Fic: The Rising of Thanatos
Alright, so, basically, I'm pumping this out faster than my betas can keep up. I've written a ridiculous amount of text and they're so patient and wonderful to put up with my crazy plots and wild ideas. I can't tell you how great comestodecemberand brighty18 are... if you don't know these ladies, you really ought to get to know 'em.
Part One
Part Two
-Part 3-
January 12, 1981
When the young man’s perception is replaced with the tawny wolf’s, he finds himself lying on a knit blanket next to a panting black dog in front of a blazing fire. Padfoot offers a soft lick to Moony’s muzzle. At first, Moony is confused. He recognizes this place as the den he lived in as a pup, but he has not been here in years. Moony has always hated the adjustment in dens; first, he left this place and took territory in the broken shack. That place was just as wretched as this one until he established his pack. Then, he and his mate had established their own den. He looks at the black dog by his side.
He worries that his mate has not liked the den he has chosen for them. Moony huffs, irritated. It is a good den; it is warm and safe, there is clean water and there are rabbits to hunt. Padfoot didn’t seem to mind it the last few moons.
Padfoot leans over and offers a gentle lick to Moony’s lip. Moony lifts his head as Padfoot rubs his muzzle on the bottom of Moony’s chin.
No, Moony remembers suddenly, it is not that his mate dislikes their den, it is that their den is not safe any longer. Moony feels his hackles rise. Someone is hunting his mate. He must protect his mate. They’ve come here so that Padfoot will be safe. Moony offers a wet nose to Padfoot’s ear and climbs to his feet.
His muscles are stiff, but he must get up. His mate is depending upon him. Padfoot leaps up, all wiggling puppy, bouncing around. He shifts to his back paws, dancing about on his hind legs, barking excitedly. Moony leans down on his front paws, offering a calmer version of the bark and chases Padfoot around the empty room.
After a few turns in the fire lit room, Moony prances toward the door that leads into the yard. He will hunt for he and his mate; Padfoot is depending upon him. Padfoot seems wary about leaving the house as Moony flips the door handle down with his front paws and prods the door open with his snout. Padfoot continues his whining, however his mate’s empty stomach keep his protests futile. Moony offers a tail wag and a smile. There is no one here, he thinks, they are far from a village and there is space to run. Padfoot seems to accept this as enough reassurance and follows the wolf out into the night.
Five rabbits and a good drink from a stream later and they return to the quiet room. Padfoot flicks the door shut with his paw as Moony paws at the blanket down in front of the hearth. He shoves it with his nose, inching it this way and that until he has made an acceptable nest. He turns around and around and around, and then collapses with a huff. Padfoot trots over and throws himself down next to Moony with a thump and a groan.
Moony sniffs into Padfoot’s ear and then begins to draw his tongue up in languid strokes across the fur lining. Padfoot snuggles closer and Moony begins to snuffle his nose down the black dog’s spine, searching out his mate’s most intimate scent.
His desires, however, are interrupted by a threatening crack! Crack! and both the wolf and the dog are at their feet.
Padfoot is growling low in his throat, turning and attempting to herd Moony away from the light and the door where the sound came from. He is not quick enough. There is a shout, and when the door flies free of the hinges, two masked figures charge into the den.
There is a devilishly good scent. There is man-blood in these figures and Moony feels an age-old hunger ripping at him. He leaps forward preparing to spill and lap up the hot, tantalizing blood of these humans.
One of the figures raises a stick at him and yells words. A flash of green launches forth. Padfoot, however, is leaping forward and knocks into the second figure. His weight topples the man directly into the light’s path. The figure that Padfoot has attacked lies dead beneath his paws.
Moony leaps forward, charging at the second man. His jaws lock with the man’s waist and there, ah, there is the coppery delight that he has long desired. No rabbit has ever been this delectable. His prey is screaming in agony and lifting the stick again. He shouts something through sobs as Moony clenches his jaws down again, savoring the crack of bones and the sweetness of blood.
Then Padfoot is running again, his jaws clamping down on the arm with the stick. Moony snarls and lashes out at his mate. He must know his place. Moony will hunt for both of them, he will provide for both of them. This has always been his promise. But he is the alpha; he eats first. But then the prey’s arm cracks under Padfoot’s jaws and the stick falls away.
Then Padfoot stumbles backward and sits down hastily. Moony snarls again, but halts in mid-snap. Padfoot is bleeding.
