FIC: The Elemental Trilogy
Um, hi, all! I'm a newbie here, and a bit nervous; this is my first post. I was invited to join after Anna Karenina and Other Cheerful Fiction; I finished this one this week and thought I'd put it here.
Thanks for inviting me; I hope you enjoy.
Title: The Elemental Trilogy: Fire, Ice, and Water.
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Author: Edna Krabapple on LJ; Kitty Levina elsewhere--it's six of one, half dozen of the other.
Rating: PG or PG-13 for the first two parts; NC-17 for the last part
Disclaimer: I own nothing herein. It all belongs to J.K. Rowling and various people at certain publishing houses and movie studios. This is a strictly not-for-profit operation.
Summary: Post OotP. Sirius is dead; Remus mourns; Remus melts and Shakespeare is misquoted, quite badly.
Feedback: Always appreciated as the thoughtfulness it is.
Warnings: No real warnings, I don't think. Slash, of course. Spoilers for OotP.
Author's Notes: This is an R/S story in three parts. I'll post it all in one entry here for the sake of space, but each story is under a different cut tag; they are all related, of course. Note that the first two parts are around 3,500 words each; the last is at around 1,500. Thanks to ceciliaregent for the title inspiration. Also appears in my personal LJ (though not under the usual friends-lock) and was posted to the remusxsirius group.
After the fall, Sirius wouldn't have known where he was, except for the fact that it was James Potter who caught him halfway down. James then set him on his feet, hand hovering under Sirius' elbow. Sirius could still see out through the veil, saw Bellatrix laughing, bitterly and endlessly; saw Harry screaming, struggling, shouting, his face contorted so that his glasses were askew; saw Remus holding Harry in a grip so strong it was superhuman, his own shock and anguish visible on his face. Remus was saying something to Harry, but Sirius could not make out what it was.
James still had his hand under Sirius' elbow. Sirius turned to James, confused. James squeezed the elbow in his hand and said, "Welcome home, Mr. Padfoot."
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This place he was in, which he understood was death in the way that he knew that water was wet, was both time never ending and wholly without time. James and Lily looked just as they had in 1981. Sirius knew he looked completely different than he had in 1981. He knew he looked more like a print than he looked like his original. Azkaban had done its damage there, too. James and Lily did not remark upon the change.
This afterlife, it seemed to Sirius, was like floating on a raft in the middle of a vast ocean. There were others there, and he could see them at will, just by thinking about it, but it was not like life. In life, people spoke. In death, they whispered.
In fact, the entire experience seemed somehow secondhand. It was as if things seemed to happen to Sirius, but that he did not experience them. His joy upon being reunited with Lily, and most especially with James, was palpable, but also muted, like a painting done in watercolors and not in oils. Sirius did not know where the rest of the Blacks were, and aside from Regelus, nor did he care. He knew he could have seen them, spoken with them, yelled with them and at them but it did not seem in any way conductive to his time, or lack thereof, and not one of them came to him. He had James, and Lily was here, and Remus and Harry were elsewhere, and that was all he needed.
But it was this need, this desire, for Remus and Harry that was picking slowly at his brain, peeling away pieces of his heart. Every other dead person he met dealt with emotion more like memories than actual feelings. Lily and James loved each other, that much was certain, but it was as if they were in love because they remembered being so, not because they actually were.
But Sirius. Sirius burned. He ached and wished and feared for Harry. And what he felt for Remus, all the love and lust and tenderness and heartache was like a torch in his chest that he could not put out. He was a man on fire.
At first he thought it was because he was newly dead. Those he knew here had mostly been here, wherever here was, for a good span of time according to the living world. James and Lily had been here for almost fifteen years; maybe time had doused their hearts as well. Sirius might have been appeased by this notion, except that those who came after him seemed the same way as the others: kind, patient, happy--muted. Sirius was none of those things; he took the time to reflect that perhaps he had been none of those things while he was still alive, either.
And where he was, there was a lot of time for reflection. It seemed that most bodily functions ceased to be. There was no need for food or drink or sleep; no such thing as hunger or thirst or exhaustion. He wondered if there was any need for sex, but he had not the nerve to ask James.
There was also a lot of time to watch. Sirius quickly found that he could see the living, if he only concentrated hard enough. He could see Harry at Hogwarts, Remus at Grimmauld Place. It was like watching them through a one way mirror, like those in Muggle police stations; Sirius could see and hear them, but they could not hear or see him. He stood apart.
He watched Remus the most. Watched him live at that hell trap called Grimmauld Place; watched as he coordinated agendas, strategies, assignments for the Order; watched him sleep. For a while, Sirius saw no sign of grief in Remus, no tears, not even one, not even when Remus was alone. Not even at night. This made matches strike and light in Sirius' chest; it made him angry and moody and above all, resentful. After all the years they had been friends, all the years they had been lovers, and Remus could not find it within himself to mourn Sirius' death?
