Fic: La Isla Mágica for torino10154
Title: La Isla Mágica
Author: magnetic_pole
Recipient: torino10154
Rating: R for brief but explicit sexual content
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *An aborted wank, unsatisfying sex, satisfying sex, angst, non-chronological story-telling *
Word count: 5100
Summary: Slowly, Sirius comes alive. Five weeks in hiding on La Isla Mágica.
Notes: torino10154, I fail at smut! This is a story about sex more than it's a particularly sexy story. I tried to include several of your other wishes, though: "getting to know you all over again," hurt/comfort, romance, "post-POA/pre-OotP setting--you pick the precise location." Thanks to S for beta help, though I've tinkered extensively, so all remaining mistakes are my own.
Sirius knows he’s come back to life when a pretty witch smiles at him at El sombrero seleccionador in the wizarding quarter of San Sebastián.
It’s almost midnight, closing time at the tiny expat pub, and the publican, a weathered goblin named Leslie, is grumbling to himself and starting to wipe down the tables. Outside, Sirius lingers at his table, alone, waiting for Leslie to move him on. He savors the last inch of his Butterbeer, slipping slowly. Cerveza de Mantequilla, more like. The sign reads “Genuine British ale,” but Sirius’ drink definitely isn’t. It’s a little sweeter, befitting the island. Above him, the stars hang heavy in the sky. Here and almost everywhere near the port and the beach, the sound of the ocean marks languid time.
The witch who interrupts his reverie is in her early forties, perhaps, with a thin freckled face that shows the effects of the sun. She wears a long, loose orange patterned dress that clashes with her hair. It reminds him of a dress Lily's mum used to wear.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” the witch says, sitting down opposite him.
No one has spoken to Sirius unprompted for days now. No one has smiled at him like that in years. How did he do this, back when pretty girls smiled at him all the time?
“Hello.” His voice is rough from disuse.
“Hi.” She smiles brightly and gestures toward his drink. "Not bad, hm?"
His hand tightens on his drink. He should offer to buy her one, too, but Leslie is always cross toward the end of the day, and he’ll be closing any minute now. He can feel his own heart beat.
The witch shakes her head, seeming to sense his dilemma. “No, thanks, I’m on my way home. I saw you sitting there and--” She inspects him, not bothering to hide her curiosity. “You don’t look like someone on a mini-break, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Sirius doesn't have a story ready; part of the reason he’d come here after leaving Harry was to avoid precisely that kind of question. “I’m recovering,” he says at last.
She nods and reaches across the table to touch Sirius’ hand, just a brush. “From what?”
“Death.” He smiles to soften the response.
She laughs. “Your own?”
He nods.
“Sounds like there’s a story there. I’m Sheila, by the way.”
“James.”
Leslie emerges from the pub, scowling. “Closed! ¡Vete!” A phalanx of mops march out onto the pavement, swirling in unison, and Sirius’ Butterbeer unceremoniously vanishes.
Sheila rises, hesitating. “Do you come here often, James?”
Sirius nods.
“I’ll see you around, then,” she says, and she’s gone.
Sirius walks back to the guesthouse slowly, listening to the sounds of the pubs and restaurants closing down and the last holiday-makers strolling home. San Sebastián isn't large. The lush silence of the island night swallows their noise effortlessly.
His heart is slowing down, his palms drying off. His visceral reaction to Sheila puzzles him. It's not fear. He knows that emotion intimately. Anger? No. It's not attraction; he hasn't felt that kind of attraction in years, suspects he's no longer capable.
Only when he reaches the pale green house at the end of the street and begins to fish in his pockets for the key does he realize: it's the same heightened sensation he used to feel when he and James were planning a prank.
It's excitement. He's almost forgotten what that feels like.
***
The day he leaves Britain, Sirius is unable to locate Remus and unwilling to go to Dumbledore, and so he risks a trip to a small suburban post office and sends an urgent owl to Professor McGonagall. In less than two hours, she manages to procure a pouch of Galleons from the Black family vault, no questions asked. She liaises with him in a small rooming house in Knockturn Alley, where Sirius is waiting for nightfall. The summer sun lingers stubbornly.
"Where will you go?" she asks, handing him the pouch.
"The Canary Islands," he replies. It's an easy answer; he's known since he left Harry at Hogwarts.
If she's surprised, she shows no sign of it. Instead, she nods in approval. “There’s a large wizarding community there these days, and the Spanish Ministry's hardly present. Go to La Gomera, not Gran Canaria or Tenerife. It's quieter.” She smiles. "They call it the magic island."
“La Gomera.” Sirius’ mouth wraps around the new words.
“Ask for Leslie,” she adds. “He’ll be able to help you with a room."
"Thank you," he says. He's grateful for her help; Dumbledore almost certainly would have had his own plans for Sirius, and they would have argued. "I'm not sure what I would have done without you."
"I'm not sure, either," Professor McGonagall says, not unkindly. "Good luck, Sirius. Safe travels."
***
It's a sign of just how much Sirius has relaxed over the past three weeks that he has his key in the lock before he notices the glow of a lamp in his room, visible through the window. In an instant, all his defenses are back up: he has his wand out, poised, and he struggles to remember a curse that's simple enough he'll get it right the first time.
Expelliarmus should do. After that he'll improvise.
Inside, a chair scrapes on the floor, and a reedy voice calls out his name in quiet, guarded tones. "Padfoot?"
Remus? Sirius turns the key and pushes against the heavy door. Only one lamp is lit, but Sirius can easily make out Remus' form standing in front of his table. He's not wearing robes, just a white shirt and familiar khaki trousers. His feet are bare.
Remus must sense something inhospitable in Sirius' expression because he runs a hand through his hair--a nervous habit--and shrugs. "Sorry, didn't mean to intrude," Remus said. "I met Althea downstairs and explained who I was. She let me in."
So much for secrecy. Sirius sits down at the table and nods at the other chair, inviting Remus to join him.
“Dumbledore was concerned he hadn’t heard from you," Remus says. "He asked me to find you.”
"Didn't McGonagall tell him?"
"Minerva?" Remus frowns. "Did you talk to her before you left?"
Now Sirius is confused. “Then how did you know where I was?”
“I ran into Arabella the other day, and she mentioned the exotic birds delivering letters to Harry. I knew immediately. Where else would you have gone?"
A shared memory hangs in the air between them.