At first, Moony thinks that it is prey blood that is glimmering on the black fur. Then he steps closer, knowing that his nose does not lie. It does not smell like prey blood. It smells like his mate.
Moony leans in, brushing his tongue across the large gash that crosses Padfoot’s chest. It runs across a forepaw and up under his chin. Padfoot whimpers as Moony’s tongue cleans the gaping cut.
Moony issues a low, feral growl. This writhing thing in the silver mask is no longer prey; it is now the enemy. It has not only threatened his den, it has hurt his mate.
As Moony bears down on the prey, it screams in horror, pulling itself toward the open door by its bare forepaws. Moony latches his jaws down on the prey’s throat, ripping and tearing until it is dead.
If this were a hunt, Moony would lick the throat again and again, savoring the bitter tang oozing forth from the wound. But the hunt is done, the threat is destroyed. He turns his attention to the black dog, panting torturedly on the floor behind him. Padfoot whines and Moony offers a soft, comforting lick to his muzzle.
Moony leads Padfoot back to the nest before the fire. Padfoot stands on shaky legs, attempting a sad wag and limping toward the blanket. He collapses there, whining pitifully. Moony stands over him, glaring predatorily at the two black robed figures lying so close to their nest. He assures himself that they are, in fact, dead, before he curls around his mate.
Padfoot cries when Moony licks at the wound but allows the cleaning to happen. Moony watches a glaze claim Padfoot’s gray eyes and it concerns him but he isn’t sure why. He would consult the human who often lives in his body, but he doesn’t understand man words well. He watches Padfoot fall into a deep slumber and then he settles in for a long night’s vigil. He lays his head on top of the black dog’s sleeping form and waits for the dawn.
The transformation is painful and Moony howls against it. Usually, Padfoot would lick and soothe him, but Padfoot has lain still, sleeping heavily since the depths of the night.
When Remus lies next to the black dog, he knits his fingers into the thick fur of Padfoot’s ruff. Sometimes, Sirius stays as Padfoot to comfort Remus’s transformation back. Today, however, Sirius doesn’t appear to even be awake. Remus’s fingers catch on some matted fur and he brushes the spot again.
Blood.
A panic wells in his throat. Desperation forces Remus’s magic out of his body and without consciously willing it to happen, he has cast the spell that replaces Padfoot with Sirius’s human form. Sirius lies staring sightlessly at Remus’s face. The panic spreads in force; Remus is nearly frantic with the need to do something.
Remus’s hands grasp in a maddened attempt to reissue his lover’s life. He is pressing the gaping wound on Sirius’s chest, trying to will the blood back into its home with his palms. Remus gasps and clutches, finding that his hands and arms are now crusted in dried blood. He calls out to the heavens and the deities unknown, praying for their intervention.
What he receives instead are strong arms tightening around him and pulling him back into wakefulness.
“Remus. Remus. Remus,” Sirius is chanting into his hair.
Remus offers a few sobbing gasps while grabbing handholds on Sirius’s body. It was a dream. Just a dream, he reassures himself. Sirius holds still and is soothing Remus with gentle words and tender touches.
The dream replays itself over and over until Remus is fully aware that the Wolf has been the one to control his dream and has shown him the events of the night before.
“Easy, Moony, it’s alright.”
Remus’s eyes struggle to focus. Sirius is leaning over him, a tender smile on his face.
Remus does not fail to realize that they are home in their cottage in Banbury. He is in their bed, wrapped in clean bandages and pajamas. Sirius is sitting on the edge of the bed in trousers. A large bandage wraps around his torso.
“Death Eaters,” Remus rasps.
“Not here,” Sirius reassures him as he lifts a glass of water from the nightstand at Remus’s left and brings it to his lover’s lips.
Remus coughs out his words as he begrudgingly drinks.
“Last night.”
“Yes,” Sirius says, licking his lips.
“I killed them,” Remus laments between his coughs.
“No. You killed one of them, I killed the other,” Sirius reassures.
Remus feels his throat closing as these words are spoken, but Sirius is touching his cheek. The waves of worry begin to roll over Remus again and again.
"Who was it? Who did I-"
"A Death Eater." Sirius’s voice is calm and hard; he states these three words like they are a fact that may not be challenged.
"No, Sirius, who?" Remus’s desperate desire for knowledge leaves his tone angry and hoarse.
