distance from his friends or bury them in an early grave.
That lonely train ride took him to him to Windermere and long, tedious walks around the lakes. He’d scared sheep and skipped stones. He’d watched the morning fog take a lazy march across the hillsides. He bought postcards and written them to his friends. He hadn’t sent them. That would be dangerous.
He felt like he had to be prepared to flee at any time, so he had minimized his rucksack and carried it in his trouser pocket everywhere he went.
Then on the fourth day in the Lake District, while he sat watching tourists pay for an overpriced boat ride across the lake, a discreet gray owl had dropped him a note.
It was a roll of parchment, held shut with sealing wax. He’d lifted the roll and walked away to somewhere devoid of eyes. The wax was a face, which upon seeing him spoke.
“Password?” drawled the bored wax face.
“I don’t know…” Sirius replied, staring fixedly at the face’s abnormally long handlebar mustache. Sometimes his friends had the strangest sense of humor.
“You must know the password to read the message,” the wax stated looking up at him in annoyance. The wax mildly resembled John Cleese; meaning that the note was from Wormtail and that he had been watching too much Monty Python’s Flying Circus again.
“I solemnly swear I am up to no good?” Sirius tried earnestly.
“Incorrect,” the wax said with a twitch of his mustache.
“Snape’s a greasy bastard?” Sirius queried with more than a hint of cheek.
“Wrong,” the exasperated sealing wax intoned.
“Can I have a hint?” Sirius asked desperately.
“I suppose,” the wax huffed, rolling his eyes with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm, “A Marauder’s best friend?”
“A werewolf,” Sirius joked, knowing that if Remus heard that one he’d get punched in the gut.
It was mildly surprising to find that the wax had looked relieved and had leapt free and the parchment unrolled. It had been blank on the inside. Sirius had looked all around him and then placed his wand to the center of the page.
“Show me your secrets, friend.”
The script had unfurled slowly, revealing Peter’s sloppy, permanently capital letters.
LEEDS.
Immediately, he had gone to Leeds and stayed in a dodgy hostel where they only offered Wheatabix for breakfast. Two days later, James had called to him from the two-way mirror he carried in his pocket.
“Sirius! Go! Go now!”
And without any questions, he’d apparated to the street in Bristol where his Uncle Alphard had lived. Since the house had long since sold, he had spent the night as Padfoot hidden under the front steps.
Sometime after dawn, cold and weary, he’d apparated to Canterbury and found a room at a respectable youth hostel. He’d let a bottom bunk in a co-ed dormitory room. There he’d met some strange Muggles from an American university. They’d insisted that he join them on their adventures, but fear of their unseen wands had forced him to decline. On the third night of his stay, he’d become so lonely for Remus that he’d attempted to use the tell-a-phone and ring James and Lily’s home.
The first attempt at procuring Muggle coins had been unsuccessful and so he’d spent most of the morning hunting in call boxes, gutters, and Laundromats for abandoned coins. Muggle Studies had taught him a thing or two about currency; he could identify the 2p from the 20p at least. Once he’d collected a small assortment of coins, he’d returned to the hostel and spread them out on his bed. He’d picked out the ones that looked to be the highest value and shuffled over to the tell-a-phone.
He had managed to wedge three 50p coins into the slot before he gave up.
That next day, he had felt more desperate than ever. He was away from his home. He felt unprotected, perhaps even friendless. He had wandered the city. He found strange sites that he wished Remus were with him to see. He walked through a covered market and a graveyard. He bought a post card and had written to his boyfriend about seeing a stalk of Brussels Sprouts for the first time and the headstones that were obviously wizarding but in a Muggle cemetery. He’d walked through a quiet park and seen the famous Dane John Mound.
He’d stood and stared at this mound, then suddenly gotten a prickling sensation that he was not alone. He’d snapped around, clutching his wand, to come face to face with a misty silver wolf patronous. Moony had been sitting patiently watching him.
The wolf seemed to smile.
“1400. The cathedral.”
“Aye, my love,” Sirius had nodded.
The wolf had wagged his tail and run off.
