(no subject)
RULED BY THE MOON
Chapter 10
Title: Ruled by the Moon
Author: Me, nellie_darlin
Disclaimer: Not mine. Jo's.
Pairing/Characters: Remus/Sirius (unrequited so far!)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Genre: Everything! Tis Lupin's Life!
A/N: Many millions of thanks to lyras for the beta-ing, and her endless patience with my vacillating and sometimes shocking writing habits. Feedback is adored.
Summary: Being an account of the life of Remus J Lupin, Esquire, from his first day at Hogwarts to his last on this earth. In many chapters. Also starring Sirius Black, James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, and the various inhabitants of Hogwarts and the wizarding world.
Teaser: “Moony, can you please stop wriggling?”
“Sorry.”
Sirius muttered something like, “You will be,” and gently prodded the piece of metal into the lock. “Come on,” he urged, frowning with concentration. A small click, and he breathed out. “OK,” he murmured. “Next one, please.”
Chapter 10
The Trials of Cartography
“Moony, can you please stop wriggling?”
“Sorry.”
Sirius muttered something like, “You will be,” and gently prodded the piece of metal into the lock. “Come on,” he urged, frowning with concentration. A small click, and he breathed out. “OK,” he murmured. “Next one, please.”
Remus passed him another lock-pick without looking around. Distantly he heard shouts and footsteps. “Can you go any faster?” he hissed. “I think someone’s coming.”
“Shhh,” Sirius said, easing the second pick into the lock. “Almost there,” he muttered.
“Look, being a prefect isn’t going to get me out of this one, Sirius.”
“You’ll be fine,” Sirius replied absently. “Oh, come on, please open.” Another click, then a series of clunks as the tumblers fell out of place. “Gotcha. All right, Moony, in we go.”
The door creaked as it opened, and Remus caught a gust of musty, foetid air. “Urgh,” he said, “how long’s it been since someone was here?”
“Ages,” Sirius replied with glee. “Come on.”
Remus followed Sirius through the doorway, every muscle tensed and the hairs on his arms standing up.
“This is a really bad idea,” he warned. “Doors at Hogwarts are usually locked for a reason.”
“That’s why you’re here and not The Boy with Pointy Bits. You’re as good as an encyclopaedia on the dark arts. Better, in fact, because you’ve got legs so I don’t have to carry you. Although encyclopaedias wouldn’t be so damn chatty.”
Sirius had his wand out and was peering into the gloom. Remus shut the door, and Sirius jumped. “Why’d you do that?” he hissed.
“We were outlined against the light,” Remus replied.
“Yeah, but you’ve locked us in!”
“No I haven’t.” He pointed; the door was slightly ajar, blocked by a notebook.
“Clever,” Sirius said.
Remus just shrugged. “Can we get on with it? I’m meeting Oliver in an hour, and I’ve still got an essay on Containment Charms to finish.”
“Marry in haste, repent in leisure, remember?”
“And curiosity killed the cat. What’s your point?”
His eyes were starting to adjust to the dim light, and he saw that they were standing in a long, low attic, tucked away right under the roof. A grubby skylight at the far end was the only source of illumination, and Remus could see little except the looming mass of old bookshelves.
“There are hundreds,” he gasped, and he saw Sirius too was looking daunted. “How the hell are we going to find it in here?”
“I don’t know,” Sirius whispered. “Do we know when it was decommissioned? I guess the more recent books will be closer to the door.”
“Bloody hope so,” Remus grumbled. “Haddark cross-references it in relation to tracking spells, and that was late nineteenth century. It’s also mentioned by Uberhorst and Gromfield, and it’s in a book with spells that were made illegal in the 1920s. We’re looking at 1925 or so, leaving a year or two for political wrangling. What?” he added grumpily, and Sirius smothered his smile.
“Nothing,” he said. “You take that side. Do we risk a lumos?”
“Going to have to,” Remus said. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”
Wands outstretched, they entered the rows of bookshelves. An eerie silence fell, broken only by the shuffling of their feet on the dusty stone. Odd, really, how books soaked up sound. Remus suppressed a shiver. Buck up, Lupin, he told himself, these are just books. He ignored the voice in his mind that whispered, No book is ‘just a book’, least of all these books. Textbooks all, many from before the First Act of Regulation outlawed the use of Crucio, textbooks that are no longer used, that contain illegal spells, or that are simply too battered to use. Old textbooks, unread for years, power like water behind a dam, ready to break…
He shivered again, shaking the dark thoughts away like a dog shakes water out of its fur. He picked a book at random, judging that 250 Uses for the Common Waterweed was unlikely to be a receptacle for dark magic. Nonetheless, he ran through the most common counter-curses before opening the book. You never knew, at Hogwarts.
Nothing happened. On the title page was a book plate in four columns, headed NAME, YEAR, HOUSE, DATE. Mary-Jane Hennessey, he read. “1966!” he called. “Still too late.”
“I’ve got 1953. Hahaha, this kid was called Gussie.”
“Concentrate, Sirius.”
He walked on, feeling the dust tickling in the back of his throat. His head was starting to ache from the tension of keeping alert, of resisting the whispering voices of the books. A few shelves along, he pulled out Introduction to Advanced Binding Spells and dropped it to the floor, opening it with his foot. Nothing happened, and he let out the breath he’d been holding. He looked at the bookplate. T. M. Riddle, Seventh Year, Slytherin House.
“1945!”
“Keep going!”
1943, 1942, 1940 - the years ticked backwards, the books got older. 1935, 1933, nasty magic these, and Remus shuddered to think what he’d find even further back.
“Shit!” Sirius hissed, and there was the distinctive clatter of a book falling to the floor.
Remus’s heart jumped into his mouth. “Are you alright, Sirius?”
“Yes,” Sirius replied, his voice shaking slightly. “Bastard book bit me.”
“Be careful, all right?”
An Advanced Potion Making with a broken spine. A dark maroon book with Classic Wizarding Trials, Volume III written in gold. A pale blue book that faded away when Remus tried to touch it: A Nymphomania: Woodland Sprites and How to Catch Them. Then:
“Bingo,” he murmured. Cartographer’s Compendium, Vol. II.