"Why does it matter, Remus?" Sirius asks shortly.
"Because I killed him! I need to know who he was!"
Remus refuses to acknowledge that part of this desperation for the person’s identity is interlaced with a terror of repercussions and not solely for his moral and ethical well-being.
"He attacked you; you defended yourself. If you were in 'man-form' and he had attacked you with the same curse, you'd have defended yourself as well."
"No," Remus says quietly, "it's not the same."
"Why not?"
"Because… I swore that I would never attack someone. I swore I would never give someone this curse…"
"And you didn't."
"I would have, Sirius!"
"No, Remus," Sirius looks away from him then, fingers resting on the bandages at his chest, "You swore that you would never give anyone this disease and you swore," Sirius turns to face him again, "that if you had to you… you would protect me, no matter the cost. You killed that man to ensure he wouldn't live with lycanthropy. Last night you upheld both those promises."
Sirius rises off the bed now and walks out of the room, anger apparent in his stride. Remus reclines there, in their bed, wishing he could rest. It’s the first time he's been here in nearly three weeks, he should be at ease. He wiggles down under the thick duvet and rolls on a hip into the very center of the bed. Usually, when he is here, he can reach out those last few inches and touch Sirius. Maybe that’s why the room feels off kilter.
Remus lays still, thinking and worrying until Sirius returns.
Judging by the way he’s slamming down the teapot and cups he’s brought with him, he’s still angry. Suddenly, the screaming agony of the Death Eater sound familiar in Remus’s mind’s ear.
“I killed… Snape…” Remus manages in a sob.
Sirius’s body tenses but he replies steadily, “Yes.”
“They found us… how did they find us?” he gasps, locking his aching muscles tighter. Sirius abandons the tea and sinks onto the mattress. He pulls Remus into his arms.
“Someone told them where we were, Moony,” Sirius says into Remus’s temple, and then repeats Dumbledore’s words, “there’s a spy.”
Remus shivers feverishly in Sirius’s arms. He squeezes his eyes shut against this news.
“No one knows we’re here, Remus. You’re safe. Just rest. When you’re stronger, I need your help with the wards,” Sirius’s voice is quiet.
Remus simply nods and sinks into the safety of Sirius’s arms.
Remus sleeps the day away and in the haze of the late evening, Sirius helps him limp downstairs. Remus can easily see that Sirius has spent his day cleaning the empty house. There is a blazing fire in the hearth and soup boiling on the stove. Remus wonders if any of the groceries in the pantry were still edible.
Sirius eases Remus into his favorite armchair by the fire. Remus sighs as his head rests against the back. Sirius places a tender kiss on his temple and wraps a knit blanket around him.
“Remus, listen to me,” Sirius rests both his palms on the sides of Remus’s armchair, “I killed the other one. Hell, you can legitimately say I killed both of them. If I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have attacked.”
“Yes, Sirius, I would have. I was hunting.”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Sirius says heavily.
“They’re both dead.”
“They’re not the first we’ve killed.”
Remus offers a slow nod; the thought it more than mildly alarming. Sirius offers a tight smile. Then the dark haired man is off to the kitchen to season their dinner.
The house smells right; it smells like them. Remus can feel the anxiety uncurling from his limbs. In the recesses of his mind, regardless what Sirius says, he is still thinking of the two prone forms on the floor of his parents’ home. He is still thinking of himself as a murderer.
In the kitchen, Sirius drops something onto the tile with a clang! and a “shit.” Remus smiles slightly. But his eyes linger on the painting hanging above the mantelpiece.
No one could claim that Peter, Sirius, or he were artists. Their doodles along the sides of their History of Magic parchments looked like disfigured inchworms or mummies. James, however, had a knack for watercolors. None of them knew this, of course, until Sirius ran away from his noble heritage and sought sanctuary with the Potters. Once there, Sirius had declared James’s art as “ace” and insisted that he have a commissioned piece.
Sirius had pestered and bothered and annoyed James until, finally, as a housewarming gift, James had painted Sirius something. It was easily Sirius’s favorite thing in their home.
The painting was relatively simple. In the foreground stood a familiar beech tree, flanked by a shadowy distortion of Hogwarts. But the beauty was in the people around the tree. None of them had faces, and yet, it was clear to whom each figure represented.