Sirius had gotten to the cathedral early, of course, and then Remus had been late. Lying in the tiny single bed now, Sirius wonders how long Remus has been “tailed” by Death Eaters. He runs his hand down Remus’s bicep, across his elbow, until his hand is clasped around Remus’s wrist. It terrifies him that the life he had envisioned for them has fallen apart so very completely.
The morning finally breaks into the hotel room. Sirius stares up into the cracks and divots of the peeling ceiling. Remus wakes about an hour later and is in perpetual motion.
Staying in this tiny room is clearly not an option. The moon is humming his veins and he wiggles and shivers while he paces the shabby dirt-brown carpet. Sirius watches Remus make turn after turn, marching between the nightstand and the far wall. He paused only to turn around and make the return trip. It is barely even a march, more like three solid, long strides. He looks like a caged lion, pacing against the bars that keep him from the world at large, from the hunt.
Sirius can take it no more and helps Remus into the sleeves of his coat. They walk silently down out of the hotel and across the square. They cross the street without a pedestrian crossing and, finally, finally, Sirius is standing near the sea. There is no sand in Brighton, just little sun bleached rocks. They look more like pieces of sidewalk chalk that some forgetful child has left out in the rain. The rocks are white and full of holes where the sediment has fallen away and shown off where the air bubbles were once hidden. Sirius leans down and picks one up. It has little weight in his hand, but is perfectly smooth, and yet is somehow is still scraggly to the touch. It's egg shaped and slightly pink, now that he holds it close. He slides the small rock into his pocket and leans down to survey another.
In time, seven or so rocks weigh down his left coat pocket. Every few steps, he leans down and captures another, stuffing it in his coat to carry home as a reminder of the day after Remus rescued him from his solitude.
Remus continues to shift and rock on his feet, unsteady and unable to stand still even when not in forward motion. Much like these waves, he is not stationary; the moon controls them both, forcing them to submit to its will.
Out on the water there are the remains of a burnt pier. Sirius wants to ask about it, but Remus is jittery and does not want to speak. Years together has taught Sirius much about Remus' moods. Silence is preferred in the hours before the moon. He will spend much of his night howling and his throat would not recover if he were to speak first.
They walk for blocks and blocks, listening to the way the waves rush up toward them and then hiss back through the rocks as they roll back into the sea. It reminds Sirius of an instrument Professor Fraywell brought to Muggle Studies once. He called it a "rain stick," although Sirius thought it looked like an ant-chewed piece of wood. Fraywell had passed the strange instrument around their class, and when the stick was turned up on its end, rocks or beans or something small and numerous had fallen down the inside of the tube. Sirius didn't think the sound really resembled rain, but he did think that it was soothing.
This incessant water through rocks, however, reminds Sirius of Remus's heartbeat. It is steady and beautiful; many would take it for small and insignificant, but Sirius knows that it is more powerful than too many give it credit for.
Once, when he was six, his great aunt Chara took he and Regulus punting. The boat was strangely shaped, wide with one end flat like a platform. Regulus was much too small to work the miniature paddle, but he had cried and whined and Chara had relented. Regulus had leaned far out over the edge of the punt, only holding onto the very end of the paddle and tried to sweep the water toward him. He leaned too far, however, and fell head first into the Thames. Sirius had leapt up to save his brother, who was crying out and splashing about, but great aunt Chara had snatched him by the shoulder.
He remembers her long, sharp fingernails digging into his shoulder and her voice, cracking and harsh from too many cigarettes, growling "let him try to swim, the stupid runt. It's the only way to teach him anything."
He had fought her, finally biting her hand. He had grabbed Regulus by the hair and pulled him up over the side of the punt. He had been blue and still, not thrashing and fighting the water like when he had first fallen over the side. Chara had looked bored and pointed her ugly ebony wand at the four year old and restored his breath.
Sirius had clutched his brother to him, trying to soothe Regulus who had sobbed himself into hiccups. When they had arrived home, Chara told Orion about the incident, insisting that Sirius was too interested in others to ever be a successful heir.
Orion had called Sirius into his study and Sirius had tried to be penitent, but found himself defending his actions.
"He nearly drowned, Father! He died!" he sobbed.
Orion looked down at his son, his heir, and had been silent for a long time. Finally, he had said, "You preserved your bloodline, today, Sirius. You have done well."
It was one of Sirius's only memories of his father praising him.