~*~
A few days later and another adventure, with James this time. It had occurred to Peter one day at breakfast that the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was an exact copy of the sky outside, and he was immediately packed off to the library in search of Hogwarts: A History and anything else he could find. He returned a few hours later with the glorious news that not only was the spell a secret, but it had reportedly taken the seven best wizards of the day forty days and nights to cast.
“It’s probably a bit of poetic licence,” Remus said, “but it’s still daunting.”
“There’s one bit we can use, though,” Peter cut in, thumbing through the book. “It says here that part of the spell can be recorded, since it’s cut into the beams of the roof.”
“Runes,” James breathed.
Which was why Remus was being inexpertly levitated forty feet above a very, very solid stone floor, peering at some ancient carvings by wandlight. His hands were sweaty and shaking, but he did his best to copy the runes, and when he returned to earth, he was clutching a working copy of a powerful co-dependence spell.
“Brilliant, Moony!” James whispered, clapping Remus on the back.
“No thanks to you, James,” Remus retorted. “I feel seasick.”
“Did my best. But you’re far from a feather, you know. And you were pretty high.”
“I know! I was there!”
“Well, all’s well that ends well, eh?”
They slipped through door and into the entrance hall, their stockinged feet making no sound on the marble.
“Gi’s a hug,” James said with a wink, and Remus allowed James to swirl the cloak around them.
“Getting too big for this now,” he murmured.
“I know! Can you believe we could fit all four of us under it in our first year?”
“Considering the size of your and Sirius’s heads, I’m surprised we could fit two.”
“I’m going to pretend you’re talking about our brains.”
“If it makes you happy.”
They heard footsteps ahead, and they shrank against the wall, slowing their breathing so it wouldn’t be heard. They could see light from an approaching lantern, and a low-level muttering filled the air.
“Filch,” James mouthed, and Remus nodded, his heart in his mouth. This was far from the first time they’d had to cower under the cloak while Filch trudged past, but it didn’t make the waiting any easier. If anything it was worse, since Remus couldn’t help feeling that with each successful evasion, a little bit of his luck was used up. He barely breathed until Filch had rounded the corner again, and when the last light had died away, he sank down the wall, gasping a little.
“That was close,” he whispered, laughing with relief.
James grinned. “We’ve had worse. D’you remember in second year when Filch tripped over Sirius? And you dropped your shoe so it looked like Filch had tripped over that? That was brilliant.”
“For you maybe. I was scared shitless.”
“Oh, so was I. Didn’t stop it being brilliant.”
They sat in silence for a while, gathering their breath. Then James said casually, “Speaking of Sirius…”
“Yes?”
“Have you got over your little tiff with him?”
“Tiff?” Remus joked. “Makes it sound like we’re married.”
James smirked. Remus sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘There was no tiff, James. Everything’s fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Remus said firmly.
~*~
It had gone on for another week. Conversations that were competitions, compliments that were insults, insults that were grudging compliments. Half words and bitten-off sarcasm and resentful, painful glances had flashed between them, and a little part of Remus was amazed at how well they could communicate without words. A shrug of a shoulder wounded him, a cocked eyebrow and a half-smile made it all better. Overtures were started and abandoned, apologies planned but thought better of: a hand outstretched, hovering, before settling back into his lap; a mouth opened to speak, then shut again.
So much was conveyed, and nothing was said.
And it had just gone on, and Remus didn’t know how to stop it. If he were James, he’d just punch Sirius, call him an inbred wanker, and everything would be all right again. If he were Peter, he’d frown and chew his lip and then hide until it all blew over. But he was neither, and although he was closer to Peter than James in this respect, sometimes he just itched to wipe that challenging, insolent, beautiful smile off Sirius’s face. His days were spent in a whirl of fantasies, one minute of punching Sirius, the next of pushing him against a wall and kissing him to within an inch of his life. He had a feeling that neither would help much - although both would give him a lot of satisfaction.
Sitting in that corridor with James, Remus remembered New Year’s Eve, when the inevitable confrontation had finally arrived. Remus had offered to fetch some more booze, and Sirius had followed him despite his protests that he needed no help. Once in the silent darkness of the dormitory, Remus knelt by James’s bed and reached under, his questing fingers brushing against splintery wood. Sirius leant against the doorframe and watched. Remus’s skin prickled under his scrutiny.
Out of nowhere Sirius said, “James thinks we’ve had a fight. I don’t know what he’s on about, actually.” His voice was cool, haughty, indifferent. Remus felt his stomach start to shrivel up, as it always did when Sirius used that tone. He continued to pull at the crate of booze, and said nothing. Presently the floor creaked, and he heard Sirius walk to the window. There was the clank of the casement opening. “Fag, Moony?” Sirius drawled. “No pun intended of course.”
And Remus hated him at that moment, but he found himself accepting a cigarette, found himself kneeling next to Sirius, his hip bumping against Sirius’s leg. He let Sirius light his cigarette, and he noticed with satisfaction that Sirius flinched a little when their eyes met. He could feel the power shifting, a handkerchief in the middle of a tug of war, pulled to one side or another by a misstep or a burst of force, and he wondered who would give in first.
“I mean,” Sirius continued, “you’re not angry with me, are you, Moony?” But he didn’t sound very convinced, and he was frowning a little. Remus still said nothing, knowing that nothing unsettled Sirius more than pointed silence, although he couldn’t think of anything to say anyway. Or rather, anything that wasn’t, “Fuck you,” or possibly, “Fuck me.” So Remus smoked, and said nothing, and listened to Sirius fidgeting.