“I found a Portkey to Tenerife--it's a lot cheaper now, one every hour from Diagon Alley," Remus continues. "I asked about a wizard arriving by Hippogriff, and someone pointed me here. I took the ferry from Los Cristianos. The journey was only half an hour or so, not so bad." Remus runs a hand through his hair again, licks his lips. "I might stay for a few days, if you don't mind. Now that I'm here. It's lovely."
Sirius isn't sure whether he approves or not, but who is he to tell Remus what to do? He shrugs.
"That's settled, then," Remus says, rising. "Althea gave me a room upstairs, actually."
"Remus--" Sirius says.
Remus pauses, hand on the door knob. "Yes?"
"I think we're wearing the same trousers," Sirius says.
Remus looks down and laughs. "Did you buy yours from the house-elf on the Calle Real, too? La Gomera doesn't seem like a place for robes."
"Good night," Sirius says.
"Good night."
Sirius lies in bed that night with one hand tracing patterns on his chest, the other circling his soft prick. He tries thinking of Sheila, but it's no use. Perhaps she reminds him too much of Lily's mum. (Though he realizes he's now closer in age to Lily's mum than he is to Lily.) He thinks of James and New Year's Eve 1981, the night that Lily left early and James drank more than usual and narrated a recent blow job to Sirius in dirty detail. For almost a year, that had been Sirius' favorite fantasy--the memory of James whispering the word "arse" in his ear had sent him over the edge, every time.
Tonight, again, nothing. He falls asleep with his pants tangled around his ankles.
***
With Leslie's grudging help, Sirius finds a matrimonio, a room intended for two, on the first floor of a small, pale green building near the water. The owner, Althea, a middle-aged witch from Great Yarmouth, also knows Professor McGonagall. She promises to find a place for Buckbeak with a friend on the outskirts of town and doesn't ask why Sirius didn't arrive by Portkey like everyone else. She's a motherly sort, the kind who calls him Jamie and promises to bring him a full English breakfast in the morning. Sirius doesn't care. The room is filled with soft afternoon light, and the wood floors are smooth and warm beneath his feet. Stripes of sun filter in through the shutters. He doesn't even take off his clothes before he sinks down on the bed.
Perhaps he should come up with another alias, he thinks as he falls asleep. Using James' name only reminds him that the real James should be here.
He sleeps for three days. On the fourth, he wakes and wanders outside, looking for a newspaper that might tell him how many days have passed since he arrived. He takes a bath and heads into town wearing a hat because he has promised Althea he would. He doesn't intend to do anything else she recommends. He's not on holiday.
The town is filled with tourists from Germany and Britain who have shed their robes in favor of swim costumes and who are covered in an oily potion meant to protect the skin from the sun.
Althea had given him that potion, too. He'd rather feel the sun on his skin.
He buys oranges and eats them one section at a time, sucking on each until the flavor finally dies on his tongue. He eats papas arrugadas with an unfamiliar spicy sauce. The bananas are almost unbearably sweet. He tries pizza, that Muggle delicacy, for the first time in his life, sitting in a crowded cafe alongside a family with two blond boys who attend Durmstrang and a daughter who is headed there in the autumn. He doesn't wait for it to cool, and the first bite burns the roof of his mouth. He samples wines from Lanzarote and Tenerife that taste like nothing he's ever had at home.
There are missteps. His charms are rusty, and he breaks the kettle trying to fix a cup of tea. He gorges on some of the island’s best soft cheeses and can’t shit for a week. Toward the end he’s so panicked he considers returning to Madam Pomfrey at Hogwarts. But that, too, passes (ha!).
He visits the local post office, inspecting the birds available for letters to Harry. The canaries and finches are too small for anything but inter-island mail. He sends a brilliant African parrot one week, then a green pigeon the next. Not too often, he warns himself, or someone will notice. As with the wine, he aims at moderation.
He spends his days walking along the shore in a swimming costume he purchased from a shop near the beach. He feels stronger. His face looks less gaunt. Even the mirror, less obsequious than hotel mirrors usually are, notices the improvement.
“Looking better!” it says.
***
Remus knocks on his door in the morning carrying a tray with his breakfast. "Can I join you?" he asks. Sirius hides under the covers and watches Remus make himself at home, reheating the tea with a tap of his wand, charming his knife to butter his toast.
"Come join me," Remus says, and Sirius pulls up his pants and rolls out of bed with a groan. In turns out Remus has buttered both sets of toast because Sirius is now either an invalid or a Squib. (Or perhaps both.)
Remus takes one look at him sitting there in front of his toast and runny eggs and laughs. "You're so burnt, Sirius. I didn't see it last night, in the dark. Didn't you buy any potion?"
Sirius touches the back of his neck. His skin is warm all the time now. He likes it that way.
"So much to tell you," Remus says conversationally, pouring him a cup of tea. "Where shall I start?"
They start with Harry, because that's the only topic that holds Sirius' interest these days. Remus doesn't actually know much that Sirius himself hasn't already gleaned from his forays onto the Hogwarts grounds, but talking about Harry keeps Remus occupied and relieves Sirius from saying much. First thing he's going to do when he gets back is find a proper home for Harry, away from Lily's sister, who seems to be even more of an idiot than Sirius remembers. Second, he's going to tell Harry a thing or two about his mother and father. He's not sure why Remus has been so circumspect. They died for him, for Merlin's sake. Harry ought to think of them every day, just as Sirius does.
Sirius has forgotten just how much Remus enjoys talking. Remus has finished his toast and eggs and his pot of tea and has now drunk most of Sirius', and he's going on about one of Harry's friends, the young witch with the hair. Sirius nods and watches a crumb descend from the middle of Remus' chest, where it had fallen, to his protruding stomach, where it comes to rest. One of the many things that is different about Remus now is his stomach, which sags over the top of his trousers, round and heavy. Sirius wants to poke it or squeeze it, to see how soft it is.
"What about you?" Remus asks, interrupting Sirius' inspection. "How have you been?"
The cautious tone in his voice annoys Sirius. He's been sitting in a cell on an island in the North Sea for years after making a mistake that cost his best friend his life. What does he have to say to anyone? "Not much you don't already know," he says finally. "What about you?"
Remus refills his tea cup. Sirius places his hand over his. "No, thanks."
The big news in Remus' life seems to be the fact that he's not properly a werewolf any more. He's been a participant in the Wolfsbane trials at St Mungo's for several years, and now he sleeps through the full moon instead of running wild. It's a bit of a disappointment to Sirius. What fun is a harmless werewolf? Especially one who complains about the potion and its side effects--aches and pains and hair growth and low energy.