Years later, that event would leave little wonder to Sirius that his family were, indeed, dark wizards and that water held a power he could never control.
Remus steps closer to him and reaches his long fingered hand into Sirius’s coat pocket. Sirius feels the rocks rubbing against one another as Remus touches each one.
They are silent until they come to Brighton Pier. Remus leads them up onto the street and onto the Pier. There are rows and rows of canvas deck chairs, abandoned for the season. Sirius pulls one out of the stacks and unfolds it. He eases into it, pretending for a moment that he is a Victorian gentleman here on holiday for his health and the society and not the man marked to defeat a great evil.
Remus walks past him and leans against the white, ornate wrought iron handrail. He stands looking out over the turbulent gray ocean. The mighty sea wind ruffles Remus’s light brown hair, feathering it away from his forehead like a fancy tea hat. Sirius sits gazing at the man he loves, watching the way that Remus’s fingers try to still. He intertwines them, then unknits them, then tightens them around the railing.
To the masses, the moon is a thing of romance and mystery. To Remus, the moon is a wicked tormentor, throwing every element of his naturally given gentle temperament into opposites. This transformation, the one that happens before the werewolf is attacked by unimaginable pain, is the worst for Sirius.
He stands quickly from the folding chair and strides forward. He loops his arms around Remus’s waist and rests his hands flat on the railing.
“Need a snack?” he asks into Remus’s hair as he kisses the back of the beloved brown head.
Remus mumbles a reply, but it is lost to a gust of salty wind.
The continue down the Pier far out over the ocean, passing empty carnival rides minded by irritable, cold men hidden deep in scarves and coats. The rides, immobile from the lack of riders and summer, blast too-loud music into the frozen wind. Sirius guides them toward a snack hut, hoping for something hot and sugary.
His plans are foiled, however, when Remus’s hand clamps down on his elbow tightly.
Sirius lets his eyes follow Remus’s. He is staring at a salt-licked piece of paper flapping noisily in the wind.
They walk toward it and the magic in their blood changes the poster from an advert claiming “a ring to Slim-U-B will make you lose 15 stones in a week!” to a wanted poster.
UNDESIRIBLE NUMBER ONE: Sirius O. Black
The poster is complete with a nearly still photograph of his own face. Remus reaches up and rips down the parchment, stuffs it into his coat pocket, before dragging Sirius along, back toward land. Sirius attempts to make him stop twice, but Remus was did not relent until they come around a corner where they are safe from view of others.
“Transform. Now.”
There is no room for argument with that tone. Sirius certainly doesn’t want a row, but he doesn’t appreciate being commanded to do anything. Remus locks eyes with him, staring him down as the alpha of his pack.
“Change, Sirius. Change now.”
The part of his brain that contains Padfoot forces him to obey. He feels himself lifting his chin in submission before allowing his other shape to overtake his humanity. Remus turns around, double-checking for spies before lifting his wand toward an abandoned sand shovel and transfiguring it into a dog collar and lead. He leans down and clasps the collar around Padfoot’s neck. Taking the lead in his palm, Remus starts a steady, quick pace off the end of the Pier and back toward the Miami Hotel.
They only pause at a kabob van, where Remus buys them a meal in two lidded Styrofoam boxes filled with something that smells delightful. Things like unseen danger are harder to be concerned about when he is Padfoot. The dog is content to know that his master has bought them dinner and will take care of him.
They hurry up the last of the street and the many steps until they are safely warded back inside 9e. Sirius stretches his newly reformed arms above his head before diving for Remus’s coat pocket. He smoothes the parchment flat.
“I’m worth 10,000 galleons, Remus. You could trade me in and get a better model,” he says with a smirk.
Remus is stone-faced and silent.
Sirius turns back to his lover and offers a consolatory smile.
“Sorry.”
Remus shakes his head before forcing one of the boxes into Sirius’s hands. Sirius opens his lid and smiles. Only Remus knows he wants his kabob without any veg but cucumbers. They eat in silence.
It seems like Remus is trying to sit still long enough to actually eat his meal, but the moon continues to prod at him. Sirius turns his attention back to the parchment. He notices that in the text below his photograph there is the option to see the Ministry’s released list of “Persons of Interest.” He taps the section with his wand and issues a gasp when he sees the list.