And then, and then, later, Sirius watched as Remus finished getting ready one morning in late August. He saw Remus pick up his watch off the dresser and noticed that the watch was his, Sirius'. Remus had made Sirius buy it one Christmas during a shopping expedition in Muggle London, always perturbed that whether by magical or Muggle means, Sirius could never be anywhere on time. Sirius had claimed not to care which watch he purchased, so long as Remus would do right to shut up about it already, but he had bought the one he knew Remus had liked the most. Sirius had worn it constantly since then, more as a reminder of Remus than as a reminder of what the watch was actually supposed to represent. When it was dug up out of the property room in the Ministry of Magic, though Sirius doubted he wanted to know how, he had taken to wearing it again. In his haste that night at the Department of Mysteries, Sirius had left without putting it on.
Sirius watched as Remus fingered the watch slowly, sliding it deftly between his fingers before slipping it quickly into his pocket and fastening his own wristwatch around his bony wrist with a click.
After that, after he knew what to look for, Sirius saw signs of Remus' grief everywhere. They were there in the way he fixed his tea; the way he filled his quill with ink; the way he sighed before getting into bed; the way the new lines around his eyes crinkled, as if he were squinting, looking for Sirius.
Sirius wanted nothing more than to say: I'm here. I'm here.
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Finally, Sirius went to talk to Lily. He had tried talking to James, tried asking him if the feelings ever went away, if they faded--if he was the only one who carried them. Why no one else did. James' answer had been at straightforward and cryptic all at once: "They are them and we are us. Nothing is the same."
So in the end, he went to Lily.
And Lily, being Lily, made tea. It was completely unnecessary, of course. Neither of them had any thirst, any need to drink; they could if they wanted to, though, and people did, usually those who were new, or who wanted to feel alive. Human. Sirius wasn't sure if Lily made tea because Sirius was new or because it was such a Lily thing to do. In life, Lily had made tea whenever she or anyone else felt anxious or upset; she always said it gave her something to do at those times, and she was right. Now, sitting across from her at a table that seemed to have appeared for the purpose, Sirius was a bit surprised that she didn't have biscuits or scones available, too.
Lily sipped her tea, a quiet invitation for Sirius to start. Finally, he blurted, "I hate this!"
Lily started to speak, but Sirius stopped her by raising his hand. "That's not. That's not . . . what I meant. I just. I still feel for them." He did not bother to define them. "That seems different . . . for here."
"It's not so different, Sirius," Lily said, those green eyes Sirius now associated with Harry soft and compassionate. Understanding.
"Do you?" Sirius asked, not able to find another way to say it, and desperately wanting to know.
Lily thought for a long moment, clearly carefully crafting her answer. "I do. I . . . do. Harry is my son." She said each word so distinctly, with such conviction, that Sirius saw the woman who had laid down her own life to protect her child's. He blinked in the face of it, waiting for her to finish.
"But you're right, Sirius. I love Remus, our other friends. I love Harry beyond all reckoning. I look after him the best I can; I watch him sometimes. I want him to be happy. But . . . ." Here, Lily seemed to struggle. "But, ultimately, I suppose, I have done all that I can for him. I can't control what happens to him now. I've . . . let go. I have faith."
Of the things Sirius had imagined Lily saying, and there were many, that was not among them. He gaped for a minute, then managed, "Faith in what?"
Lily's lips quirked as though she might smile, but she did not. She shook her head. "Faith in the idea that everything will be all right in the end. Faith in goodness. In the light. In the people around Harry. In Harry himself."
"Pardon me for saying so, Lily, but that seems so . . . unbelievably perky."
At that, Lily laughed. "Naive, too, yes? All that talk of goodness and light?"
Sirius hesitated this time. "Well, yes."
Lily shook her head again, amused. Her hair swished gently back and forth. "Sirius. I think that . . . . it's not what you have that we don't. I think it's what we have that you don't.”
"Which is?"
"Peace."
Sirius closed his eyes, thinking. He could search his heart and find any number of things: love, hate, friendship, weariness, passion--but peace was not one of them.
"Then how do I get that?"
"I don't think it's something you can 'get'. I think it's something you come to . . . . something you have. You can't just decide to feel it and there it is. That's not the way it works."
"How did you . . . come to it?"
"That, I can't tell you," Lily said.
Sirius gritted his teeth in frustration. Lily jumped in again before frustration could flare into anger.
"I can't tell you because I don't know how it happened. I just know that I feel . . . happy. Peaceful. Like I know Harry and the others that I love will be safe and happy. I always have. I don't have to be worried or afraid."
