Fic: The Odds of Faith in the Face of Doubt (Remus/Sirius)
So I have kind of a thing for Tamlane...
The Odds of Faith in the Face of Doubt | HP | Remus/Sirius | PG | 1,400
Remus learns to believe in the fairytale.
The Odds of Faith in the Face of Doubt
The note is unsigned, the owl unfamiliar, the handwriting meticulous -- backslanted in a way Remus hasn't seen since his mother passed.
Even though the war is over, he is wary of meeting strangers, and the Forbidden Forest is always dangerous, though less so for him than for most. It's the reference to the waxing moon and the stars that piques his interest.
Curiosity was ever his besetting sin, and he's paid for it his whole life. He's not going to stop now.
He refolds the parchment and finishes his tea, trying to ignore the little hum of excitement beneath his skin.
*
He is waiting by the lightning struck oak, as the note instructed, when he hears the sound of hooves.
He tenses -- centaurs have no love of humans, and their tolerance for werewolves is even lower -- and then Firenze canters into the clearing. Remus breathes a relieved sigh and inclines his head in greeting.
"I haven't much time," Firenze says. "Tomorrow is All Hallow's Eve. The veil grows thin, and the old ones walk among the living and the dead." Remus tells himself it's only the autumn chill in the air, not Firenze's words, that sends a shiver down his spine.
"Myths, legends," he says.
"You are a werewolf, and I, a centaur. Who are you to question?"
Remus laughs uneasily, conceding the point. "What has this to do with me?"
"The dog star will be visible for what may be the last time tomorrow night between midnight and one am. If you are willing, and your heart is true, you may yet win him back."
Remus clings tightly to the tattered edges of his calm. "What?"
"You will know him by the bright star upon his brow and the hand he leaves ungloved. Cast a circle and seize him by his bare white hand."
Remus waves a dismissive hand. "You speak nonsense, fairytales--"
Firenze is relentless. "Your lack of belief will cost you -- and him -- everything. If you don't wish to rescue him...."
Remus shivers again. "What must I do?"
"You know the story."
"There are many stories, Firenze. What--"
But the centaur shakes his head. "I have told you everything I can. You must believe, and you must hold fast to his hand, no matter what magics they use upon him." He gallops off into the darkness before Remus can question him further.
Muttering a curse, Remus Disapparates.
*
He spends the remainder of the night and most of the day bent over books, scrolls, everything he can find or summon on the subject at short notice. By dusk, he has the possible locations narrowed to three; when he reviews them again after a brisk shower and a cup of strong coffee, he slumps back in his chair, one hand pushed through damp hair, and laughs at his own blindness.
He dresses warmly, snuffs the candles (a note addressed to Harry spelled to deliver itself if he doesn't return sits on the kitchen table), and Apparates to Godric's Hollow.
*
The moon is waxing gibbous and the night is clear. Remus, feeling foolish, waits at the crossroads as the village church clock chimes midnight.
For thirteen years he'd lived without hope, all of it taken from him on this night seventeen years ago. He'd had it back for two and now he can't let go again. He's tried; he and Tonks lasted almost a year after that unfortunate beginning in the Hogwarts infirmary, and he can't blame her for the way it unraveled under the weight of his own inability to give up some hopes and hold hard to others.
He is cursing himself for lunacy when the path in front of him begins to glow eerily, and the sounds of horses and harnesses jingling fill the crisp night air. He shrinks back against a tree, watching from his carefully charmed circle as the faerie court, something even most of the wizarding world believes to be a myth, rides towards him on the road to Godric's Hollow.
The Faerie Queen is easy to spot, her hair silvergilt silk in the moonlight, caught back in a fillet so delicate it might have been made of starlight. At her right hand rides a black-haired man with a face both terrible and beautiful, and so familiar that Remus almost chokes with the pain of seeing him. He wears a star glowing upon his forehead and his bare left hand is milk white in the darkness.
When he is close enough, Remus lunges, grabbing hold of that bare hand with its long, elegant fingers and prominent knuckles. He remembers the feel of it on his skin, the taste of it in his mouth, and holds on with all his strength and all the hope he can muster.
"What's this?" the Faerie Queen cries. "Shall you steal away my prize, my bright star?"
Sirius looks at him with the supercilious hauteur bred into him over the past eight hundred years. "The attention is flattering, mate," he says in a bored tone that sends a warning shiver of fear down Remus's spine, "but you're a little beneath me, don't you think? You always were. Liked it there, too, as I recall."
Ice, Remus thinks, drawing a sharp breath against the unexpected pain of Sirius's words. Fire next.
Sure enough, Sirius takes a swing at him, teeth bared in a fierce growl. Remus ducks but doesn't let go. They tumble to the ground together in an ungainly heap. Sirius wriggles, trying to get free, and Remus pins him, desperately hoping they haven't disturbed his circle. There's too much magic in the air for him to be able to tell.