At the base of the tree, a messy haired boy leaned against the trunk. He held hands with a petite ginger, who, from time to time, brushed stray hairs behind her ear. They talked and leaned in, presumable for a kiss, and looked out of the frame into the living room. At the other side of the trunk, behind the boy, a second boy, this one plump and blond, sat on the ground. His face was turned upward, looking into the branches above him. He would wave or cover his face in laughter at that space. In those high branches sat two boys, a tall, raven-haired one and a lean, fair-haired one. Their ankles were hooked together and they often leaned in close to one another to whisper secrets.
If they were fully-faced portraits, they would interact more or move about in their frames. But since they were only impressions of the people whom they represented, they were only magic-ed to have a few repeated actions. Regardless, it had been a surprise to artist and audience both when Lily’s figure slowly grew in pregnancy. Then, in nine months, a small bundle with black hair had joined the portrait. Currently, Harry’s impression was sitting at his father’s feet dragging fingers into unseen dirt.
Remus pulls his eyes away from the picture as Sirius reenters the room, slopping soup over the brims of a pair of bowls. Remus reaches up and takes one of the dishes from his lover’s hands and gazes down into the cloudy liquid.
“It’s chicken noodle,” Sirius reassures him, as he sits down on the floor at Remus’s feet, “But all the veg was rotten… so there isn’t much to it.”
Remus smiles and lifts a spoonful of broth to his lips. They are quiet, listening to the crackle of the logs on the fire and the hum of the magic warding their home. Remus gazes back up to the watercolor above the mantel and sees the faceless Sirius scoot closer to his painted lover. At his feet, Sirius shifts on the floor and Remus prepares to speak.
“It’s either James or Peter,” he says regretfully.
Sirius’s knuckles whiten as he holds his bowl tighter.
“It can’t be. It’s not a Marauder-- or Lily,” Sirius says with assurance.
“Sirius, James and Peter are the only ones who knew where we were last night.”
“They-they told someone who betrayed us. Or someone overheard. It’s not a Marauder; we’re brothers, Remus! They wouldn’t.”
Sirius’s capacity for love and loyalty is flooring to Remus. It, however, often blinds Sirius’s perception. Those whom he loves are accepted and cherished to a degree that is nearly insanity. The option that those around him don’t love him with the same intensity has never occurred to him.
“Sirius,” Remus says, wishing that his voice didn’t sound so gravelly, “I think… I think it’s Peter.”
Sirius stares into the yellow haze of his dinner and after a long pause says, “I forgot to put noodles into the soup. I’m sorry, Remus.”
Remus sighs and closes his eyes. The subject is, apparently, closed. Then Sirius clears his throat.
“It can’t be Peter,” there is hurt anger in his tone, “Peter is in love with you. I highly doubt that he’d want the object of his affection A-Ked. I could see him wanting to off me… I know I’m pretty peeved with the idiot’s affections myself.”
Remus’s eyes fly open at the mention of the previous evening’s Death Eater encounter and a certain death curse.
“Sirius,” he asks, suddenly desperately worried, “your chest. How is your chest?”
Sirius absentmindedly rubs the bandages beneath his shirt, “Aches a little, but it’s alright.”
“Padfoot,” there is terror in Remus’s voice this time, “you died. You died last night. He… there was-Sirius, he cast Avada Kedarva and… and it hit you.”
Sirius sucks in a sharp breath and sits up straighter. He sets his bowl of half-eaten soup on the floor and turns to face Remus.
Remus is nearly hysterical when he speaks next, “Sirius? What happened!? How-“
“Remus, I have to show you something.”
He can feel his heart hammering in his chest as Sirius reaches down and unties a green velvet bag from his belt. Remus recognizes the bag as the one Dumbledore gave his lover when they fled Hogwarts. As Sirius’s fingers touch the bag, it shimmers gold and slowly begins to glow. Sirius unties the drawstrings and dumps the contents into his open palm.
Remus is mildly surprised at how anti-climatic the black stone ring seems as it sits innocently in Sirius’s hand. Sirius, however, is staring at the ring with a certain vexation.
“Do you remember the children’s story about the Deathly Hallows, Moony?” Sirius asks softly.
Remus’s brain is spinning. He stares down at the ring and, gradually, comprehension dawns.
“If you put it on,” Remus begins slowly, “you can call out the dead.”
“No. According to Dumbledore, if you put it on, you could call out the dead.”