At that, Sirius barked a sudden, bitter laugh. "You don't have to be worried or afraid? What about when Harry was small, living with those Muggles?" He knew "those Muggles" were Lily's family, but he didn't care. "When they locked him in a cupboard? Barely fed him? Gave him no clothes of his own? No toys, no books? No love? The boy is starved for affection, for attention, Lily! it isn't right! Your son! James' son!"
He was shouting now, far over any kind of line, and not caring a single bit. "And what about now? When that freakish bastard murderer Voldemort wants him dead? Dead! Or do you not care about that because if Voldemort succeeds he'll at least be with you again?"
Lily was regarding him steadily across the table. Her gaze never wavered, the same understanding in them. But when she spoke, her voice gave Sirius the same impression as earlier, of the woman who had died so her son could live. "All of those things you said, about what happened to Harry, those are true. But I can't change them. Or alter his future. All I can do is continue to love him."
There was silence as Sirius looked down at the table, seething and embarrassed in the face of Lily's certain and unshakeable devotion. He was surprised when she took his hand in hers. He didn't look up.
"And that's all you can do, too, Sirius. Just continue to love him."
Both Lily and Sirius knew that him did not refer to Harry Potter.
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Sirius waited. He waited as late summer turned into fall, as fall began a harsh descent into winter. It was December, and those who lived were dealing with gloves and coats and scarves and hats; with snow falling thickly and ice carved as if from stone.
Sirius had to deal with none of those things. He was waiting for the flame within him to become as cold as the bitter London air.
It seemed to him that he had been waiting for that just short of forever.
Finally, he could wait no longer.
He had spent weeks hesitating. If one went to Lily Potter for compassion and sensible advice, then surely one went to James Potter if one wanted assistance of the less reasonable kind.
Except that the James Potter Sirius knew now was both like and unlike the James Potter that Sirius had known then. James was still smart as a whip, quick witted, and good of heart. The measure of steadiness and compassion he had developed over the years were serving him well. But James was also content here in a way that he had not been in life; mischief had been James' calling not out of cruelty, but out of a restless intelligence, and the thing about contentment was that while the intelligence remained, the restlessness did not.
However, on all accounts, when one, especially if one was Sirius, was seriously contemplating breaking out of heaven, one still went to James Potter.
James, of course, was nothing short of incredulous, and Sirius could hardly blame him. After all, James was happy here. Even knowing Sirius' problem, James could not contemplate not wanting to be here. Besides which, it seemed very well to James that once one was here there was no going back. No one else had. It was an inconceivable thing. James sat through many discussions with Sirius, where Sirius had passionately argued that, somehow, there had been a mistake. Sirius couldn't be dead. He felt too much; he burned with emotions most of their kind no longer remembered, much less had.
Sirius had carefully explained that Bellatrix had not, in fact, hit him with the killing curse. It was only a stunning curse, and had caught him by surprise; if he had fallen to the ground instead of the veil, he would still be alive. What made the veil so different? To which James had replied that the veil was as much a weapon as Avada Kadavra or a Muggle rifle. Bellatrix's curse might not have killed Sirius, but James maintained, loudly, and for a long time, that the veil had.
So Sirius continued to wait, as January blew into February, February into a particularly cold March and then March into a rainy, soggy April, out in the world of the living. Remus still carried Sirius' watch in his pocket, and Sirius knew that the day Remus stopped doing that, and he would, was the day that Sirius would no longer care to go back. Maybe he did only need to wait long enough, after all.
One day in April, James came to him with a plan. At first, Sirius thought that it had been the sheer challenge of bringing someone back into the world of the living that made James want to help him. James Potter thrived on a challenge.
But it was James himself who said, after telling Sirius he would help him, exactly why he would. "It's because you're unhappy. First, no one here is unhappy. It's not right, and it's not normal. Not that you've ever been normal. But mostly, it's you and I love you too much to watch it without trying to help."
Sirius considered this, and smiled, clapping James on the shoulder. It was the closest he had felt to James since they were barely out of adolescence. "You have a plan?"
"I do. We're going to make a Marauder's Map."
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And that is what they did.
They needed Lily's help, of course. The project was too big for the two of them alone, and Lily had always been the best of all of them at charms, of which there were a very many in this task. Besides, Lily recognized Sirius' pain, knew that it was somehow wrong for it to exist here, and, like James, did not like to see him suffer. Sirius and James marveled at her skill, and knew that if she had had a hand in the first Map, it would have been done twice as fast.
Still, even with Lily's help, and with the fact that none of them had to take time to eat or sleep, April crept into May before they had any real working documents.
Mapping the entire world of the living and the world of the dead would have been the task of several lifetimes, so they started smaller. First, they mapped a few specific places, much as James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter had done all those years ago. Hogwarts was fairly easy to reconstruct; Grimmauld Place followed; the Department of Mysteries came last.