"Filthy half-breed," Sirius whispers, attempting to slither out of his grip.
Snake, Remus thinks. Almost there.
Sirius bucks up in a mockery of intimacy, and Remus gasps at the feel of him, hard and lean between his thighs, his hand like an iron vise on Remus's arm.
"Let me go."
"No," Remus growls. With a wild flourish of his wand, he says, "Aguamenti," showering them both with water.
Sirius shudders and shivers and shrinks in on himself, suddenly becoming the gaunt, scarred man who had escaped Azkaban and haunted Grimmauld Place like a bitter ghost who'd refused to believe in his own death.
Remus swirls his cloak around them, covering them both, still clinging tightly to Sirius's hand, and then leans in to press a tentative kiss to Sirius's damp face.
"So, Wolf, you've won my prize."
He stands, pulling Sirius up with him, refusing to let him go even now. "I have," he answers, raising his chin defiantly. "By the rules of your world and mine, your claim upon him is now void."
"Aye," she says, "though he was prettier when he was mine." With that, she rides off, the court following.
Remus watches until they disappear into the night, the glow lingering for a moment, flaring up and then dissipating like the flash of a camera, leaving him seeing spots in the darkness. He is still holding Sirius's hand, not quite ready to turn and see if it's truly him, now that the odd old magic of the faerie has passed.
"I can't believe you let her insult me like that," Sirius says, and the teasing note in his voice, the warmth of his breath on Remus's neck, is real enough.
"I rescued your sorry arse, didn't I?" he answers with a smile so wide he thinks he may never be able to frown again.
Sirius flutters his eyelashes and pretends to swoon against Remus's chest. "My hero!"
"Prat," Remus murmurs, laughing, lips pressed against Sirius's hair. "You would be king of the fairies. Was it fun?"
"It was a nightmare. And I thought you were insatiable."
"Bastard," Remus whispers, running his fingers over Sirius's face, through his hair, proving to himself Sirius is really there.
Sirius raises their hands, still joined, to his lips for a brief kiss. "Away for -- how long was I away for?"
"Two years."
"Away for two years, and this is the welcome home I get?"
"Sirius." Remus's voice breaks, and then Sirius is kissing him, and he is kissing Sirius, as if no time had passed at all.
Under the sharp light of moon and stars, they cling to each other as if they will never part again, and Remus swears he will never doubt the old stories again.
The End
***
Feedback is adored.
***
I should be in bed. Gah.
The Odds of Faith in the Face of Doubt | HP | Remus/Sirius | PG | 1,400
Remus learns to believe in the fairytale.
The Odds of Faith in the Face of Doubt
The note is unsigned, the owl unfamiliar, the handwriting meticulous -- backslanted in a way Remus hasn't seen since his mother passed.
Even though the war is over, he is wary of meeting strangers, and the Forbidden Forest is always dangerous, though less so for him than for most. It's the reference to the waxing moon and the stars that piques his interest.
Curiosity was ever his besetting sin, and he's paid for it his whole life. He's not going to stop now.
He refolds the parchment and finishes his tea, trying to ignore the little hum of excitement beneath his skin.
*
He is waiting by the lightning struck oak, as the note instructed, when he hears the sound of hooves.
He tenses -- centaurs have no love of humans, and their tolerance for werewolves is even lower -- and then Firenze canters into the clearing. Remus breathes a relieved sigh and inclines his head in greeting.
"I haven't much time," Firenze says. "Tomorrow is All Hallow's Eve. The veil grows thin, and the old ones walk among the living and the dead." Remus tells himself it's only the autumn chill in the air, not Firenze's words, that sends a shiver down his spine.
"Myths, legends," he says.
"You are a werewolf, and I, a centaur. Who are you to question?"
Remus laughs uneasily, conceding the point. "What has this to do with me?"
"The dog star will be visible for what may be the last time tomorrow night between midnight and one am. If you are willing, and your heart is true, you may yet win him back."
Remus clings tightly to the tattered edges of his calm. "What?"
"You will know him by the bright star upon his brow and the hand he leaves ungloved. Cast a circle and seize him by his bare white hand."
Remus waves a dismissive hand. "You speak nonsense, fairytales--"
Firenze is relentless. "Your lack of belief will cost you -- and him -- everything. If you don't wish to rescue him...."
Remus shivers again. "What must I do?"
"You know the story."
"There are many stories, Firenze. What--"
But the centaur shakes his head. "I have told you everything I can. You must believe, and you must hold fast to his hand, no matter what magics they use upon him." He gallops off into the darkness before Remus can question him further.
Muttering a curse, Remus Disapparates.
*
He spends the remainder of the night and most of the day bent over books, scrolls, everything he can find or summon on the subject at short notice. By dusk, he has the possible locations narrowed to three; when he reviews them again after a brisk shower and a cup of strong coffee, he slumps back in his chair, one hand pushed through damp hair, and laughs at his own blindness.