1. Sirius O. Black
2. Albus Dumbledore
3. Lily Evans Potter
4. Alastor Moody
5. James H. Potter
6. Remus J. Lupin (Dark Creature)
7. Fabian Prewett
8. Gideon Prewett
Remus is leaned over his shoulder reading.
“What is the significance of our ordering, do you think?” he asks.
“Lily’s an unregistered Muggleborn; that makes her a law breaking citizen. Mad-Eye is renowned for his work as a General under Dumbledore against Grindelwald. James’s political associations, perhaps?”
“And whom he married.”
“Another perk of being a bloodtraitor, I suppose.”
“Sad, really, when being a Dark Creature only gets one listed as number six on the most wanted list,” Remus adds with a twisted smile.
“Don’t use that term,” Sirius commands.
Remus shrugs. Years of sneers and disgust have hardened Remus to the term, but Sirius hates it with a passion.
“Peter’s not on the list,” Remus says suddenly.
Sirius skims his eyes down past the Prewitt twins and in the top fifteen people, no Peter Pettigrew is found.
“Maybe they don’t know his associations, yet,” Sirius says optimistically.
“Or maybe he’s…”
Whatever Remus is about to suggest is cut off by a female voice calling from Sirius’s trouser pocket. Sirius pulls a two-way mirror out and faces the woman calling him. Lily Potter peers back from the small looking glass.
“Oh, thank God. Code only,” she cries, wiping viciously at her eyes.
“’My lover is like,’” Lily pauses to gasp, “’a young stag.’ I am ‘like a lily among thorns.’”
Remus shifts closer to Sirius, his anxiety matching Sirius’s own.
“I am a warrior of Solomon. My beloved ‘is this that appears like the dawn, fair as the moon, bright as the sun, majestic as the stars in procession.’” Sirius can feel Remus’s eyes on him, as if in disbelief that such words are referring to him.
“Are you safe, daughter of Zion?” Sirius asks, partially out of fear of the answer and part to keep Remus from calling him a lovesick idiot.
Lily nods enthusiastically, wiping her eyes with her fingertips again and again.
“’Warriors, the noblest of Israel,’” she makes a small weeping sound, clutching at her heart with her fist, “’wearing the sword, all experienced in battle, each with his sword at his side,’ be ‘prepared for the terrors of the night.’ War is upon us.”
Sirius wants to reach through the glass and hug Lily to him. He wants to ask her if she is telling them that the Ministry has fallen into Voldemort’s control, but she’s speaking again before he can form the words.
“’I will get up now and go about the city, through its streets and squares; I will search for the one my heart loves. So I looked for him but did not find him’,” Lily gasps, her eyes filled with tears anew.
Sirius struggles with the code for a moment, Remus reaches and takes the mirror from him. He speaks directly to her with a calm voice.
“’Where has your lover gone, most beautiful of women? Which way did your lover turn, that we may look for him with you?’” he asks her.
Lily’s face is filled with fear and she bows her head.
“I don’t know! I don’t know!”
“Easy, Daughter of Jerusalem. We’ll come to you…” Remus says tenderly.
“I will meet you in Solomon’s city’s walls. Safe travels, sons of Zion!”
“Safe travels, daughter of Jerusalem.”
The mirror goes dark. Remus is scrambling to his feet.
“Lets get this place packed up, yes?” he says, while throwing items off the floor toward the gym bag in the closet.
Sirius lifts his wand and begins to sweep everything off the bed, duvet, sheets, and pillows included into that same bag. There is no evidence that anyone has inhabited the room when they are finished.
Remus reaches out and takes Sirius’s hand in his. Sirius glances down at their entwined hands.
“Shall we go then?” he asks.
Remus offers a nod before reaching into his pocket and retrieving what appears to be a harmonica.
“Grab a hold, please,” Remus mutters and Sirius does so. Remus leans down toward the small instrument and whispers to it, “I am my beloved, and I am his.”
Sirius wonders who the lovesick of them is now as his world spins around him. They land on mildly wobbly legs in Dumbledore’s office in Hogwarts. The wizard only pauses from his own packing to offer them a welcoming bow of the head.