As James and Sirius had known even as teenagers, much of the magic in the Map was focused on life, on the essence of what it meant to be alive. Otherwise, it would have been impossible to follow people around on a map. Maps were inanimate things, meant for places, but the Marauder's Map had been meant for people as well, and therefore had tapped into those corners in the spirit where the soul goes and only magic can follow. It was ancient magic, and the four boys had had quite a time of it, but Lily, who knew and had used ancient life magic once before, came to it like it was embedded in her bones.
To map the dead was the opposite impulse--to search for a void where there should be none. Lily struggled with this, and Sirius found he could not tap into that magic at all; whether because he had a metaphysical block or a psychological one, he was not sure. It was here that James did most of the work, and they stuck to people they knew, whom they could connect with: James' parents, old teachers, old friends. Death took too much searching to do them all.
But when they succeeded, when they had two working parchments, it was a sight to behold.
And Sirius Black, sketched in small black ink, appeared both in the Department of Mysteries on one map and with James Potter and Lily Potter on the other.
James was the first to speak, and when he did, it was, "Holy shit."
Even Lily seemed too stunned to rebuke James for his language.
Again, James was the only one with verbal capacity. "Does that mean there are two of you? Two Sirius Blacks?"
Lily peered at the Living Map and shook her head. "I don't. I don't think so. Look, here, in the Department of Mysteries, there's just the banner with his name. Like . . . it's a placeholder or something. Here, on the other map," she moved the papers around so the men could see, "there's both the banner and his foot prints."
Sirius bit his lip in concentration. "So . . . does that mean I'm really dead? That my place is here, and my name elsewhere is just . . . residue?"
Again, Lily shook her head. James' hand got caught in the swing of her hair, and he laid a hand on the nape of her neck.
"No. I think that means your spirit is waiting for you."
Sirius frowned. "How can you be sure?"
"I'm not," Lily said honestly. "But I . . . it's the best explanation I can come up with. No one else we've mapped as dead has appeared in the Living Map, even if they had died at Grimmauld Place or Hogwarts."
Sirius considered his next words carefully; they seemed to be stuck in his throat. "So what do I do?"
In answer, James handed both maps to Sirius. "I think you should take your footprints and walk back to where Remus is waiting for you."
And so, after saying goodbye to Lily and James, that is what Sirius did.
There were some things Remus Lupin simply did not do.
For example, he did not put sugar in his tea. He never went to bed without brushing his teeth if it was at all possible (full moon nights didn't count). He did not cease, in all his moves, to shelve his books in alphabetical order by author, neatly divided into categories of fiction and non-fiction, though he did allow Muggle to intermix with Magical. He would not shop without a list; he kept a running shopping list, items he needed to pick up at the market scribbled on a scrap piece of parchment on the nightstand, to be used on market day and discarded when all items had been crossed off. He would not think to miss saying thank you to the woman at the cafe who always gave him extra cocoa in his hot cocoa.
Also, Remus refused to believe that Sirius Black was anything other than dead. He also could not cry for the man he had loved passing all reason, all understanding.
The tears were eating away at him from the inside, but refused him any type of release.
Remus found he couldn't bring himself to care that they were slowly killing him, either.
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Life went on as normally as possible, or as normally as it usually did for Remus. There was Order business to take care of; Harry to look after, even if he had gone back to the Dursleys for a time. He would be here later, and that was what counted. Remus wasn't sure if Harry would need him, but he knew Harry would need someone. The prospect of a grieving, angry sixteen year old desperate for comfort and repair filled Remus with a dread far more vicious than anything Voldemort could come up with. In that way, Voldemort would actually be more reasonable; death would be easy in the face of nurturing a damaged Harry. It made Remus wonder why fate had conspired to leave that task up to him; he felt unready, and very, very weary. He made sure that Molly, Ron and Hermione would be on hand, too. Remus was gathering the troops to him, even as all he wanted was a quiet corner of the world to exist in. Alone. He would be glad not to have to talk to or deal with anyone about anything ever again.
And yet he still did, of course. He planned strategy out with Arthur and Snape and Dumbledore. He winced when Tonks broke his favorite mug, and teased her gently about it later. He did the dishes when Molly cooked the meals, and they would converse lightly about the weather or seriously about Death Eaters, though none of it really mattered to Remus.
He supposed that what he was doing was getting on with life, which was the thing he was expected to do. It was what he always had done. Remus was always the one who carried on, always the man who stood up.
This time, what Remus carried seemed far too heavy, and he was tired of standing. But no one offered to let him sit, so he didn't.