“I mean,” Sirius said again, and there was a distinct note of discomfort in his voice now. “I mean, I don’t care how you live your life, do I? It’s your life, after all. It’s none of my business. Which is why I don’t care, you can fuck who you like, yeah? Isn’t that the way it goes?” He did this when he was distressed, talking nineteen to the dozen, his words tumbling out in a messy, self-conscious rush. Remus listened and smoked and felt a curious warmth fill his stomach. “I mean, we’re friends and all, but friends have got to have their privacy and stuff, yeah? And it doesn’t bother me that you like someone, that - that it’s not, you know, that stuff’s different, because it’s fine, it’s growing up, right? I mean, I have Cleo, you have Oliver, what’s the difference? And I don’t care. Of course I don’t. And I don’t care that you don’t care either, because that’s the way it should be. Live and let live, eh?” He sucked furiously on his cigarette, and the tobacco flared red in his eyes. One last drag, and then he hurled the butt out of the window. Remus was more careful, stubbing his out on the window ledge before letting it fly.
“The thing is, Remus,” Sirius said, shifting a little so he was almost cross-legged, his knee pressing against Remus’s, his body angled forward like it always was when he was excited. “The thing is,” he said again, and Remus noticed dizzily how close he suddenly was, close enough that Remus could smell the tang of cigarettes on his breath. “The thing is…” Sirius murmured for a third time, and Remus’s heart had disappeared and had been replaced by some small insect that buzzed and buzzed and stung, and he couldn’t remember if he hated Sirius or loved him or even why it mattered, and then …
And then James came crashing in, shouting something incomprehensible about Evans, and Sirius leapt back like he’d been burnt.
~*~
“Yeah,” Remus repeated. “No tiff.”
James said nothing, just took off his glasses and polished them on his jumper. It never made any difference, but it was something to do with his hands.
“Except,” Remus began. The space for his confession was blooming in the air, a big void that needed to be filled. He was opening his mouth to speak when an image of Sirius flashed in front of his eyes, looking angry and disgusted and hurt. Remus closed his mouth and dropped his head. No. He’d just fixed things with Sirius. He wasn’t going to fuck things up with James as well. “Nothing.”
“Well,” James said, patting him rather absently on his hand. “Remember, I’m here if you need to talk.”
Remus smiled mildly and said nothing.
“Righty-ho,” James said then. “Time for bed, I think. Up nice and early tomorrow - lessons, remember.”
Remus groaned.
~*~
Saturday the 10th, and Remus was sitting in the Quidditch stands with Peter and Cleo and Cleo’s friend Rilly, rugs around their knees and Gryffindor scarves wrapped tightly around their necks. Peter had drawn a banner and it was flapping rather noisily above them. The stands were awash with colour and noise, a blue and silver sea crashing on a red and gold shore. Over in the far corner was a small enclave of green; the hardened Slytherins who refused to take sides, who refused to contemplate supporting any other but their house team. Remus couldn’t see their faces, but he knew who they were: Bellatrix and Narcissa Black, Severus Snape and Macnair and the younger Lestrange, and Sirius’s brother Regulus.
“And they’re off!” shouted the commentator, and the crowd roared. “Gryffindor are fielding their strongest team again now that Potter has returned from suspension; otherwise unchanged from the last match. Potter, Davies, Tine, Troy, Black, Field, and Maddon. Ravenclaw are missing their star beater Julian Floyd, but are also otherwise unchanged: Ellis, Gilroy, Lewis, Jones, Jermyn, Carl, and Owens. Following matches last November the championship is still wide open, and both sides will be hoping for a resounding win to boost their chances. Of course Gryffindor play Slytherin next, and that will be a match to watch - although if Potter plays like this it’ll be no contest, Potter has left all the opposition standing and has scored a goal in the second minute! Ten-nil to Gryffindor!”
The stands around Remus erupted, but Remus himself barely looked up.
… can be found in the woods of Northern France, specifically in the -
Bugger. “Pete, where d’you find Inigo’s Trefoil?”
“Picardy,” Peter replied, who had an odd memory for facts, even if his practical magic was a little shaky. “But shouldn’t you be watching the match?”
“Look, I’m here,” Remus grated, feeling the first flutterings of panic in his chest, “I’ll look up if anything happens. I just need to get this done.”
Besides, it would be rather cheeky of either James and Sirius or Oliver to complain about his lack of attention. If they wanted me to watch the match, he thought, then Oliver shouldn’t have given me that blowjob, and James and Sirius shouldn’t have kept me awake till three doing research.
The stands erupted again, and Remus sighed.
…Picardy region. It is characterised by its dark green three-point leaves and small pale-blue flowers. The flowers bloom in late May and can be used to counterbalance the asphodel in the Anaesthesia Potion…
~*~
A loud cheer went up as James and Sirius tumbled through the portrait hole, arms laden with crates and bottles. “Alcohol!” they shouted, “Come one, come all, come buy!”
“Buy?” someone shouted. “Fuck off, Potter.”
James laughed and shrugged. “Worth a try!” he shouted back. “Here we go, chaps, butterbeer for the tinies, and proper stuff for the rest of us. Just a small contribution, though, would be appreciated, since we aren’t made of money.”
Such a patently absurd statement was nonetheless greeted with a shower of coins, mostly knuts but one or two sickles as well, and with pantomimes of relief and exhaustion they dropped their loads on the table by the hearth and scrabbled to collect the fallen change.
“What about McGonagall?” a seventh-year girl asked anxiously. “What if she comes in?”
James and Sirius looked at each other, then James shrugged and Sirius said, “She can join in, of course! She’s a Gryffindor, isn’t she?”
The audience laughed, but the girl frowned. “I mean, what if she sees all the alcohol?”
Sirius looked at her with a faintly condescending, almost baffled look, as if not quite understanding the problem. Remus saw James get an idea (it was a distinctly visible process, if you knew the signs), and watched him lean forward and whisper in Sirius’s ear. Sirius listened, then grinned, and with a silent count of three, they turned and Transfigured all the Butterbeer bottles into mugs of tea. The audience gasped and clapped, although the older students looked a little sour at this ostentatious display of brilliance. Another count, and a bottle of Pirate’s Rum on the mantelpiece became a vase of flowers; a wide gesture, and the spirits bottles became teapots.
“Happy?” Sirius smirked, and the girl huffed and tossed her hair.
“Sod off, you daft cow,” Remus heard Peter mutter, and he smiled.