Still, Sirius isn't so bored he can't see the point of the story: despite the aches and pains, Remus sees himself as almost healthy after being sick for many years. It's odd. Sirius has never thought of him as ill. He's always been...just Remus. Moony. He casts about for another question to keep Remus talking.
"Are you and Emmeline--" He can't really imagine Remus with a wife or children, but that's what he had thought about James. Even Peter got engaged.
Remus shakes his head. "We weren't together, even before--" his voice trails off. "I don't know if you remember."
Sirius shrugs and shakes his head. He doesn't remember much about Emmeline at all. He and Remus hadn't seen much of each other after they joined the Order, or cared about each other very much, for that matter. They both remember that. Why pretend?
"Well, Emmeline wanted to have children, and I didn't, and that was that." Then, in a slightly different tone: "A few years later, during the trials, I lived with Rufus--do you remember Rufus?"
"Not Rufus Scrimgeour."
Remus laughs. "No. Definitely not. The werewolf? He came to some Order meetings."
Sirius doesn't remember him either, but neither the name nor the pronoun has escaped his notice. "You slept with a bloke?" Sirius asks, just to be clear.
Remus nods.
"Oh," Sirius says.
Remus is waiting. For what?
"All right?" Sirius offers, and Remus begins talking again. Like the story of the Wolfsbane potion, this one is too long for Sirius to listen to carefully. It's about how much time this Rufus bloke spent away, with the other werewolves, and how much Remus disliked that, and how eventually Remus decided he was better off on his own.
But, Sirius muses, this story is less dull. Significantly less dull. In fact, it's by far the most interesting thing Remus has said about himself since arriving. It makes Sirius look at him differently. He studies Remus' face. He's never thought it particularly attractive, and it still appears unremarkable. The thought of Remus and another bloke has his prick interested, though, which is something Sirius thought might never happen again. He shifts in his chair, remembering how arousal feels.
It feels good.
"Let's walk," Sirius says, because they've been sitting indoors for hours. "You're here, we may as well be outside."
***
For days after he arrived, Sirius had walked the beach, soaking up the sun. He hasn't been warm or dry in years. The sun is so bright he can't look at it, and his eyes are strained by the vivid colors of the buildings scrambling up the hill, away from the port. He spends much of his time sitting, listing to the waves, not thinking at all.
After a week or so, he begins exploring the town. La Gomera is filled with so many wizards from home that Sirius puts away his Spanish phrasebook and begins to worry about his anonymity. On a narrow street near his guesthouse he finds a book shop with a series of Brave Auror Adventures he remembers from his childhood and several textbooks from school. He browses, drinking in the smell of old books. A small white paperback left on the floor at the very back of the shop catches his eye. Muggles Are People, Too! the cover proclaims in bold, red letters set on the diagonal.
Sirius used to carry a copy Muggles Are People, Too! in his bag. He'd enjoyed the book, but even more, he enjoyed the way witches looked at him when he talked about it. Hestia Jones, ordinarily bright enough, had just about swooned when he cited it during an Order meeting. “I love what you said, just now,” she had whispered to him that night, as the meeting drew to a close. “About the fundamental humanity of Muggles.”
He had handed her his copy of the book. “Read it. My address is inside, when you’re ready to return it.”
They'd slept together three days later, as expected, when Hestia finishes the book. Sirius had been bored, as he almost always was when he slept with witches. After he had finished, Hestia had pushed him down between her legs, and Sirius had held his breath and licked until his jaw was sore and wished they were done already.
Afterward, as they lay in bed in that hazy state on the edge of sleep, Hestia had talked about Squibs and Muggles and Sirius had a revelation: he doesn't love Muggles so much as he loves the war itself. Hestia, James and Lily, the others--they are all waiting for it to end. Sirius isn't quite sure what he'd do with himself without Voldemort.
Seeing the book again in San Sebastián reminds him of that night in all its painful detail. He shouldn't have loved the war so much--he knows that, he knew that even then--but the war had suited him. Fighting Voldemort was the opposite of being a Black, and Sirius had always prided himself on snubbing his family.
Sirius stands in the book shop, thinking. There must be some middle ground, between being a Black and hating everything the Blacks stand for.
"Only two Knuts for the paperback," the shop keeper says when he sees Sirius and his pile of books. Sirius sets Muggles Are People, Too! down on an empty shelf and stacks the Brave Auror Adventures and the Charms textbook near the cash register.
"Just these," he says.
***
Remus does not seem to be in hurry to head back to Britain.
He knocks on Sirius' door every morning, ready to plan the day. Together, they walk along the beach, and when they tire of that, they walk away from the water, through the town, across plowed fields, and, one memorable day, into the laurel forest.
Unlike Sirius, Remus talks with other wizards and witches--on the street, in shops, at restaurants. He quizzes Althea about the island, where they should go, what they should do. He asks about restaurants all the time, which has the best view, which has the best food. He always wants to try a new one, always asks for the cheque. On the sixth day of his visit, Sirius realizes that Dumbledore might have asked Remus to take care of him, might be paying him to do so. It would explain a lot. He's not as angry about the situation as he thinks he should be.
Instead, he realizes, he's growing accustomed to being taken care of.
He finds himself watching Remus, noticing details. Not just the soft stomach, but the stiffness in his shoulders in the morning, his easy camaraderie with strangers, the lines around his eyes that give him away when he's trying not to laugh.
Sirius used to think of Remus as an audience. Now their roles are reversed, and Sirius watches himself watching Remus. There are no other couples like them in town--not that Sirius can identify, though there are two middle-aged wizards who sit together at the far end of the Playa Santiago--but he imagines Remus touching his back protectively as they walk on the plaza, the way husbands and wives sometimes touch each other. He's fairly certain he doesn't imagine the intimacy between them.
He sees Sheila once more in the Plaza America, late one evening as they walk back toward the guesthouse, threading their way through a group of Irish wizards who are talking too loudly. She's wearing the same long orange dress. She smiles at him and Remus and waves, but she turns away quickly, as if she doesn't want to disturb them.
***
One week after Remus arrives, Sirius realizes that he wants to talk, and he wants to talk about Peter, not James or Lily.
They have walked inland again, up a long road that leads to the top of a hill overlooking the town. Tenerife, always on the horizon, looks even closer than usual, and Sirius can count the tourists on the ferry approaching the port. "One day," Sirius begins, huffing as they near the top of the hill. "You were away by then--one day Peter asked me if I thought it might be okay if Voldemort won. If we just stopped fighting. If fighting was just making everything worse."