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He kept Sirius' watch in his pocket. Years ago, those few years after Hogwarts but before death, Azkaban, and loneliness, Sirius and Remus had gone Christmas shopping in London. Remus remembered making Sirius buy a watch then, something, anything to get Sirius to just be on bloody time for once. The watch hadn't served the purpose Remus had expected; Sirius, being Sirius, kept his own time, as usual. But it didn't escape Remus' notice that Sirius still wore the watch every day, put it on the same way he put on his aftershave, his clothes, his socks--automatically. Sirius would twist his wrist sometimes when he was nervous or anxious, a quick flick of the arm, as if checking to see the watch was still there. And twice, Remus had seen Sirius touch the watch briefly with the fingers of his other hand when Remus would unexpectedly appear after a dangerous or difficult mission, just as he would touch Remus later, to make sure he was indeed still there.
One morning in August, when he was pocketing Sirius' watch quickly, so no one could see, Remus thought that they might not have worn rings, might not have needed them, but that he would never stop carrying the watch, because he knew what it really meant. And it was all he had left.
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The children would be leaving for King's Cross in the morning. Tomorrow was September 1, and all that that implied. Hermione, Remus knew, had been packed for ages, and she was now diligently avoiding Ron and Harry, both of whom had yet to pack. Remus suspected Hermione's sudden avoidance had more to do with a private refusal to help the boys pack and to avoid them asking than with any real ill-will toward them. Two years ago, even a year ago, she would have been upstairs, loudly lecturing both of her best friends about their procrastination. Remus could hear her "Oh, honestly, Ron" echoing in his ears.
This year, however, Hermione was curled up in the corner of a couch in the library, a book propped up on her knees. Remus reflected that Harry wasn't the only one who was doing some growing up.
Remus, like Hermione, was in the library doing some hiding out of his own. As much as he knew he should appreciate the fullness of the house, he didn't. The Weasley clan, bless their pure hearts, were both numerous and loud, and took over every space they inhabited. Remus was profoundly grateful for their support of Harry, but with Harry leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow, Remus would no longer really need any of them around. He knew Sirius would have loved the full house, that he had wished for nothing more than company and companionship after all those years alone in cold and darkness. But now, what Sirius wanted was no longer what Remus wanted, and it made Remus stop breathing momentarily every time he thought about that fact.
Molly Weasley had reasoned, argued, cajoled, and even tried to guilt him into leaving Grimmauld Place and going back to his own flat. It wasn't healthy for him to stay in this big, empty house all by himself, she had said. Logically, Remus agreed with her. It probably wasn't healthy for him to be living here, to sleep every night in the same bed he had shared with Sirius. To use the same set of sheets over and over because he fancied he could still smell Sirius on them, no matter how many times they had been washed since June. To see signs of Sirius everywhere he looked--no matter how much Sirius had hated the house, he had made it his own in the months he had lived there: his clothes in the closet, his newly acquired reading glasses on a random shelf among the library bookstacks; a set of fingerprints on the dusty stairs leading to the attic. Staying here might not have been the right thing to do, but it was the only thing Remus could do at the moment.
He looked up from his parchment, where he was supposed to be writing out a tracking spell to try to get a handle on where some of the more elusive Death Eaters were--and not making much progress on it--when he felt a pair of eyes on him. He looked over, and Hermione's eyes flashed down once again to the book she was supposed to be reading. Remus caught the slight tinge of pink on her cheeks, even in the candlelight.
"Is there something you require, Miss Granger?" Remus asked, trying to sound both formal and slightly friendly, but only managing to sound choked and horse.
Hermione looked up and shook her head, a bushy bounce of light brown curls. The summer sun had bleached her hair a bit. "No, Professor. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"You're not disturbing me, Hermione. Do you have a question?" Again, Remus went for kindly teacher, and missed it due to the roughness of his voice.
Hermione hesitated. "Well . . . yes. But I don't think it's an appropriate question, sir. It's a bit . . . personal."
"There's no such thing as an appropriate or inappropriate question, Hermione. Just questions. If you have one, you should ask it." Remus could hear Sirius' mocking voice in his head: There's no such thing as a stupid question, Remus, just stupid people. Remus shook his head slightly to get rid of the voice. He was fairly sure he was on solid academic territory when it came to Hermione's questions. Besides, he had spent a year as a teacher at Hogwarts, where he had heard any number of personal questions, mostly from puberty stricken young boys. After that, little else was . . . inappropriate.
Hermione still looked doubtful, but she closed her book and set it aside purposefully. Remus raised his eyebrows and motioned with his hand for her to continue.
"Were you and Sirius Black lovers?" Hermione asked it in a rush, one long breath blown out.
Remus rocked back in his chair a bit, figuring that maybe there were some questions he was not prepared to deal with. It took his brain such a long time to come up with any response, any at all, that he began to hope that Hermione might actually abandon the subject and leave the library entirely. She looked just about ready to do that when Remus simply said,
"Yes."