James and Sirius made an odd little bow and with a cry of “Out of our way, plebes!” they pushed through the crowd to where Remus and Peter were waiting. “Well, lads,” James said, collapsing into an armchair, “that was an adventure and no mistake.”
“Isn’t it brilliant?” Sirius exclaimed. “Three bottles of Vampire’s, two Pirate’s, and at least a million butterbeers, right under old McTabby’s nose. They didn’t even get a sniff of us. Good show, Potter.”
“Too right, Black.” They shook hands solemnly, unable to control their identical beaming grins. They were drunk on success and their own brilliance, and Remus felt a twinge of unease. It was when they were in this mood, cocky and invincible, that the worst things happened. His only hope was to keep his head down and try to limit the damage.
“Where’s my woman?” Sirius roared, and Cleo sauntered over.
“I’m here,” she said, cuffing him round the head, “and I’m my own woman, thank you very much.”
“Shut up and soothe my aching limbs,” Sirius replied, grinning.
“What, here?” Cleo asked, raising an eyebrow. “So all the stories about kinky purebloods are true, then?”
“Most of them.” Sirius’s grin was positively wicked, and Remus was forced to look away, awash with lust and jealousy.
“I will have to conduct a thorough investigation, you know.”
“I was rather hoping you’d say that.”
Rilly and James looked at each other and made simultaneous vomiting noises.
“Come on, lovebirds,” James said, “I want to dance.”
~*~
Remus actually danced this time. It took a certain amount of alcohol and a certain amount of blackmail (“persuasion”, James called it, with a Mafioso innocence), but he danced, and he felt rather cross when he found he enjoyed it.
But after two hours he was exhausted, and he slumped into a window seat for a breather, the adrenaline beating in his veins and making him light-headed. He was probably rather drunk, but he felt good with it, languorous and complete, and he watched the dancing from under hooded eyes. Automatically his eyes found Sirius, and his heart hop-skipped as it always did. Beautiful. Utterly beautiful, Sirius was. Five hundred years ago, he would have modelled for Donatello; two thousand years ago he would have modelled for the Greeks. Remus felt oddly proud then, as if Sirius was his own creation. Pygmalion, he thought, and gave a little drunken giggle. But he sobered up when he remembered that Sirius wasn’t his, wasn’t his at all. If anything he, Remus, was Sirius’s. That was where the power lay. But Sirius was his friend, however fucked-up their friendship was; and even the act of hating Sirius was in itself a possession. He saw a couple of Fourth Year girls dancing rather hopefully next to Sirius, but Sirius didn’t see them, and Remus felt that it was far better to have this odd orbital relationship with fights and desires and resentments and an overarching sense of ownership and inseparability, than a simple nothingness. Indifference was far worse than pure hatred, and that’s why Remus still held an unconfessed hope that Lily would eventually change her mind when it came to James.
“Hello Remus,” drawled a voice, and Remus looked up to see Lily herself standing over him, looking rather drunk.
“Hullo Lily,” he replied. Talk of the devil.
“How’re you?”
“Fine. Yourself?”
“A bit - ahahah - drunk.”
“Along with everyone else - whoops, steady there.” Lily giggled again, and allowed Remus to put her back on her feet.
“Watching Sirius, then?” she said, a little dreamily. She could have been talking to herself.
“Not really.”
“You do that a lot, don’t you?” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Watch him, I mean. I’ve seen you. Always watching. And he watches you. Every time you leave a room, he’s looking.”
“Curious bugger,” Remus murmured, for want of something to say.
“Not just that,” Lily said, looking mysterious and trying to tap her nose, although she missed and poked herself in the eye.
“What do you mean?” Remus asked, an odd sort of dread filling his stomach. But Lily was laughing inanely, and didn’t seem to have heard him. “Lily, what do you mean?”
“Have you ever noticed,” Lily said then, with the sweet innocence of a bomb, “how Cleo is rather like you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Pretty boy Lupin,” Lily continued, in a sing-song voice. “That’s what they call you.”
“Who does?” Sirius asked, coldly, appearing behind Lily with a face like a thundercloud. “Who’s been calling him that?”
Lily laughed again and waved her hand vaguely. “Oh, you know,” she said airily. “Everyone, really. Because he is pretty, aren’t you, Remus? You’re so pretty…” She had been leaning forward, and now she collapsed against his face, nuzzling against his cheek. “Pretty-boy Lupin,” she whispered, like a benediction.
“Get off him.” Sirius jerked Lily away roughly. She stared at him with wide, confused, frightened eyes, leaning limply against the wall. “Go on! Scram!” Remus was shaking; as if from a great distance he heard Rilly say, “Come on, Lils.” Lily huffed and stumbled away, and Sirius looked down at Remus, hand outstretched.
“Come on,” he whispered. “You’re missing the party.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes you do. Don’t be a child.”
“Oh, I’m a child now, am I?” Remus felt suddenly furious, at Lily for rocking his emotional boat, and at the world for making him feel stupid yet again. “Old Man Moony, now a child.”
“God you’re annoying sometimes,” Sirius snapped, and Remus felt it in his chest, as if he’d been kicked.
And then the portrait hole opened and McGonagall walked in. All at once, a hush fell over the room, although the music was still blaring from the gramophone. Seeing the look on McGonagall’s face, Freya Michaels turned it off. Someone gave a drunken giggle.
“I’m sorry to disturb the party,” McGonagall said, and her voice was shaking, “but I need to speak to Amaryllis Jones.”
Everyone turned to Rilly, who had gone white as a sheet. There was a horrible silence while everyone waited for McGonagall to continue, to tell her not to worry, it was only about homework or prefect duty or even some petty misdemeanour, but the silence stretched on for a minute, then two, and McGonagall was looking grimmer than Remus could ever remember.
Then Cleo murmured, “Come on, sweetheart,” and lifted the dazed Rilly to her feet and led her out of the common room after their Head of House.