Sirius rubs his thumb over the black stone reverently.
“If I put it on, I am the Lord of the Dead.”
Part Four
Part One
Part Two
-Part 3-
January 12, 1981
When the young man’s perception is replaced with the tawny wolf’s, he finds himself lying on a knit blanket next to a panting black dog in front of a blazing fire. Padfoot offers a soft lick to Moony’s muzzle. At first, Moony is confused. He recognizes this place as the den he lived in as a pup, but he has not been here in years. Moony has always hated the adjustment in dens; first, he left this place and took territory in the broken shack. That place was just as wretched as this one until he established his pack. Then, he and his mate had established their own den. He looks at the black dog by his side.
He worries that his mate has not liked the den he has chosen for them. Moony huffs, irritated. It is a good den; it is warm and safe, there is clean water and there are rabbits to hunt. Padfoot didn’t seem to mind it the last few moons.
Padfoot leans over and offers a gentle lick to Moony’s lip. Moony lifts his head as Padfoot rubs his muzzle on the bottom of Moony’s chin.
No, Moony remembers suddenly, it is not that his mate dislikes their den, it is that their den is not safe any longer. Moony feels his hackles rise. Someone is hunting his mate. He must protect his mate. They’ve come here so that Padfoot will be safe. Moony offers a wet nose to Padfoot’s ear and climbs to his feet.
His muscles are stiff, but he must get up. His mate is depending upon him. Padfoot leaps up, all wiggling puppy, bouncing around. He shifts to his back paws, dancing about on his hind legs, barking excitedly. Moony leans down on his front paws, offering a calmer version of the bark and chases Padfoot around the empty room.
After a few turns in the fire lit room, Moony prances toward the door that leads into the yard. He will hunt for he and his mate; Padfoot is depending upon him. Padfoot seems wary about leaving the house as Moony flips the door handle down with his front paws and prods the door open with his snout. Padfoot continues his whining, however his mate’s empty stomach keep his protests futile. Moony offers a tail wag and a smile. There is no one here, he thinks, they are far from a village and there is space to run. Padfoot seems to accept this as enough reassurance and follows the wolf out into the night.
Five rabbits and a good drink from a stream later and they return to the quiet room. Padfoot flicks the door shut with his paw as Moony paws at the blanket down in front of the hearth. He shoves it with his nose, inching it this way and that until he has made an acceptable nest. He turns around and around and around, and then collapses with a huff. Padfoot trots over and throws himself down next to Moony with a thump and a groan.
Moony sniffs into Padfoot’s ear and then begins to draw his tongue up in languid strokes across the fur lining. Padfoot snuggles closer and Moony begins to snuffle his nose down the black dog’s spine, searching out his mate’s most intimate scent.
His desires, however, are interrupted by a threatening crack! Crack! and both the wolf and the dog are at their feet.
Padfoot is growling low in his throat, turning and attempting to herd Moony away from the light and the door where the sound came from. He is not quick enough. There is a shout, and when the door flies free of the hinges, two masked figures charge into the den.
There is a devilishly good scent. There is man-blood in these figures and Moony feels an age-old hunger ripping at him. He leaps forward preparing to spill and lap up the hot, tantalizing blood of these humans.
One of the figures raises a stick at him and yells words. A flash of green launches forth. Padfoot, however, is leaping forward and knocks into the second figure. His weight topples the man directly into the light’s path. The figure that Padfoot has attacked lies dead beneath his paws.
Moony leaps forward, charging at the second man. His jaws lock with the man’s waist and there, ah, there is the coppery delight that he has long desired. No rabbit has ever been this delectable. His prey is screaming in agony and lifting the stick again. He shouts something through sobs as Moony clenches his jaws down again, savoring the crack of bones and the sweetness of blood.
Then Padfoot is running again, his jaws clamping down on the arm with the stick. Moony snarls and lashes out at his mate. He must know his place. Moony will hunt for both of them, he will provide for both of them. This has always been his promise. But he is the alpha; he eats first. But then the prey’s arm cracks under Padfoot’s jaws and the stick falls away.
Then Padfoot stumbles backward and sits down hastily. Moony snarls again, but halts in mid-snap. Padfoot is bleeding.
At first, Moony thinks that it is prey blood that is glimmering on the black fur. Then he steps closer, knowing that his nose does not lie. It does not smell like prey blood. It smells like his mate.