Hermione nodded, and knitted her fingers together in her lap. "I didn't mean to embarrass or offend you, Professor. I just. I've just been wondering, that's all. You don't have to talk about it. I'll go now."
She made move to get up, but Remus waved his hand, a gesture implying she should stay sitting. "How long?" he asked.
Hermione's nose wrinkled in confusion. "How long? Oh! How long have I wondered?"
Remus just nodded.
"Since before . . ." she stopped suddenly. "Since before, sir."
Remus nodded again, knowing what before meant.
"And I just. Well. You see, I'm a bit worried about you," Hermione continued, obviously gaining courage and momentum. Somewhere in Remus' brain, a part of it pinged and told him she was a Gryffindor and that he should have expected no less.
Still, Remus had no answer for her, no ready response, no certain reassurance. If soon-to-be sixteen Hermione was worried over him, he must be in a right awful state. He still didn't much care, and there was no reason to pretend otherwise. Hermione certainly seemed to know the truth.
What finally came out was a surprise to Remus. "I love him."
"I know. I mean, I understand. If Harry or Ron . . ." she broke off.
Remus flushed with anger. Sirius was not the same to Remus as Ron and Harry were to Hermione. They had not only been friends, but lovers, irreparably bound for years now. How did Hermione, in her schoolgirl experience, have any way to measure the sum of Remus' devotion? How dare she even try?
Hermione must have seen some of this in his face, for she quickly backpedaled. "Not that it's a good comparison, Professor. But. I love Harry and Ron, too, in my own way, and if something happened to one of them. I think about that, you know. Especially with Harry, and. What I'd do." Hermione faltered to a stop.
Remus had calmed down slightly during this speech, but not enough to keep the scorn out of his voice. "And what would you do, Miss Granger?"
Hermione's cheeks became pink again, but neither her voice nor her gaze was unsteady, and Remus felt the need to shift on his chair a little. "I think I'd do the only thing there is to do, sir." She paused, but Remus didn't ask. "I'd continue to love them. I think that's all you can do."
Hermione stood up, and much to Remus' surprise, stepped over to kiss him lightly on the cheek. She quickly backed away then, toward the door. "I should go see how far along Ron and Harry are with packing. I'm sure Ron's trunk is a proper mess by now." She smiled a little, reassuringly, once again trying to ease them back onto familiar teacher/former pupil ground. Remus smiled a half-smile back.
But before she left entirely, she said, "And I think that's all you can do, too, Professor Lupin. Just continue to love him."
As she slipped away, Remus considered that in order to keep doing that, he'd also have to keep on living.
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So Remus kept living. He kept living as August descended into fall, as fall turned into a coarse, cold, bitter winter. The front hallway and the kitchen of Grimmauld Place were now always a veritable riot of winter gear: hats, gloves, scarves. Tonks was endearingly no better about keeping a set of gloves together as she was about her clumsiness. Coats lined every available surface as Remus worked at the kitchen table; the desk in the library; the bed. Snow fell in thick patches outside of icy windows, and Remus felt as cold and still as the air outside.
Christmas held court in Grimmauld Place, but it was a shadow of the event of last year. There was no Sirius bounding from room to room, delighted to see so many people, have so much company. He had been so full of the seasonal good cheer that Remus hadn't the heart to stop him even from charming the mistletoe.
This year, though Harry was there and therefore, so too were Ron and the Weasleys, and Hermione, the atmosphere was forced. The gifts were sincerely given, even if there was a halting manner to the way in which they were received. It reminded Remus of the last Christmas Lily and James had been alive, Harry's first. They had all made a fuss over the infant, but there was no stopping the dark cloud of Tom Riddle's destruction as it loomed ever closer. The comparison between Harry's first Christmas and his latest left Remus' hands shaking as he put on the kettle for tea, and he had to sit when he realized he was the only person living who would be able to compare the two events. His heart stopped beating momentarily in his chest, and for a second, Remus wished that it had just stopped altogether, but it began beating again, painfully and loudly.
Remus was made to stir only when Ginny Weasley came in fetch a tin of biscuits and escape her twin brothers, who had already inflicted their latest creations on as many unsuspecting guests as possible. Ginny looked as if she were about to ask Remus if he was alright, but before she could do so, he stood up and made a light joke about Weasley snack boxes. Ginny laughed softly and appreciatively, and helped him manage the pot, cups and saucers as they left the kitchen together, juggling china and sweets.
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As the New Year continued, blowing from a cold January and February into a wet and sopping early spring, Remus found himself more and more concerned with two things that had evaded his attention for quite some time: moons and money.