Remus is sweating and breathing laboriously, and it's a moment before he responds. "What did you say?"
"I told him he should shut up and just do what he was told to do," Sirius replies. "It never occurred to me he would do anything else."
Remus is silent. They're almost at the summit. Sirius arrives first, and he bends over to catch his breath, hands on his knees. Remus arrives a moment later. Sirius waits until they're both breathing regularly again.
"I wish I hadn't said that," Sirius says. "I wish I'd treated Peter better. If only for James' and Lily's sake."
To Sirius' surprise, Remus has nothing to say. They both look out at Tenerife, at the outline of the volcano against the deep blue sky. Remus takes Sirius' hand in his own and squeezes it. It's a kind gesture, but it's also intense, like the first orange Sirius had when he arrived on the island. Almost too much.
Sirius leans over to kiss Remus. He misses the first time--he leans too far and butts up against Remus' teeth--but then he tries again, catches Remus' lips, pushes his tongue inside. Remus doesn't respond at first, but then his tongue is moving against Sirius', soft and devastating, and Sirius' prick throbs.
Sirius grabs Remus' hand where it's resting on Sirius' arse and presses it against his cock. Remus lets out a cynical snort but complies, pressing where Sirius is telling him to press, rubbing where Sirius tells him to rub. There's no time to unbutton his trousers. He can feel the pressure building, his heart beating faster and faster. He squeezes his eyes shut against the sun. Then Remus sucks at his neck, and he comes, hard, with a gasp.
He opens his eyes and leans against Remus, trying to catch his breath. He realizes he'd forgotten the wet, sticky sensation of soiled pants.
"Er, a little help here?" Remus asks. It's more awkward, now that the initial excitement is over, but Sirius unbuckles Remus' belt and grasps Remus' prick, stroking the way he has always liked to stroke himself. Everything is backward, and his own wrist is in the way. He can tell he doesn't have the rhythm quite right because he can feel Remus shifting against him, struggling, but the sound of his ragged breath is oddly beautiful. When Remus comes, Sirius gasps out loud again himself, feeling victorious.
Sirius pulls back and wipes his hand on his shirt. Remus looks ridiculous there, with his trousers down around his knees, and Sirius laughs. "Look at us."
"That was unexpected," Remus says. Then, with a sigh: "Not bad for your first time."
Sirius nods, too pleased with himself to care about the backhanded compliment. "I'll get better," he says. "I always do."
Remus pulls up his trousers and cleans them both up. "Usually I ask a bloke to take me to dinner first," he says. He sounds amused. "But I suppose we've already done that."
***
"Here's an interesting thing about Peter," Remus says later that night at the pub over a soggy dish of chips. Sirius isn't sure if he's changing the subject or continuing their conversation. "I think Peter might have a son."
Sirius catches Leslie's eye and signals for more wine. Remus opens his mouth and looks like he's like to object, but he takes another chip instead.
"After Susan left Peter--" Remus glances at Sirius, and Sirius nods. He remembers that. Remus had kept in touch with Susan. He and James had kept in touch with Peter.
"After Susan left Peter, she married a Muggle from Surrey and had a baby. Almost immediately. I always wondered. Her son arrived at Hogwarts the year before I was there, Gryffindor, just a year behind Harry. He has the Muggle's surname, but I got Minerva to look up his birthday for me. He could have been Peter's. The timing was right."
Sirius thinks about Harry and this boy, sitting together in the Great Hall. "Serves him right if he never finds out," Sirius says. "Even a Muggle would be a better father than Peter."
Remus rolls his eyes and ignores his comment.
"He was registered as Muggle-born at Hogwarts," Remus says. "So maybe I'm wrong. But he had a camera like Peter's, and he took pictures of Harry all the time--Susan must have talked about Harry at home. It was like Peter and James all over again."
They finish their chips in silence, watching the tourists walk past. The sun has set, and the temperature's fallen a few degrees.
"Do you remember when Peter first brought that camera back with him, fifth year?" Sirius asks. "With the negatives?"
Remus nods, but Sirius wonders if he remembers the scene as well as Sirius does: all four of them standing there in a makeshift darkroom, staring at a grotesque series of tiny pictures of Peter’s sisters, frozen and brown, with eyes that shone a ghostly white. “These are the inverse of the final photographs,” Peter had explained, puffed up with a rare confidence. “When we develop these, they’ll have the proper colors.”
"But they still won't move," Sirius had objected. At the time Sirius had dismissed the negatives as a Muggle oddity, but the image now comes back to him, its meaning finally clear.
"After we left school," Sirius says. "Nothing seemed quite real. Everything was like those negatives--the light parts were dark, and the dark parts were light. This--" He gestures at the table between then and the plaza beyond. "This is like the final photograph."
Remus raises an eyebrow. "Glorious Technicolor? I'm flattered." He grins. "That's just the wine talking, Sirius."
Leslie is pacing nearby, ready to close on the stroke of midnight. "¡Vete!” he calls, and their wine glasses and plate of chips vanish. Remus stands, ready to leave, but Sirius catches Leslie by the arm as he walks by. "Good night," he says softly. "And thank you."
***
Back when they lived at Godric's Hollow, James and Lily used to have a tattered poster pinned up on the inside of the bathroom door. Turquoise, canary yellow, orange. The colors swim in Sirius memory. A woman in a Spanish frock, bananas, a tropical bird, the long expanse of the seaside. Islas Canarias, the poster used to read. Portkeys from Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade in January 1974! He used to sit on the toilet and stare at it.
Lily used to make plans for the end of the war constantly. “When this is all over,” she used to say, “we'll go out to dinner. We'll entertain. We'll go to the cinema. We'll go to an island, far, far away. We’ll leave Harry with Petunia and Vernon and lie on the beach for a month.”
He still remembers the way she said that, "a month," as if she couldn't imagine anything more decadent.
Sirius has now been on La Gomera for five weeks, two of those with Remus. They lie on the beach, side by side, watching the pale flesh of dozens of holiday-makers turn red in the sun. Round-bellied children run screaming into the water. Sirius buries his feet in the sand. Next to him, Remus is busy reading the Prophet. Instead of holding his hand, Sirius slips a finger between the elastic waistband on Remus' swimming costume and the warm rolls of Remus' stomach.
He's hanging on. He's hanging in. He's still here.
He has been dead, and now he's alive again. He has only just begun to think of that as a story worth telling.