Moony leans in, brushing his tongue across the large gash that crosses Padfoot’s chest. It runs across a forepaw and up under his chin. Padfoot whimpers as Moony’s tongue cleans the gaping cut.
Moony issues a low, feral growl. This writhing thing in the silver mask is no longer prey; it is now the enemy. It has not only threatened his den, it has hurt his mate.
As Moony bears down on the prey, it screams in horror, pulling itself toward the open door by its bare forepaws. Moony latches his jaws down on the prey’s throat, ripping and tearing until it is dead.
If this were a hunt, Moony would lick the throat again and again, savoring the bitter tang oozing forth from the wound. But the hunt is done, the threat is destroyed. He turns his attention to the black dog, panting torturedly on the floor behind him. Padfoot whines and Moony offers a soft, comforting lick to his muzzle.
Moony leads Padfoot back to the nest before the fire. Padfoot stands on shaky legs, attempting a sad wag and limping toward the blanket. He collapses there, whining pitifully. Moony stands over him, glaring predatorily at the two black robed figures lying so close to their nest. He assures himself that they are, in fact, dead, before he curls around his mate.
Padfoot cries when Moony licks at the wound but allows the cleaning to happen. Moony watches a glaze claim Padfoot’s gray eyes and it concerns him but he isn’t sure why. He would consult the human who often lives in his body, but he doesn’t understand man words well. He watches Padfoot fall into a deep slumber and then he settles in for a long night’s vigil. He lays his head on top of the black dog’s sleeping form and waits for the dawn.
The transformation is painful and Moony howls against it. Usually, Padfoot would lick and soothe him, but Padfoot has lain still, sleeping heavily since the depths of the night.
When Remus lies next to the black dog, he knits his fingers into the thick fur of Padfoot’s ruff. Sometimes, Sirius stays as Padfoot to comfort Remus’s transformation back. Today, however, Sirius doesn’t appear to even be awake. Remus’s fingers catch on some matted fur and he brushes the spot again.
Blood.
A panic wells in his throat. Desperation forces Remus’s magic out of his body and without consciously willing it to happen, he has cast the spell that replaces Padfoot with Sirius’s human form. Sirius lies staring sightlessly at Remus’s face. The panic spreads in force; Remus is nearly frantic with the need to do something.
Remus’s hands grasp in a maddened attempt to reissue his lover’s life. He is pressing the gaping wound on Sirius’s chest, trying to will the blood back into its home with his palms. Remus gasps and clutches, finding that his hands and arms are now crusted in dried blood. He calls out to the heavens and the deities unknown, praying for their intervention.
What he receives instead are strong arms tightening around him and pulling him back into wakefulness.
“Remus. Remus. Remus,” Sirius is chanting into his hair.
Remus offers a few sobbing gasps while grabbing handholds on Sirius’s body. It was a dream. Just a dream, he reassures himself. Sirius holds still and is soothing Remus with gentle words and tender touches.
The dream replays itself over and over until Remus is fully aware that the Wolf has been the one to control his dream and has shown him the events of the night before.
“Easy, Moony, it’s alright.”
Remus’s eyes struggle to focus. Sirius is leaning over him, a tender smile on his face.
Remus does not fail to realize that they are home in their cottage in Banbury. He is in their bed, wrapped in clean bandages and pajamas. Sirius is sitting on the edge of the bed in trousers. A large bandage wraps around his torso.
“Death Eaters,” Remus rasps.
“Not here,” Sirius reassures him as he lifts a glass of water from the nightstand at Remus’s left and brings it to his lover’s lips.
Remus coughs out his words as he begrudgingly drinks.
“Last night.”
“Yes,” Sirius says, licking his lips.
“I killed them,” Remus laments between his coughs.
“No. You killed one of them, I killed the other,” Sirius reassures.
Remus feels his throat closing as these words are spoken, but Sirius is touching his cheek. The waves of worry begin to roll over Remus again and again.
"Who was it? Who did I-"
"A Death Eater." Sirius’s voice is calm and hard; he states these three words like they are a fact that may not be challenged.
"No, Sirius, who?" Remus’s desperate desire for knowledge leaves his tone angry and hoarse.
"Why does it matter, Remus?" Sirius asks shortly.
"Because I killed him! I need to know who he was!"