It seemed a bit silly to continue their argument after that.
next
Prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six
seven | eight | nine | ten
Chapter 10
Title: Ruled by the Moon
Author: Me, nellie_darlin
Disclaimer: Not mine. Jo's.
Pairing/Characters: Remus/Sirius (unrequited so far!)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Genre: Everything! Tis Lupin's Life!
A/N: Many millions of thanks to lyras for the beta-ing, and her endless patience with my vacillating and sometimes shocking writing habits. Feedback is adored.
Summary: Being an account of the life of Remus J Lupin, Esquire, from his first day at Hogwarts to his last on this earth. In many chapters. Also starring Sirius Black, James Potter, Peter Pettigrew, and the various inhabitants of Hogwarts and the wizarding world.
Teaser: “Moony, can you please stop wriggling?”
“Sorry.”
Sirius muttered something like, “You will be,” and gently prodded the piece of metal into the lock. “Come on,” he urged, frowning with concentration. A small click, and he breathed out. “OK,” he murmured. “Next one, please.”
Chapter 10
The Trials of Cartography
“Moony, can you please stop wriggling?”
“Sorry.”
Sirius muttered something like, “You will be,” and gently prodded the piece of metal into the lock. “Come on,” he urged, frowning with concentration. A small click, and he breathed out. “OK,” he murmured. “Next one, please.”
Remus passed him another lock-pick without looking around. Distantly he heard shouts and footsteps. “Can you go any faster?” he hissed. “I think someone’s coming.”
“Shhh,” Sirius said, easing the second pick into the lock. “Almost there,” he muttered.
“Look, being a prefect isn’t going to get me out of this one, Sirius.”
“You’ll be fine,” Sirius replied absently. “Oh, come on, please open.” Another click, then a series of clunks as the tumblers fell out of place. “Gotcha. All right, Moony, in we go.”
The door creaked as it opened, and Remus caught a gust of musty, foetid air. “Urgh,” he said, “how long’s it been since someone was here?”
“Ages,” Sirius replied with glee. “Come on.”
Remus followed Sirius through the doorway, every muscle tensed and the hairs on his arms standing up.
“This is a really bad idea,” he warned. “Doors at Hogwarts are usually locked for a reason.”
“That’s why you’re here and not The Boy with Pointy Bits. You’re as good as an encyclopaedia on the dark arts. Better, in fact, because you’ve got legs so I don’t have to carry you. Although encyclopaedias wouldn’t be so damn chatty.”
Sirius had his wand out and was peering into the gloom. Remus shut the door, and Sirius jumped. “Why’d you do that?” he hissed.
“We were outlined against the light,” Remus replied.
“Yeah, but you’ve locked us in!”
“No I haven’t.” He pointed; the door was slightly ajar, blocked by a notebook.
“Clever,” Sirius said.
Remus just shrugged. “Can we get on with it? I’m meeting Oliver in an hour, and I’ve still got an essay on Containment Charms to finish.”
“Marry in haste, repent in leisure, remember?”
“And curiosity killed the cat. What’s your point?”
His eyes were starting to adjust to the dim light, and he saw that they were standing in a long, low attic, tucked away right under the roof. A grubby skylight at the far end was the only source of illumination, and Remus could see little except the looming mass of old bookshelves.
“There are hundreds,” he gasped, and he saw Sirius too was looking daunted. “How the hell are we going to find it in here?”
“I don’t know,” Sirius whispered. “Do we know when it was decommissioned? I guess the more recent books will be closer to the door.”
“Bloody hope so,” Remus grumbled. “Haddark cross-references it in relation to tracking spells, and that was late nineteenth century. It’s also mentioned by Uberhorst and Gromfield, and it’s in a book with spells that were made illegal in the 1920s. We’re looking at 1925 or so, leaving a year or two for political wrangling. What?” he added grumpily, and Sirius smothered his smile.
“Nothing,” he said. “You take that side. Do we risk a lumos?”
“Going to have to,” Remus said. “I can’t see a bloody thing.”
Wands outstretched, they entered the rows of bookshelves. An eerie silence fell, broken only by the shuffling of their feet on the dusty stone. Odd, really, how books soaked up sound. Remus suppressed a shiver. Buck up, Lupin, he told himself, these are just books. He ignored the voice in his mind that whispered, No book is ‘just a book’, least of all these books. Textbooks all, many from before the First Act of Regulation outlawed the use of Crucio, textbooks that are no longer used, that contain illegal spells, or that are simply too battered to use. Old textbooks, unread for years, power like water behind a dam, ready to break…
He shivered again, shaking the dark thoughts away like a dog shakes water out of its fur. He picked a book at random, judging that 250 Uses for the Common Waterweed was unlikely to be a receptacle for dark magic. Nonetheless, he ran through the most common counter-curses before opening the book. You never knew, at Hogwarts.
Nothing happened. On the title page was a book plate in four columns, headed NAME, YEAR, HOUSE, DATE. Mary-Jane Hennessey, he read. “1966!” he called. “Still too late.”
“I’ve got 1953. Hahaha, this kid was called Gussie.”
“Concentrate, Sirius.”
He walked on, feeling the dust tickling in the back of his throat. His head was starting to ache from the tension of keeping alert, of resisting the whispering voices of the books. A few shelves along, he pulled out Introduction to Advanced Binding Spells and dropped it to the floor, opening it with his foot. Nothing happened, and he let out the breath he’d been holding. He looked at the bookplate. T. M. Riddle, Seventh Year, Slytherin House.
“1945!”
“Keep going!”
1943, 1942, 1940 - the years ticked backwards, the books got older. 1935, 1933, nasty magic these, and Remus shuddered to think what he’d find even further back.
“Shit!” Sirius hissed, and there was the distinctive clatter of a book falling to the floor.
Remus’s heart jumped into his mouth. “Are you alright, Sirius?”
“Yes,” Sirius replied, his voice shaking slightly. “Bastard book bit me.”
“Be careful, all right?”
An Advanced Potion Making with a broken spine. A dark maroon book with Classic Wizarding Trials, Volume III written in gold. A pale blue book that faded away when Remus tried to touch it: A Nymphomania: Woodland Sprites and How to Catch Them. Then:
“Bingo,” he murmured. Cartographer’s Compendium, Vol. II.