Author: magnetic_pole
Recipient: torino10154
Rating: R for brief but explicit sexual content
Contents or warnings (highlight to view): *An aborted wank, unsatisfying sex, satisfying sex, angst, non-chronological story-telling *
Word count: 5100
Summary: Slowly, Sirius comes alive. Five weeks in hiding on La Isla Mágica.
Notes: torino10154, I fail at smut! This is a story about sex more than it's a particularly sexy story. I tried to include several of your other wishes, though: "getting to know you all over again," hurt/comfort, romance, "post-POA/pre-OotP setting--you pick the precise location." Thanks to S for beta help, though I've tinkered extensively, so all remaining mistakes are my own.
Sirius knows he’s come back to life when a pretty witch smiles at him at El sombrero seleccionador in the wizarding quarter of San Sebastián.
It’s almost midnight, closing time at the tiny expat pub, and the publican, a weathered goblin named Leslie, is grumbling to himself and starting to wipe down the tables. Outside, Sirius lingers at his table, alone, waiting for Leslie to move him on. He savors the last inch of his Butterbeer, slipping slowly. Cerveza de Mantequilla, more like. The sign reads “Genuine British ale,” but Sirius’ drink definitely isn’t. It’s a little sweeter, befitting the island. Above him, the stars hang heavy in the sky. Here and almost everywhere near the port and the beach, the sound of the ocean marks languid time.
The witch who interrupts his reverie is in her early forties, perhaps, with a thin freckled face that shows the effects of the sun. She wears a long, loose orange patterned dress that clashes with her hair. It reminds him of a dress Lily's mum used to wear.
“Haven’t seen you here before,” the witch says, sitting down opposite him.
No one has spoken to Sirius unprompted for days now. No one has smiled at him like that in years. How did he do this, back when pretty girls smiled at him all the time?
“Hello.” His voice is rough from disuse.
“Hi.” She smiles brightly and gestures toward his drink. "Not bad, hm?"
His hand tightens on his drink. He should offer to buy her one, too, but Leslie is always cross toward the end of the day, and he’ll be closing any minute now. He can feel his own heart beat.
The witch shakes her head, seeming to sense his dilemma. “No, thanks, I’m on my way home. I saw you sitting there and--” She inspects him, not bothering to hide her curiosity. “You don’t look like someone on a mini-break, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Sirius doesn't have a story ready; part of the reason he’d come here after leaving Harry was to avoid precisely that kind of question. “I’m recovering,” he says at last.
She nods and reaches across the table to touch Sirius’ hand, just a brush. “From what?”
“Death.” He smiles to soften the response.
She laughs. “Your own?”
He nods.
“Sounds like there’s a story there. I’m Sheila, by the way.”
“James.”
Leslie emerges from the pub, scowling. “Closed! ¡Vete!” A phalanx of mops march out onto the pavement, swirling in unison, and Sirius’ Butterbeer unceremoniously vanishes.
Sheila rises, hesitating. “Do you come here often, James?”
Sirius nods.
“I’ll see you around, then,” she says, and she’s gone.
Sirius walks back to the guesthouse slowly, listening to the sounds of the pubs and restaurants closing down and the last holiday-makers strolling home. San Sebastián isn't large. The lush silence of the island night swallows their noise effortlessly.
His heart is slowing down, his palms drying off. His visceral reaction to Sheila puzzles him. It's not fear. He knows that emotion intimately. Anger? No. It's not attraction; he hasn't felt that kind of attraction in years, suspects he's no longer capable.
Only when he reaches the pale green house at the end of the street and begins to fish in his pockets for the key does he realize: it's the same heightened sensation he used to feel when he and James were planning a prank.
It's excitement. He's almost forgotten what that feels like.
***
The day he leaves Britain, Sirius is unable to locate Remus and unwilling to go to Dumbledore, and so he risks a trip to a small suburban post office and sends an urgent owl to Professor McGonagall. In less than two hours, she manages to procure a pouch of Galleons from the Black family vault, no questions asked. She liaises with him in a small rooming house in Knockturn Alley, where Sirius is waiting for nightfall. The summer sun lingers stubbornly.
"Where will you go?" she asks, handing him the pouch.
"The Canary Islands," he replies. It's an easy answer; he's known since he left Harry at Hogwarts.
If she's surprised, she shows no sign of it. Instead, she nods in approval. “There’s a large wizarding community there these days, and the Spanish Ministry's hardly present. Go to La Gomera, not Gran Canaria or Tenerife. It's quieter.” She smiles. "They call it the magic island."
“La Gomera.” Sirius’ mouth wraps around the new words.
“Ask for Leslie,” she adds. “He’ll be able to help you with a room."
"Thank you," he says. He's grateful for her help; Dumbledore almost certainly would have had his own plans for Sirius, and they would have argued. "I'm not sure what I would have done without you."
"I'm not sure, either," Professor McGonagall says, not unkindly. "Good luck, Sirius. Safe travels."
***
It's a sign of just how much Sirius has relaxed over the past three weeks that he has his key in the lock before he notices the glow of a lamp in his room, visible through the window. In an instant, all his defenses are back up: he has his wand out, poised, and he struggles to remember a curse that's simple enough he'll get it right the first time.
Expelliarmus should do. After that he'll improvise.
Inside, a chair scrapes on the floor, and a reedy voice calls out his name in quiet, guarded tones. "Padfoot?"
Remus? Sirius turns the key and pushes against the heavy door. Only one lamp is lit, but Sirius can easily make out Remus' form standing in front of his table. He's not wearing robes, just a white shirt and familiar khaki trousers. His feet are bare.
Remus must sense something inhospitable in Sirius' expression because he runs a hand through his hair--a nervous habit--and shrugs. "Sorry, didn't mean to intrude," Remus said. "I met Althea downstairs and explained who I was. She let me in."
So much for secrecy. Sirius sits down at the table and nods at the other chair, inviting Remus to join him.
“Dumbledore was concerned he hadn’t heard from you," Remus says. "He asked me to find you.”
"Didn't McGonagall tell him?"
"Minerva?" Remus frowns. "Did you talk to her before you left?"
Now Sirius is confused. “Then how did you know where I was?”
“I ran into Arabella the other day, and she mentioned the exotic birds delivering letters to Harry. I knew immediately. Where else would you have gone?"
A shared memory hangs in the air between them.