Remus refuses to acknowledge that part of this desperation for the person’s identity is interlaced with a terror of repercussions and not solely for his moral and ethical well-being.
"He attacked you; you defended yourself. If you were in 'man-form' and he had attacked you with the same curse, you'd have defended yourself as well."
"No," Remus says quietly, "it's not the same."
"Why not?"
"Because… I swore that I would never attack someone. I swore I would never give someone this curse…"
"And you didn't."
"I would have, Sirius!"
"No, Remus," Sirius looks away from him then, fingers resting on the bandages at his chest, "You swore that you would never give anyone this disease and you swore," Sirius turns to face him again, "that if you had to you… you would protect me, no matter the cost. You killed that man to ensure he wouldn't live with lycanthropy. Last night you upheld both those promises."
Sirius rises off the bed now and walks out of the room, anger apparent in his stride. Remus reclines there, in their bed, wishing he could rest. It’s the first time he's been here in nearly three weeks, he should be at ease. He wiggles down under the thick duvet and rolls on a hip into the very center of the bed. Usually, when he is here, he can reach out those last few inches and touch Sirius. Maybe that’s why the room feels off kilter.
Remus lays still, thinking and worrying until Sirius returns.
Judging by the way he’s slamming down the teapot and cups he’s brought with him, he’s still angry. Suddenly, the screaming agony of the Death Eater sound familiar in Remus’s mind’s ear.
“I killed… Snape…” Remus manages in a sob.
Sirius’s body tenses but he replies steadily, “Yes.”
“They found us… how did they find us?” he gasps, locking his aching muscles tighter. Sirius abandons the tea and sinks onto the mattress. He pulls Remus into his arms.
“Someone told them where we were, Moony,” Sirius says into Remus’s temple, and then repeats Dumbledore’s words, “there’s a spy.”
Remus shivers feverishly in Sirius’s arms. He squeezes his eyes shut against this news.
“No one knows we’re here, Remus. You’re safe. Just rest. When you’re stronger, I need your help with the wards,” Sirius’s voice is quiet.
Remus simply nods and sinks into the safety of Sirius’s arms.
Remus sleeps the day away and in the haze of the late evening, Sirius helps him limp downstairs. Remus can easily see that Sirius has spent his day cleaning the empty house. There is a blazing fire in the hearth and soup boiling on the stove. Remus wonders if any of the groceries in the pantry were still edible.
Sirius eases Remus into his favorite armchair by the fire. Remus sighs as his head rests against the back. Sirius places a tender kiss on his temple and wraps a knit blanket around him.
“Remus, listen to me,” Sirius rests both his palms on the sides of Remus’s armchair, “I killed the other one. Hell, you can legitimately say I killed both of them. If I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have attacked.”
“Yes, Sirius, I would have. I was hunting.”
“It doesn’t really matter, does it?” Sirius says heavily.
“They’re both dead.”
“They’re not the first we’ve killed.”
Remus offers a slow nod; the thought it more than mildly alarming. Sirius offers a tight smile. Then the dark haired man is off to the kitchen to season their dinner.
The house smells right; it smells like them. Remus can feel the anxiety uncurling from his limbs. In the recesses of his mind, regardless what Sirius says, he is still thinking of the two prone forms on the floor of his parents’ home. He is still thinking of himself as a murderer.
In the kitchen, Sirius drops something onto the tile with a clang! and a “shit.” Remus smiles slightly. But his eyes linger on the painting hanging above the mantelpiece.
No one could claim that Peter, Sirius, or he were artists. Their doodles along the sides of their History of Magic parchments looked like disfigured inchworms or mummies. James, however, had a knack for watercolors. None of them knew this, of course, until Sirius ran away from his noble heritage and sought sanctuary with the Potters. Once there, Sirius had declared James’s art as “ace” and insisted that he have a commissioned piece.
Sirius had pestered and bothered and annoyed James until, finally, as a housewarming gift, James had painted Sirius something. It was easily Sirius’s favorite thing in their home.
The painting was relatively simple. In the foreground stood a familiar beech tree, flanked by a shadowy distortion of Hogwarts. But the beauty was in the people around the tree. None of them had faces, and yet, it was clear to whom each figure represented.