~*~
A few days later and another adventure, with James this time. It had occurred to Peter one day at breakfast that the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall was an exact copy of the sky outside, and he was immediately packed off to the library in search of Hogwarts: A History and anything else he could find. He returned a few hours later with the glorious news that not only was the spell a secret, but it had reportedly taken the seven best wizards of the day forty days and nights to cast.
“It’s probably a bit of poetic licence,” Remus said, “but it’s still daunting.”
“There’s one bit we can use, though,” Peter cut in, thumbing through the book. “It says here that part of the spell can be recorded, since it’s cut into the beams of the roof.”
“Runes,” James breathed.
Which was why Remus was being inexpertly levitated forty feet above a very, very solid stone floor, peering at some ancient carvings by wandlight. His hands were sweaty and shaking, but he did his best to copy the runes, and when he returned to earth, he was clutching a working copy of a powerful co-dependence spell.
“Brilliant, Moony!” James whispered, clapping Remus on the back.
“No thanks to you, James,” Remus retorted. “I feel seasick.”
“Did my best. But you’re far from a feather, you know. And you were pretty high.”
“I know! I was there!”
“Well, all’s well that ends well, eh?”
They slipped through door and into the entrance hall, their stockinged feet making no sound on the marble.
“Gi’s a hug,” James said with a wink, and Remus allowed James to swirl the cloak around them.
“Getting too big for this now,” he murmured.
“I know! Can you believe we could fit all four of us under it in our first year?”
“Considering the size of your and Sirius’s heads, I’m surprised we could fit two.”
“I’m going to pretend you’re talking about our brains.”
“If it makes you happy.”
They heard footsteps ahead, and they shrank against the wall, slowing their breathing so it wouldn’t be heard. They could see light from an approaching lantern, and a low-level muttering filled the air.
“Filch,” James mouthed, and Remus nodded, his heart in his mouth. This was far from the first time they’d had to cower under the cloak while Filch trudged past, but it didn’t make the waiting any easier. If anything it was worse, since Remus couldn’t help feeling that with each successful evasion, a little bit of his luck was used up. He barely breathed until Filch had rounded the corner again, and when the last light had died away, he sank down the wall, gasping a little.
“That was close,” he whispered, laughing with relief.
James grinned. “We’ve had worse. D’you remember in second year when Filch tripped over Sirius? And you dropped your shoe so it looked like Filch had tripped over that? That was brilliant.”
“For you maybe. I was scared shitless.”
“Oh, so was I. Didn’t stop it being brilliant.”
They sat in silence for a while, gathering their breath. Then James said casually, “Speaking of Sirius…”
“Yes?”
“Have you got over your little tiff with him?”
“Tiff?” Remus joked. “Makes it sound like we’re married.”
James smirked. Remus sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘There was no tiff, James. Everything’s fine.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Remus said firmly.
~*~
It had gone on for another week. Conversations that were competitions, compliments that were insults, insults that were grudging compliments. Half words and bitten-off sarcasm and resentful, painful glances had flashed between them, and a little part of Remus was amazed at how well they could communicate without words. A shrug of a shoulder wounded him, a cocked eyebrow and a half-smile made it all better. Overtures were started and abandoned, apologies planned but thought better of: a hand outstretched, hovering, before settling back into his lap; a mouth opened to speak, then shut again.
So much was conveyed, and nothing was said.
And it had just gone on, and Remus didn’t know how to stop it. If he were James, he’d just punch Sirius, call him an inbred wanker, and everything would be all right again. If he were Peter, he’d frown and chew his lip and then hide until it all blew over. But he was neither, and although he was closer to Peter than James in this respect, sometimes he just itched to wipe that challenging, insolent, beautiful smile off Sirius’s face. His days were spent in a whirl of fantasies, one minute of punching Sirius, the next of pushing him against a wall and kissing him to within an inch of his life. He had a feeling that neither would help much - although both would give him a lot of satisfaction.
Sitting in that corridor with James, Remus remembered New Year’s Eve, when the inevitable confrontation had finally arrived. Remus had offered to fetch some more booze, and Sirius had followed him despite his protests that he needed no help. Once in the silent darkness of the dormitory, Remus knelt by James’s bed and reached under, his questing fingers brushing against splintery wood. Sirius leant against the doorframe and watched. Remus’s skin prickled under his scrutiny.
Out of nowhere Sirius said, “James thinks we’ve had a fight. I don’t know what he’s on about, actually.” His voice was cool, haughty, indifferent. Remus felt his stomach start to shrivel up, as it always did when Sirius used that tone. He continued to pull at the crate of booze, and said nothing. Presently the floor creaked, and he heard Sirius walk to the window. There was the clank of the casement opening. “Fag, Moony?” Sirius drawled. “No pun intended of course.”
And Remus hated him at that moment, but he found himself accepting a cigarette, found himself kneeling next to Sirius, his hip bumping against Sirius’s leg. He let Sirius light his cigarette, and he noticed with satisfaction that Sirius flinched a little when their eyes met. He could feel the power shifting, a handkerchief in the middle of a tug of war, pulled to one side or another by a misstep or a burst of force, and he wondered who would give in first.
“I mean,” Sirius continued, “you’re not angry with me, are you, Moony?” But he didn’t sound very convinced, and he was frowning a little. Remus still said nothing, knowing that nothing unsettled Sirius more than pointed silence, although he couldn’t think of anything to say anyway. Or rather, anything that wasn’t, “Fuck you,” or possibly, “Fuck me.” So Remus smoked, and said nothing, and listened to Sirius fidgeting.