He dresses warmly, snuffs the candles (a note addressed to Harry spelled to deliver itself if he doesn't return sits on the kitchen table), and Apparates to Godric's Hollow.
*
The moon is waxing gibbous and the night is clear. Remus, feeling foolish, waits at the crossroads as the village church clock chimes midnight.
For thirteen years he'd lived without hope, all of it taken from him on this night seventeen years ago. He'd had it back for two and now he can't let go again. He's tried; he and Tonks lasted almost a year after that unfortunate beginning in the Hogwarts infirmary, and he can't blame her for the way it unraveled under the weight of his own inability to give up some hopes and hold hard to others.
He is cursing himself for lunacy when the path in front of him begins to glow eerily, and the sounds of horses and harnesses jingling fill the crisp night air. He shrinks back against a tree, watching from his carefully charmed circle as the faerie court, something even most of the wizarding world believes to be a myth, rides towards him on the road to Godric's Hollow.
The Faerie Queen is easy to spot, her hair silvergilt silk in the moonlight, caught back in a fillet so delicate it might have been made of starlight. At her right hand rides a black-haired man with a face both terrible and beautiful, and so familiar that Remus almost chokes with the pain of seeing him. He wears a star glowing upon his forehead and his bare left hand is milk white in the darkness.
When he is close enough, Remus lunges, grabbing hold of that bare hand with its long, elegant fingers and prominent knuckles. He remembers the feel of it on his skin, the taste of it in his mouth, and holds on with all his strength and all the hope he can muster.
"What's this?" the Faerie Queen cries. "Shall you steal away my prize, my bright star?"
Sirius looks at him with the supercilious hauteur bred into him over the past eight hundred years. "The attention is flattering, mate," he says in a bored tone that sends a warning shiver of fear down Remus's spine, "but you're a little beneath me, don't you think? You always were. Liked it there, too, as I recall."
Ice, Remus thinks, drawing a sharp breath against the unexpected pain of Sirius's words. Fire next.
Sure enough, Sirius takes a swing at him, teeth bared in a fierce growl. Remus ducks but doesn't let go. They tumble to the ground together in an ungainly heap. Sirius wriggles, trying to get free, and Remus pins him, desperately hoping they haven't disturbed his circle. There's too much magic in the air for him to be able to tell.
"Filthy half-breed," Sirius whispers, attempting to slither out of his grip.
Snake, Remus thinks. Almost there.
Sirius bucks up in a mockery of intimacy, and Remus gasps at the feel of him, hard and lean between his thighs, his hand like an iron vise on Remus's arm.
"Let me go."
"No," Remus growls. With a wild flourish of his wand, he says, "Aguamenti," showering them both with water.
Sirius shudders and shivers and shrinks in on himself, suddenly becoming the gaunt, scarred man who had escaped Azkaban and haunted Grimmauld Place like a bitter ghost who'd refused to believe in his own death.
Remus swirls his cloak around them, covering them both, still clinging tightly to Sirius's hand, and then leans in to press a tentative kiss to Sirius's damp face.
"So, Wolf, you've won my prize."
He stands, pulling Sirius up with him, refusing to let him go even now. "I have," he answers, raising his chin defiantly. "By the rules of your world and mine, your claim upon him is now void."
"Aye," she says, "though he was prettier when he was mine." With that, she rides off, the court following.
Remus watches until they disappear into the night, the glow lingering for a moment, flaring up and then dissipating like the flash of a camera, leaving him seeing spots in the darkness. He is still holding Sirius's hand, not quite ready to turn and see if it's truly him, now that the odd old magic of the faerie has passed.
"I can't believe you let her insult me like that," Sirius says, and the teasing note in his voice, the warmth of his breath on Remus's neck, is real enough.
"I rescued your sorry arse, didn't I?" he answers with a smile so wide he thinks he may never be able to frown again.
Sirius flutters his eyelashes and pretends to swoon against Remus's chest. "My hero!"
"Prat," Remus murmurs, laughing, lips pressed against Sirius's hair. "You would be king of the fairies. Was it fun?"
"It was a nightmare. And I thought you were insatiable."
"Bastard," Remus whispers, running his fingers over Sirius's face, through his hair, proving to himself Sirius is really there.
Sirius raises their hands, still joined, to his lips for a brief kiss. "Away for -- how long was I away for?"
"Two years."
"Away for two years, and this is the welcome home I get?"
"Sirius." Remus's voice breaks, and then Sirius is kissing him, and he is kissing Sirius, as if no time had passed at all.
Under the sharp light of moon and stars, they cling to each other as if they will never part again, and Remus swears he will never doubt the old stories again.
The End
***
Feedback is adored.
***
I should be in bed. Gah.