“Gentlemen, James Potter is currently procuring the Order a safe house. We will leave immediately.”
Lily’s own port key drops her on unsteady legs. She is clutching her tiny child to her breast and a broken, red brolly with yellow poke-a-dots in her hand. Remus relieves her of the child while Sirius hugs her tightly.
Dumbledore moves about the room with an agility that speaks of desperation.
“Sirius,” he says, interrupting the reunion of friends, “take this please.”
Sirius reaches out and takes a green velvet bag from the headmaster. Upon touching the fabric, it shimmers rivets of gold, as if this golden thread is woven into each strand, awakening upon human touch. Sirius moves to open the drawstring cord, but Dumbledore shakes his head.
“I will explain later, there is not time.”
The portraits on the walls are muttering to one another, Sirius is very aware that he is being watched carefully. He gives Remus’s hand a squeeze. Lily wipes her nose with the sleeve of her coat, whispering apologies and trying to blink away tears.
“Where are we going, Professor?” Remus asks quietly.
“A safe house,” Dumbledore says with an allusive smile.
“They’ve known every move ahead of us,” Lily says unnecessarily.
“Indeed,” Dumbledore pauses to consider which of the books on his shelf to pack, “hence why we much flee in secret. I fear that there are those whom we trust who have turned their allegiance to the Dark Lord’s.”
“How strong is he?” Sirius asks, not wanting to hear any more of these traitors.
Dumbledore turns and meets Sirius’s eyes.
“I believe, Mr. Black, that he knows the oldest of magics; some of these are no longer in the written word.”
Sirius nods slowly. He knows some of these ancient rites, mostly the darker elements of such, at least, small gifts given from a family whose amassed fortune came from their use of Dark Magic. He sighs; he swore to himself that he would never use such magic again. He knows no magic to match these old spells, especially these powerful Dark ones.
“I will teach you what I can,” Dumbledore says softly, holding Sirius’s gaze.
Sirius can only nod again.
Dumbledore resumes placing items into a pitifully worn leather satchel. Remus rubs his thumb along the back of Sirius’s hand. Lily tightens her hold on Sirius’s arm.
It frightens him that his friends are scared for him.
There is the sound of stomping footfalls from behind them; they all turn toward the door.
“Quickly, now, friends,” Dumbledore says quietly, “Grab on.”
He points his wand at his satchel and it glows light blue. He turns to Fawkes perch and smiles. The bird glides lazily over and settles on Dumbledore’s shoulder. They all lean down and touch the bag.
As the door is thrown open, they feel the pull of the port key.
They are deposited in the attic of the Hog’s Head. They all shift and move against the far wall, trying to stay hidden and quiet, even in these hidden and private quarters. It is only now that Remus lets go of Sirius’s hand. Sirius flexes his fingers, suddenly missing his love’s touch.
Harry wails in protest to his second trip via port key in a short period of time. Remus shuffles to child to his shoulder and coos reassuringly, hoping to still the child’s cries.
The phoenix flutters over to Remus’s lanky frame. He settles on the same shoulder that Harry is snuggling into. Fawkes leans down and rubs his beak across the baby’s forehead. Harry stills quickly, his gaze locked on the magical bird’s bright plumage. Remus smiles for the first time that day, the moon temporarily forgotten.
Sirius sighs and attempts to smile at Lily. She rests her cheek on his arm, watching Harry and Remus. There is a momentary calm. Then a ghostly stag glides into the room.
James’s protronus speaks, “Warriors of Israel, the promise land awaits.”
Dumbledore smiles at this, although his exhaustion is apparent in his face.
“Shepard of Israel,” Prongs addresses Sirius, “lead your people to the place where a mallard will one day have one helluva hang over.”
Sirius ponders this only for a moment before barking a laugh.
“Will do,” he says with a chuckle. As the stag turns to run away, Sirius levels his wand at the same bag they traveled by from Hogwarts.
It glows blue and he smiles comfortingly at his companions.
“On to the safe house.”
They all touch the satchel and spin into the dizzying transportation to a shadowy alleyway. Sirius leads the little band, pausing at the opening to the alley and glancing out into the open street. Once he is assured that it is empty, he walks onto the boulevard until he stands before an abandoned pub, the Drunken Duck.
Part Two