“I mean,” Sirius said again, and there was a distinct note of discomfort in his voice now. “I mean, I don’t care how you live your life, do I? It’s your life, after all. It’s none of my business. Which is why I don’t care, you can fuck who you like, yeah? Isn’t that the way it goes?” He did this when he was distressed, talking nineteen to the dozen, his words tumbling out in a messy, self-conscious rush. Remus listened and smoked and felt a curious warmth fill his stomach. “I mean, we’re friends and all, but friends have got to have their privacy and stuff, yeah? And it doesn’t bother me that you like someone, that - that it’s not, you know, that stuff’s different, because it’s fine, it’s growing up, right? I mean, I have Cleo, you have Oliver, what’s the difference? And I don’t care. Of course I don’t. And I don’t care that you don’t care either, because that’s the way it should be. Live and let live, eh?” He sucked furiously on his cigarette, and the tobacco flared red in his eyes. One last drag, and then he hurled the butt out of the window. Remus was more careful, stubbing his out on the window ledge before letting it fly.
“The thing is, Remus,” Sirius said, shifting a little so he was almost cross-legged, his knee pressing against Remus’s, his body angled forward like it always was when he was excited. “The thing is,” he said again, and Remus noticed dizzily how close he suddenly was, close enough that Remus could smell the tang of cigarettes on his breath. “The thing is…” Sirius murmured for a third time, and Remus’s heart had disappeared and had been replaced by some small insect that buzzed and buzzed and stung, and he couldn’t remember if he hated Sirius or loved him or even why it mattered, and then …
And then James came crashing in, shouting something incomprehensible about Evans, and Sirius leapt back like he’d been burnt.
~*~
“Yeah,” Remus repeated. “No tiff.”
James said nothing, just took off his glasses and polished them on his jumper. It never made any difference, but it was something to do with his hands.
“Except,” Remus began. The space for his confession was blooming in the air, a big void that needed to be filled. He was opening his mouth to speak when an image of Sirius flashed in front of his eyes, looking angry and disgusted and hurt. Remus closed his mouth and dropped his head. No. He’d just fixed things with Sirius. He wasn’t going to fuck things up with James as well. “Nothing.”
“Well,” James said, patting him rather absently on his hand. “Remember, I’m here if you need to talk.”
Remus smiled mildly and said nothing.
“Righty-ho,” James said then. “Time for bed, I think. Up nice and early tomorrow - lessons, remember.”
Remus groaned.
~*~
Saturday the 10th, and Remus was sitting in the Quidditch stands with Peter and Cleo and Cleo’s friend Rilly, rugs around their knees and Gryffindor scarves wrapped tightly around their necks. Peter had drawn a banner and it was flapping rather noisily above them. The stands were awash with colour and noise, a blue and silver sea crashing on a red and gold shore. Over in the far corner was a small enclave of green; the hardened Slytherins who refused to take sides, who refused to contemplate supporting any other but their house team. Remus couldn’t see their faces, but he knew who they were: Bellatrix and Narcissa Black, Severus Snape and Macnair and the younger Lestrange, and Sirius’s brother Regulus.
“And they’re off!” shouted the commentator, and the crowd roared. “Gryffindor are fielding their strongest team again now that Potter has returned from suspension; otherwise unchanged from the last match. Potter, Davies, Tine, Troy, Black, Field, and Maddon. Ravenclaw are missing their star beater Julian Floyd, but are also otherwise unchanged: Ellis, Gilroy, Lewis, Jones, Jermyn, Carl, and Owens. Following matches last November the championship is still wide open, and both sides will be hoping for a resounding win to boost their chances. Of course Gryffindor play Slytherin next, and that will be a match to watch - although if Potter plays like this it’ll be no contest, Potter has left all the opposition standing and has scored a goal in the second minute! Ten-nil to Gryffindor!”
The stands around Remus erupted, but Remus himself barely looked up.
… can be found in the woods of Northern France, specifically in the -
Bugger. “Pete, where d’you find Inigo’s Trefoil?”
“Picardy,” Peter replied, who had an odd memory for facts, even if his practical magic was a little shaky. “But shouldn’t you be watching the match?”
“Look, I’m here,” Remus grated, feeling the first flutterings of panic in his chest, “I’ll look up if anything happens. I just need to get this done.”
Besides, it would be rather cheeky of either James and Sirius or Oliver to complain about his lack of attention. If they wanted me to watch the match, he thought, then Oliver shouldn’t have given me that blowjob, and James and Sirius shouldn’t have kept me awake till three doing research.
The stands erupted again, and Remus sighed.
…Picardy region. It is characterised by its dark green three-point leaves and small pale-blue flowers. The flowers bloom in late May and can be used to counterbalance the asphodel in the Anaesthesia Potion…
~*~
A loud cheer went up as James and Sirius tumbled through the portrait hole, arms laden with crates and bottles. “Alcohol!” they shouted, “Come one, come all, come buy!”
“Buy?” someone shouted. “Fuck off, Potter.”
James laughed and shrugged. “Worth a try!” he shouted back. “Here we go, chaps, butterbeer for the tinies, and proper stuff for the rest of us. Just a small contribution, though, would be appreciated, since we aren’t made of money.”
Such a patently absurd statement was nonetheless greeted with a shower of coins, mostly knuts but one or two sickles as well, and with pantomimes of relief and exhaustion they dropped their loads on the table by the hearth and scrabbled to collect the fallen change.
“What about McGonagall?” a seventh-year girl asked anxiously. “What if she comes in?”
James and Sirius looked at each other, then James shrugged and Sirius said, “She can join in, of course! She’s a Gryffindor, isn’t she?”
The audience laughed, but the girl frowned. “I mean, what if she sees all the alcohol?”
Sirius looked at her with a faintly condescending, almost baffled look, as if not quite understanding the problem. Remus saw James get an idea (it was a distinctly visible process, if you knew the signs), and watched him lean forward and whisper in Sirius’s ear. Sirius listened, then grinned, and with a silent count of three, they turned and Transfigured all the Butterbeer bottles into mugs of tea. The audience gasped and clapped, although the older students looked a little sour at this ostentatious display of brilliance. Another count, and a bottle of Pirate’s Rum on the mantelpiece became a vase of flowers; a wide gesture, and the spirits bottles became teapots.
“Happy?” Sirius smirked, and the girl huffed and tossed her hair.