At the base of the tree, a messy haired boy leaned against the trunk. He held hands with a petite ginger, who, from time to time, brushed stray hairs behind her ear. They talked and leaned in, presumable for a kiss, and looked out of the frame into the living room. At the other side of the trunk, behind the boy, a second boy, this one plump and blond, sat on the ground. His face was turned upward, looking into the branches above him. He would wave or cover his face in laughter at that space. In those high branches sat two boys, a tall, raven-haired one and a lean, fair-haired one. Their ankles were hooked together and they often leaned in close to one another to whisper secrets.
If they were fully-faced portraits, they would interact more or move about in their frames. But since they were only impressions of the people whom they represented, they were only magic-ed to have a few repeated actions. Regardless, it had been a surprise to artist and audience both when Lily’s figure slowly grew in pregnancy. Then, in nine months, a small bundle with black hair had joined the portrait. Currently, Harry’s impression was sitting at his father’s feet dragging fingers into unseen dirt.
Remus pulls his eyes away from the picture as Sirius reenters the room, slopping soup over the brims of a pair of bowls. Remus reaches up and takes one of the dishes from his lover’s hands and gazes down into the cloudy liquid.
“It’s chicken noodle,” Sirius reassures him, as he sits down on the floor at Remus’s feet, “But all the veg was rotten… so there isn’t much to it.”
Remus smiles and lifts a spoonful of broth to his lips. They are quiet, listening to the crackle of the logs on the fire and the hum of the magic warding their home. Remus gazes back up to the watercolor above the mantel and sees the faceless Sirius scoot closer to his painted lover. At his feet, Sirius shifts on the floor and Remus prepares to speak.
“It’s either James or Peter,” he says regretfully.
Sirius’s knuckles whiten as he holds his bowl tighter.
“It can’t be. It’s not a Marauder-- or Lily,” Sirius says with assurance.
“Sirius, James and Peter are the only ones who knew where we were last night.”
“They-they told someone who betrayed us. Or someone overheard. It’s not a Marauder; we’re brothers, Remus! They wouldn’t.”
Sirius’s capacity for love and loyalty is flooring to Remus. It, however, often blinds Sirius’s perception. Those whom he loves are accepted and cherished to a degree that is nearly insanity. The option that those around him don’t love him with the same intensity has never occurred to him.
“Sirius,” Remus says, wishing that his voice didn’t sound so gravelly, “I think… I think it’s Peter.”
Sirius stares into the yellow haze of his dinner and after a long pause says, “I forgot to put noodles into the soup. I’m sorry, Remus.”
Remus sighs and closes his eyes. The subject is, apparently, closed. Then Sirius clears his throat.
“It can’t be Peter,” there is hurt anger in his tone, “Peter is in love with you. I highly doubt that he’d want the object of his affection A-Ked. I could see him wanting to off me… I know I’m pretty peeved with the idiot’s affections myself.”
Remus’s eyes fly open at the mention of the previous evening’s Death Eater encounter and a certain death curse.
“Sirius,” he asks, suddenly desperately worried, “your chest. How is your chest?”
Sirius absentmindedly rubs the bandages beneath his shirt, “Aches a little, but it’s alright.”
“Padfoot,” there is terror in Remus’s voice this time, “you died. You died last night. He… there was-Sirius, he cast Avada Kedarva and… and it hit you.”
Sirius sucks in a sharp breath and sits up straighter. He sets his bowl of half-eaten soup on the floor and turns to face Remus.
Remus is nearly hysterical when he speaks next, “Sirius? What happened!? How-“
“Remus, I have to show you something.”
He can feel his heart hammering in his chest as Sirius reaches down and unties a green velvet bag from his belt. Remus recognizes the bag as the one Dumbledore gave his lover when they fled Hogwarts. As Sirius’s fingers touch the bag, it shimmers gold and slowly begins to glow. Sirius unties the drawstrings and dumps the contents into his open palm.
Remus is mildly surprised at how anti-climatic the black stone ring seems as it sits innocently in Sirius’s hand. Sirius, however, is staring at the ring with a certain vexation.
“Do you remember the children’s story about the Deathly Hallows, Moony?” Sirius asks softly.
Remus’s brain is spinning. He stares down at the ring and, gradually, comprehension dawns.
“If you put it on,” Remus begins slowly, “you can call out the dead.”
“No. According to Dumbledore, if you put it on, you could call out the dead.”
Sirius rubs his thumb over the black stone reverently.
“If I put it on, I am the Lord of the Dead.”
Part Four