“I found a Portkey to Tenerife--it's a lot cheaper now, one every hour from Diagon Alley," Remus continues. "I asked about a wizard arriving by Hippogriff, and someone pointed me here. I took the ferry from Los Cristianos. The journey was only half an hour or so, not so bad." Remus runs a hand through his hair again, licks his lips. "I might stay for a few days, if you don't mind. Now that I'm here. It's lovely."
Sirius isn't sure whether he approves or not, but who is he to tell Remus what to do? He shrugs.
"That's settled, then," Remus says, rising. "Althea gave me a room upstairs, actually."
"Remus--" Sirius says.
Remus pauses, hand on the door knob. "Yes?"
"I think we're wearing the same trousers," Sirius says.
Remus looks down and laughs. "Did you buy yours from the house-elf on the Calle Real, too? La Gomera doesn't seem like a place for robes."
"Good night," Sirius says.
"Good night."
Sirius lies in bed that night with one hand tracing patterns on his chest, the other circling his soft prick. He tries thinking of Sheila, but it's no use. Perhaps she reminds him too much of Lily's mum. (Though he realizes he's now closer in age to Lily's mum than he is to Lily.) He thinks of James and New Year's Eve 1981, the night that Lily left early and James drank more than usual and narrated a recent blow job to Sirius in dirty detail. For almost a year, that had been Sirius' favorite fantasy--the memory of James whispering the word "arse" in his ear had sent him over the edge, every time.
Tonight, again, nothing. He falls asleep with his pants tangled around his ankles.
***
With Leslie's grudging help, Sirius finds a matrimonio, a room intended for two, on the first floor of a small, pale green building near the water. The owner, Althea, a middle-aged witch from Great Yarmouth, also knows Professor McGonagall. She promises to find a place for Buckbeak with a friend on the outskirts of town and doesn't ask why Sirius didn't arrive by Portkey like everyone else. She's a motherly sort, the kind who calls him Jamie and promises to bring him a full English breakfast in the morning. Sirius doesn't care. The room is filled with soft afternoon light, and the wood floors are smooth and warm beneath his feet. Stripes of sun filter in through the shutters. He doesn't even take off his clothes before he sinks down on the bed.
Perhaps he should come up with another alias, he thinks as he falls asleep. Using James' name only reminds him that the real James should be here.
He sleeps for three days. On the fourth, he wakes and wanders outside, looking for a newspaper that might tell him how many days have passed since he arrived. He takes a bath and heads into town wearing a hat because he has promised Althea he would. He doesn't intend to do anything else she recommends. He's not on holiday.
The town is filled with tourists from Germany and Britain who have shed their robes in favor of swim costumes and who are covered in an oily potion meant to protect the skin from the sun.
Althea had given him that potion, too. He'd rather feel the sun on his skin.
He buys oranges and eats them one section at a time, sucking on each until the flavor finally dies on his tongue. He eats papas arrugadas with an unfamiliar spicy sauce. The bananas are almost unbearably sweet. He tries pizza, that Muggle delicacy, for the first time in his life, sitting in a crowded cafe alongside a family with two blond boys who attend Durmstrang and a daughter who is headed there in the autumn. He doesn't wait for it to cool, and the first bite burns the roof of his mouth. He samples wines from Lanzarote and Tenerife that taste like nothing he's ever had at home.
There are missteps. His charms are rusty, and he breaks the kettle trying to fix a cup of tea. He gorges on some of the island’s best soft cheeses and can’t shit for a week. Toward the end he’s so panicked he considers returning to Madam Pomfrey at Hogwarts. But that, too, passes (ha!).
He visits the local post office, inspecting the birds available for letters to Harry. The canaries and finches are too small for anything but inter-island mail. He sends a brilliant African parrot one week, then a green pigeon the next. Not too often, he warns himself, or someone will notice. As with the wine, he aims at moderation.
He spends his days walking along the shore in a swimming costume he purchased from a shop near the beach. He feels stronger. His face looks less gaunt. Even the mirror, less obsequious than hotel mirrors usually are, notices the improvement.
“Looking better!” it says.
***
Remus knocks on his door in the morning carrying a tray with his breakfast. "Can I join you?" he asks. Sirius hides under the covers and watches Remus make himself at home, reheating the tea with a tap of his wand, charming his knife to butter his toast.
"Come join me," Remus says, and Sirius pulls up his pants and rolls out of bed with a groan. In turns out Remus has buttered both sets of toast because Sirius is now either an invalid or a Squib. (Or perhaps both.)
Remus takes one look at him sitting there in front of his toast and runny eggs and laughs. "You're so burnt, Sirius. I didn't see it last night, in the dark. Didn't you buy any potion?"
Sirius touches the back of his neck. His skin is warm all the time now. He likes it that way.
"So much to tell you," Remus says conversationally, pouring him a cup of tea. "Where shall I start?"
They start with Harry, because that's the only topic that holds Sirius' interest these days. Remus doesn't actually know much that Sirius himself hasn't already gleaned from his forays onto the Hogwarts grounds, but talking about Harry keeps Remus occupied and relieves Sirius from saying much. First thing he's going to do when he gets back is find a proper home for Harry, away from Lily's sister, who seems to be even more of an idiot than Sirius remembers. Second, he's going to tell Harry a thing or two about his mother and father. He's not sure why Remus has been so circumspect. They died for him, for Merlin's sake. Harry ought to think of them every day, just as Sirius does.
Sirius has forgotten just how much Remus enjoys talking. Remus has finished his toast and eggs and his pot of tea and has now drunk most of Sirius', and he's going on about one of Harry's friends, the young witch with the hair. Sirius nods and watches a crumb descend from the middle of Remus' chest, where it had fallen, to his protruding stomach, where it comes to rest. One of the many things that is different about Remus now is his stomach, which sags over the top of his trousers, round and heavy. Sirius wants to poke it or squeeze it, to see how soft it is.
"What about you?" Remus asks, interrupting Sirius' inspection. "How have you been?"
The cautious tone in his voice annoys Sirius. He's been sitting in a cell on an island in the North Sea for years after making a mistake that cost his best friend his life. What does he have to say to anyone? "Not much you don't already know," he says finally. "What about you?"
Remus refills his tea cup. Sirius places his hand over his. "No, thanks."
The big news in Remus' life seems to be the fact that he's not properly a werewolf any more. He's been a participant in the Wolfsbane trials at St Mungo's for several years, and now he sleeps through the full moon instead of running wild. It's a bit of a disappointment to Sirius. What fun is a harmless werewolf? Especially one who complains about the potion and its side effects--aches and pains and hair growth and low energy.