“Sod off, you daft cow,” Remus heard Peter mutter, and he smiled.
James and Sirius made an odd little bow and with a cry of “Out of our way, plebes!” they pushed through the crowd to where Remus and Peter were waiting. “Well, lads,” James said, collapsing into an armchair, “that was an adventure and no mistake.”
“Isn’t it brilliant?” Sirius exclaimed. “Three bottles of Vampire’s, two Pirate’s, and at least a million butterbeers, right under old McTabby’s nose. They didn’t even get a sniff of us. Good show, Potter.”
“Too right, Black.” They shook hands solemnly, unable to control their identical beaming grins. They were drunk on success and their own brilliance, and Remus felt a twinge of unease. It was when they were in this mood, cocky and invincible, that the worst things happened. His only hope was to keep his head down and try to limit the damage.
“Where’s my woman?” Sirius roared, and Cleo sauntered over.
“I’m here,” she said, cuffing him round the head, “and I’m my own woman, thank you very much.”
“Shut up and soothe my aching limbs,” Sirius replied, grinning.
“What, here?” Cleo asked, raising an eyebrow. “So all the stories about kinky purebloods are true, then?”
“Most of them.” Sirius’s grin was positively wicked, and Remus was forced to look away, awash with lust and jealousy.
“I will have to conduct a thorough investigation, you know.”
“I was rather hoping you’d say that.”
Rilly and James looked at each other and made simultaneous vomiting noises.
“Come on, lovebirds,” James said, “I want to dance.”
~*~
Remus actually danced this time. It took a certain amount of alcohol and a certain amount of blackmail (“persuasion”, James called it, with a Mafioso innocence), but he danced, and he felt rather cross when he found he enjoyed it.
But after two hours he was exhausted, and he slumped into a window seat for a breather, the adrenaline beating in his veins and making him light-headed. He was probably rather drunk, but he felt good with it, languorous and complete, and he watched the dancing from under hooded eyes. Automatically his eyes found Sirius, and his heart hop-skipped as it always did. Beautiful. Utterly beautiful, Sirius was. Five hundred years ago, he would have modelled for Donatello; two thousand years ago he would have modelled for the Greeks. Remus felt oddly proud then, as if Sirius was his own creation. Pygmalion, he thought, and gave a little drunken giggle. But he sobered up when he remembered that Sirius wasn’t his, wasn’t his at all. If anything he, Remus, was Sirius’s. That was where the power lay. But Sirius was his friend, however fucked-up their friendship was; and even the act of hating Sirius was in itself a possession. He saw a couple of Fourth Year girls dancing rather hopefully next to Sirius, but Sirius didn’t see them, and Remus felt that it was far better to have this odd orbital relationship with fights and desires and resentments and an overarching sense of ownership and inseparability, than a simple nothingness. Indifference was far worse than pure hatred, and that’s why Remus still held an unconfessed hope that Lily would eventually change her mind when it came to James.
“Hello Remus,” drawled a voice, and Remus looked up to see Lily herself standing over him, looking rather drunk.
“Hullo Lily,” he replied. Talk of the devil.
“How’re you?”
“Fine. Yourself?”
“A bit - ahahah - drunk.”
“Along with everyone else - whoops, steady there.” Lily giggled again, and allowed Remus to put her back on her feet.
“Watching Sirius, then?” she said, a little dreamily. She could have been talking to herself.
“Not really.”
“You do that a lot, don’t you?” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Watch him, I mean. I’ve seen you. Always watching. And he watches you. Every time you leave a room, he’s looking.”
“Curious bugger,” Remus murmured, for want of something to say.
“Not just that,” Lily said, looking mysterious and trying to tap her nose, although she missed and poked herself in the eye.
“What do you mean?” Remus asked, an odd sort of dread filling his stomach. But Lily was laughing inanely, and didn’t seem to have heard him. “Lily, what do you mean?”
“Have you ever noticed,” Lily said then, with the sweet innocence of a bomb, “how Cleo is rather like you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Pretty boy Lupin,” Lily continued, in a sing-song voice. “That’s what they call you.”
“Who does?” Sirius asked, coldly, appearing behind Lily with a face like a thundercloud. “Who’s been calling him that?”
Lily laughed again and waved her hand vaguely. “Oh, you know,” she said airily. “Everyone, really. Because he is pretty, aren’t you, Remus? You’re so pretty…” She had been leaning forward, and now she collapsed against his face, nuzzling against his cheek. “Pretty-boy Lupin,” she whispered, like a benediction.
“Get off him.” Sirius jerked Lily away roughly. She stared at him with wide, confused, frightened eyes, leaning limply against the wall. “Go on! Scram!” Remus was shaking; as if from a great distance he heard Rilly say, “Come on, Lils.” Lily huffed and stumbled away, and Sirius looked down at Remus, hand outstretched.
“Come on,” he whispered. “You’re missing the party.”
“I don’t care.”
“Yes you do. Don’t be a child.”
“Oh, I’m a child now, am I?” Remus felt suddenly furious, at Lily for rocking his emotional boat, and at the world for making him feel stupid yet again. “Old Man Moony, now a child.”
“God you’re annoying sometimes,” Sirius snapped, and Remus felt it in his chest, as if he’d been kicked.
And then the portrait hole opened and McGonagall walked in. All at once, a hush fell over the room, although the music was still blaring from the gramophone. Seeing the look on McGonagall’s face, Freya Michaels turned it off. Someone gave a drunken giggle.
“I’m sorry to disturb the party,” McGonagall said, and her voice was shaking, “but I need to speak to Amaryllis Jones.”
Everyone turned to Rilly, who had gone white as a sheet. There was a horrible silence while everyone waited for McGonagall to continue, to tell her not to worry, it was only about homework or prefect duty or even some petty misdemeanour, but the silence stretched on for a minute, then two, and McGonagall was looking grimmer than Remus could ever remember.
Then Cleo murmured, “Come on, sweetheart,” and lifted the dazed Rilly to her feet and led her out of the common room after their Head of House.
It seemed a bit silly to continue their argument after that.
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Prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six
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