As for the first, Remus had not had as much trouble with full moons since he was eight, nine and ten, when his parents had regretfully and painfully locked him in the woodshed out in the back yard, left with only a blanket and a silencing charm. At Hogwarts, of course, and even for a few precious years after, full moons had taken on a less painful tone; they had at least been about familiarity, the comfort of a pack. And, yes, Remus had spent thirteen long years getting used to solitary full moons again. He had done so out of requirement; he always did what was required, and this was no different, registering with the Ministry and having a small room in his flat inspected every month and furnished with a silver door.
But none of that, not his childhood, not the years before finding Hogwarts again and the helpfulness of Wolfsbane, had prepared Remus for the present, for the ten agonizing months he had endured the full moon, shaken and alone. Mostly, Remus blamed himself for his own misery. He had gotten far too used to having Sirius, having Padfoot, with him far too quickly, heedless of any possible impact on his future. To Remus, that had been the expectation of his future: Padfoot would be there again, once, always.
It had been reckless of him, and now Remus was dealing with the consequences of not having the dog there to herd him, play with him, comfort him. He had to deal with not having Sirius there in the morning, to wrap him in blankets, bandage any cuts (which there were less and less of), to curl up behind him and wrap firm arms around him and kiss the nape of his neck while Remus murmured in the state between sleeping and waking. Remus had been careless in his happiness, and now he dreaded the moon more than ever. He transformed shaking and shivering and howling and woke bloody and bruised, left to bandage his ever increasing wounds, left to look at fresh scars that wouldn't heal over, or fade, in the mirror. After the last one, he had wondered if the wolf would finally have its way and if he would tear himself to pieces soon.
It was a very likely possibility.
As for money, Remus began to realize, even more acutely than before, how he had none of it. He gave up paying rent on his flat. He was living at Grimmauld Place anyway, and refusing to go elsewhere; now there was literally no elsewhere to go to. Working full-time for the Order was not a paying job, though there was no doubt that Dumbledore would have liked to help Remus, if at all possible. It just wasn't possible. They were a secret society of rebel fighters, not an office at the Ministry of Magic. Remus reflected that if nothing else, the other side was certainly better funded; there was a bit of class warfare mixed in with the truths about light and darkness.
Sirius had not left him without thought to Remus' future, of course; Remus was named in Sirius' will, along with Harry. The problem was, with no body, and with very little conscience, the Ministry refused to certify Black as legally dead; to them and the general public, he was still a murderous convict on the loose, running about criminally footloose and fancy free about the English countryside, or perhaps Tahiti. Which left his will to be unopened and unprocessed until he was officially categorized as dead. Remus thought ruefully that Sirius Black was likely to outlive most of the current inhabitants of Britain at this rate.
But like that Muggle American heroine written by Williams, Remus Lupin had always depended on the kindness of strangers, especially when those strangers supplied him with work and minimal payment for it. Thankfully for Remus, Lionel Lovegood had offered Remus contract work as a proofreader for the Quibbler, having heard about Remus through his daughter and remembering him slightly from his own schooldays. The work wasn't fancy, or even plentiful, but Remus took it and the small compensation that went with it gratefully, sending owls back and forth to the magazine usually once or twice a month, more than that if they were nearing deadline with a particularly prickly piece.
One night in May, he was marking an article on the potential uses of gronwits toes as an aphrodisiac (and thinking it more like correcting high fantasy fiction than a promising how-to article) when there was a knock at the door. This in and of itself was a rare occurrence; all Order members used the floo network, and the house was so heavily spelled that no one who didn't know it was there could find it. There was no one Remus could even fathom was calling, and not at ten in the evening, either.
So it was with soft, cautious footfalls and his wand at the ready that Remus slowly opened the heavy oak door.
He was in no way prepared for what was on the other side of it.
Remus opened the door, slowly and cautiously, with his wand out and ready. Sirius' inexplicable first thought upon seeing Remus standing there, backlit by the candles in the hallway, was that Moony had always been better at DADA than he was--and that he might be in a bit of trouble should Remus turn out to be serious about using his wand.
Instead, they just stood there for a long time, Remus on one side of the door and Sirius on the other, until Remus said, calmly enough to impress Sirius,
"How. How did you get here?"
"I walked," Sirius said.
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They went into the kitchen and Remus made tea. Sirius would have laughed, as it occurred to him that perhaps Lily had picked up her tea habit from Remus, if he had not been suddenly and powerfully struck with thirst. He drank the entire first pot of Earl Gray, and Remus had to put the kettle on again, this time dropping Darjeeling leaves into another pot.
Remus was quiet, silent as a stone, not having said a word since he had asked Sirius his question at the doorway. Sirius didn't know where to start; obviously it wasn't every day that you came back from the dead, to be met at the doorway of your childhood home by your lover. Sirius took to reading the parchment Remus must have abandoned sideways, and finally came out with, "Gronwit toes, huh?"