Still, Sirius isn't so bored he can't see the point of the story: despite the aches and pains, Remus sees himself as almost healthy after being sick for many years. It's odd. Sirius has never thought of him as ill. He's always been...just Remus. Moony. He casts about for another question to keep Remus talking.
"Are you and Emmeline--" He can't really imagine Remus with a wife or children, but that's what he had thought about James. Even Peter got engaged.
Remus shakes his head. "We weren't together, even before--" his voice trails off. "I don't know if you remember."
Sirius shrugs and shakes his head. He doesn't remember much about Emmeline at all. He and Remus hadn't seen much of each other after they joined the Order, or cared about each other very much, for that matter. They both remember that. Why pretend?
"Well, Emmeline wanted to have children, and I didn't, and that was that." Then, in a slightly different tone: "A few years later, during the trials, I lived with Rufus--do you remember Rufus?"
"Not Rufus Scrimgeour."
Remus laughs. "No. Definitely not. The werewolf? He came to some Order meetings."
Sirius doesn't remember him either, but neither the name nor the pronoun has escaped his notice. "You slept with a bloke?" Sirius asks, just to be clear.
Remus nods.
"Oh," Sirius says.
Remus is waiting. For what?
"All right?" Sirius offers, and Remus begins talking again. Like the story of the Wolfsbane potion, this one is too long for Sirius to listen to carefully. It's about how much time this Rufus bloke spent away, with the other werewolves, and how much Remus disliked that, and how eventually Remus decided he was better off on his own.
But, Sirius muses, this story is less dull. Significantly less dull. In fact, it's by far the most interesting thing Remus has said about himself since arriving. It makes Sirius look at him differently. He studies Remus' face. He's never thought it particularly attractive, and it still appears unremarkable. The thought of Remus and another bloke has his prick interested, though, which is something Sirius thought might never happen again. He shifts in his chair, remembering how arousal feels.
It feels good.
"Let's walk," Sirius says, because they've been sitting indoors for hours. "You're here, we may as well be outside."
***
For days after he arrived, Sirius had walked the beach, soaking up the sun. He hasn't been warm or dry in years. The sun is so bright he can't look at it, and his eyes are strained by the vivid colors of the buildings scrambling up the hill, away from the port. He spends much of his time sitting, listing to the waves, not thinking at all.
After a week or so, he begins exploring the town. La Gomera is filled with so many wizards from home that Sirius puts away his Spanish phrasebook and begins to worry about his anonymity. On a narrow street near his guesthouse he finds a book shop with a series of Brave Auror Adventures he remembers from his childhood and several textbooks from school. He browses, drinking in the smell of old books. A small white paperback left on the floor at the very back of the shop catches his eye. Muggles Are People, Too! the cover proclaims in bold, red letters set on the diagonal.
Sirius used to carry a copy Muggles Are People, Too! in his bag. He'd enjoyed the book, but even more, he enjoyed the way witches looked at him when he talked about it. Hestia Jones, ordinarily bright enough, had just about swooned when he cited it during an Order meeting. “I love what you said, just now,” she had whispered to him that night, as the meeting drew to a close. “About the fundamental humanity of Muggles.”
He had handed her his copy of the book. “Read it. My address is inside, when you’re ready to return it.”
They'd slept together three days later, as expected, when Hestia finishes the book. Sirius had been bored, as he almost always was when he slept with witches. After he had finished, Hestia had pushed him down between her legs, and Sirius had held his breath and licked until his jaw was sore and wished they were done already.
Afterward, as they lay in bed in that hazy state on the edge of sleep, Hestia had talked about Squibs and Muggles and Sirius had a revelation: he doesn't love Muggles so much as he loves the war itself. Hestia, James and Lily, the others--they are all waiting for it to end. Sirius isn't quite sure what he'd do with himself without Voldemort.
Seeing the book again in San Sebastián reminds him of that night in all its painful detail. He shouldn't have loved the war so much--he knows that, he knew that even then--but the war had suited him. Fighting Voldemort was the opposite of being a Black, and Sirius had always prided himself on snubbing his family.
Sirius stands in the book shop, thinking. There must be some middle ground, between being a Black and hating everything the Blacks stand for.
"Only two Knuts for the paperback," the shop keeper says when he sees Sirius and his pile of books. Sirius sets Muggles Are People, Too! down on an empty shelf and stacks the Brave Auror Adventures and the Charms textbook near the cash register.
"Just these," he says.
***
Remus does not seem to be in hurry to head back to Britain.
He knocks on Sirius' door every morning, ready to plan the day. Together, they walk along the beach, and when they tire of that, they walk away from the water, through the town, across plowed fields, and, one memorable day, into the laurel forest.
Unlike Sirius, Remus talks with other wizards and witches--on the street, in shops, at restaurants. He quizzes Althea about the island, where they should go, what they should do. He asks about restaurants all the time, which has the best view, which has the best food. He always wants to try a new one, always asks for the cheque. On the sixth day of his visit, Sirius realizes that Dumbledore might have asked Remus to take care of him, might be paying him to do so. It would explain a lot. He's not as angry about the situation as he thinks he should be.
Instead, he realizes, he's growing accustomed to being taken care of.
He finds himself watching Remus, noticing details. Not just the soft stomach, but the stiffness in his shoulders in the morning, his easy camaraderie with strangers, the lines around his eyes that give him away when he's trying not to laugh.
Sirius used to think of Remus as an audience. Now their roles are reversed, and Sirius watches himself watching Remus. There are no other couples like them in town--not that Sirius can identify, though there are two middle-aged wizards who sit together at the far end of the Playa Santiago--but he imagines Remus touching his back protectively as they walk on the plaza, the way husbands and wives sometimes touch each other. He's fairly certain he doesn't imagine the intimacy between them.
He sees Sheila once more in the Plaza America, late one evening as they walk back toward the guesthouse, threading their way through a group of Irish wizards who are talking too loudly. She's wearing the same long orange dress. She smiles at him and Remus and waves, but she turns away quickly, as if she doesn't want to disturb them.
***
One week after Remus arrives, Sirius realizes that he wants to talk, and he wants to talk about Peter, not James or Lily.
They have walked inland again, up a long road that leads to the top of a hill overlooking the town. Tenerife, always on the horizon, looks even closer than usual, and Sirius can count the tourists on the ferry approaching the port. "One day," Sirius begins, huffing as they near the top of the hill. "You were away by then--one day Peter asked me if I thought it might be okay if Voldemort won. If we just stopped fighting. If fighting was just making everything worse."
Remus is sweating and breathing laboriously, and it's a moment before he responds. "What did you say?"
"I told him he should shut up and just do what he was told to do," Sirius replies. "It never occurred to me he would do anything else."
Remus is silent. They're almost at the summit. Sirius arrives first, and he bends over to catch his breath, hands on his knees. Remus arrives a moment later. Sirius waits until they're both breathing regularly again.
"I wish I hadn't said that," Sirius says. "I wish I'd treated Peter better. If only for James' and Lily's sake."
To Sirius' surprise, Remus has nothing to say. They both look out at Tenerife, at the outline of the volcano against the deep blue sky. Remus takes Sirius' hand in his own and squeezes it. It's a kind gesture, but it's also intense, like the first orange Sirius had when he arrived on the island. Almost too much.
Sirius leans over to kiss Remus. He misses the first time--he leans too far and butts up against Remus' teeth--but then he tries again, catches Remus' lips, pushes his tongue inside. Remus doesn't respond at first, but then his tongue is moving against Sirius', soft and devastating, and Sirius' prick throbs.
Sirius grabs Remus' hand where it's resting on Sirius' arse and presses it against his cock. Remus lets out a cynical snort but complies, pressing where Sirius is telling him to press, rubbing where Sirius tells him to rub. There's no time to unbutton his trousers. He can feel the pressure building, his heart beating faster and faster. He squeezes his eyes shut against the sun. Then Remus sucks at his neck, and he comes, hard, with a gasp.
He opens his eyes and leans against Remus, trying to catch his breath. He realizes he'd forgotten the wet, sticky sensation of soiled pants.
"Er, a little help here?" Remus asks. It's more awkward, now that the initial excitement is over, but Sirius unbuckles Remus' belt and grasps Remus' prick, stroking the way he has always liked to stroke himself. Everything is backward, and his own wrist is in the way. He can tell he doesn't have the rhythm quite right because he can feel Remus shifting against him, struggling, but the sound of his ragged breath is oddly beautiful. When Remus comes, Sirius gasps out loud again himself, feeling victorious.
Sirius pulls back and wipes his hand on his shirt. Remus looks ridiculous there, with his trousers down around his knees, and Sirius laughs. "Look at us."
"That was unexpected," Remus says. Then, with a sigh: "Not bad for your first time."
Sirius nods, too pleased with himself to care about the backhanded compliment. "I'll get better," he says. "I always do."
Remus pulls up his trousers and cleans them both up. "Usually I ask a bloke to take me to dinner first," he says. He sounds amused. "But I suppose we've already done that."
***
"Here's an interesting thing about Peter," Remus says later that night at the pub over a soggy dish of chips. Sirius isn't sure if he's changing the subject or continuing their conversation. "I think Peter might have a son."
Sirius catches Leslie's eye and signals for more wine. Remus opens his mouth and looks like he's like to object, but he takes another chip instead.
"After Susan left Peter--" Remus glances at Sirius, and Sirius nods. He remembers that. Remus had kept in touch with Susan. He and James had kept in touch with Peter.
"After Susan left Peter, she married a Muggle from Surrey and had a baby. Almost immediately. I always wondered. Her son arrived at Hogwarts the year before I was there, Gryffindor, just a year behind Harry. He has the Muggle's surname, but I got Minerva to look up his birthday for me. He could have been Peter's. The timing was right."
Sirius thinks about Harry and this boy, sitting together in the Great Hall. "Serves him right if he never finds out," Sirius says. "Even a Muggle would be a better father than Peter."
Remus rolls his eyes and ignores his comment.
"He was registered as Muggle-born at Hogwarts," Remus says. "So maybe I'm wrong. But he had a camera like Peter's, and he took pictures of Harry all the time--Susan must have talked about Harry at home. It was like Peter and James all over again."
They finish their chips in silence, watching the tourists walk past. The sun has set, and the temperature's fallen a few degrees.
"Do you remember when Peter first brought that camera back with him, fifth year?" Sirius asks. "With the negatives?"
Remus nods, but Sirius wonders if he remembers the scene as well as Sirius does: all four of them standing there in a makeshift darkroom, staring at a grotesque series of tiny pictures of Peter’s sisters, frozen and brown, with eyes that shone a ghostly white. “These are the inverse of the final photographs,” Peter had explained, puffed up with a rare confidence. “When we develop these, they’ll have the proper colors.”
"But they still won't move," Sirius had objected. At the time Sirius had dismissed the negatives as a Muggle oddity, but the image now comes back to him, its meaning finally clear.
"After we left school," Sirius says. "Nothing seemed quite real. Everything was like those negatives--the light parts were dark, and the dark parts were light. This--" He gestures at the table between then and the plaza beyond. "This is like the final photograph."
Remus raises an eyebrow. "Glorious Technicolor? I'm flattered." He grins. "That's just the wine talking, Sirius."
Leslie is pacing nearby, ready to close on the stroke of midnight. "¡Vete!” he calls, and their wine glasses and plate of chips vanish. Remus stands, ready to leave, but Sirius catches Leslie by the arm as he walks by. "Good night," he says softly. "And thank you."
***
Back when they lived at Godric's Hollow, James and Lily used to have a tattered poster pinned up on the inside of the bathroom door. Turquoise, canary yellow, orange. The colors swim in Sirius memory. A woman in a Spanish frock, bananas, a tropical bird, the long expanse of the seaside. Islas Canarias, the poster used to read. Portkeys from Diagon Alley and Hogsmeade in January 1974! He used to sit on the toilet and stare at it.
Lily used to make plans for the end of the war constantly. “When this is all over,” she used to say, “we'll go out to dinner. We'll entertain. We'll go to the cinema. We'll go to an island, far, far away. We’ll leave Harry with Petunia and Vernon and lie on the beach for a month.”
He still remembers the way she said that, "a month," as if she couldn't imagine anything more decadent.
Sirius has now been on La Gomera for five weeks, two of those with Remus. They lie on the beach, side by side, watching the pale flesh of dozens of holiday-makers turn red in the sun. Round-bellied children run screaming into the water. Sirius buries his feet in the sand. Next to him, Remus is busy reading the Prophet. Instead of holding his hand, Sirius slips a finger between the elastic waistband on Remus' swimming costume and the warm rolls of Remus' stomach.
He's hanging on. He's hanging in. He's still here.
He has been dead, and now he's alive again. He has only just begun to think of that as a story worth telling.