"I. It's for my. It's for my job. I'm editing some pieces." Remus poured milk into his mug. Sirius nodded.
Finally, "It is me, Remus."
"I know."
"Because if you're not sure, I don't know. You could ask me something only I would know. Or that only the two of us would know. Like during sixth year, that time, in the hall closet when . . ."
"I know it's you. I can. I can smell you." Remus sipped his tea, though Sirius noted that his hand wasn't quite steady.
"Oh."
"I. You smell a bit . . . stale. But real. Alive."
"Oh." Sirius knew that Remus wouldn't be able to describe his sense of smell, so heightened by the wolf, in any way that he could understand, so he merely accepted what Remus was telling him. Remus didn't say anything else, so Sirius waited. He could do that; he'd gotten used to waiting.
There was silence for a long time as they drank their tea.
Finally, Remus sent his mug down to the table with a definitive crash. "Holy Merlin, Sirius. You're supposed to be dead."
"I know. But I'm not."
"Well. That's just great, Sirius. Fantastic! It's all explained to me now! How could I have ever been so foolish as to mourn you?" Remus finished with a flourish, his palm slapping the table.
"You mourned me?" That wasn't what he meant to say. He knew Remus had felt grief; he'd seen it, watched it, remembered it. But it was different when he heard it said out loud.
Remus' face took on an expression that made Sirius' chest ache. "I'm not exactly finished."
And suddenly, the ache in Sirius' chest flared into flame, and he took hold of Remus' hand from across the table. He didn't know what to say. Remus hung his head, and Sirius knew that he was crying, tears dropping down onto the tabletop.
He waited until Remus lifted his head, his face wet and shiny with tracks of tears, and then cupped Remus' face with both of his hands. "Are you finished now?" he asked.
Remus smiled a damp smile. "Almost."
Sirius leaned across the table and kissed him.
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Later, after Sirius had had another whole pot of tea, and eaten most of the chicken Remus had for sandwiches; after Sirius had explained about the James and Lily and the Maps; after Remus had looked at both Maps and asked questions and proclaimed his amazement; after they checked that Sirius appeared only on the Living Map, and no longer held place with those who were dead; after Sirius told how he'd gone to the Department of Mysteries, and just walked back through the veil, and out the door, and down to Grimmauld Place, as if it were the most natural thing in the world; after Sirius had asked about Harry, and Remus had said, along with the fact that Harry was well, "Please. Just. It's selfish but. I want you to myself. Even if it's only tonight."; after all of that, they slowly climbed the stairs to Remus' bedroom, extinguishing candles as they went.
Once they were inside, Remus closed the door behind them, and Sirius undid the buttons on Remus' white Muggle Oxford. He pulled the fabric aside, and Remus turned his head to the side, ashamed, when he heard Sirius' gasp of "Moony," knowing that Sirius had seen the new scars he'd given himself in the past months. He was unprepared when Sirius removed the shirt completely and then began to gently, reverently, kiss each new scar, scrape or scratch, and this time, it was Remus who gasped in surprise, feeling Sirius mouth, Sirius' mouth on him, all over him.
And then Remus got impatient, and pulled Sirius up, a brief tug on his hair bringing the other man up to eye level, in order to kiss him. It was a kiss both bruising and branding and yet entirely, gracefully loving, and it seemed to go on forever, or at least until Remus got impatient again and started tugging on Sirius' shirt, lifting it out of his trousers and over his head, breaking the kiss to do so.
Sirius, of course, had not changed during his period in the after life, in almost death, but Remus was comforted by this fact: this was his Sirius, the Sirius he knew, and he started remapping Sirius' body with the fervor of the forgotten. His fingers trailed over Sirius' chest, his arms, his hands. Remus took the time to handle every finger, every muscle, smiling as he kissed Sirius' abdomen and felt the familiar clench beneath his mouth.
Somehow they made it to the bed, though neither was quite sure how. They each removed their own trousers and boxers with shaking hands and met in the middle, each man on his side, kissing like eager, hormonal teenagers, hands roaming up and down and over. Sirius tickled Remus against his ribs, under his knee, and Remus laughed into their kisses, and in answer circled his own fingers around Sirius' cock. Sirius gasped and bucked slightly, clearly trying not to give too much away, too fast, but Remus was ready, and he pumped a searing rhythm until Sirius' mouth pulled away from his, and their foreheads met instead.
"I. You." Sirius didn't know what he was trying to articulate, he was so far gone with dizziness and desire, breathing heavily. Maybe it didn't matter.
"I want you inside me," Remus answered, not having any problem with articulation.
"You already know I'm alive." Sirius gasped as Remus' fingers tightened.
"Do I really have to ask you to prove it?" Remus answered, taking a deep breath as Sirius' fingers reached their own destination.
"Moony." Sirius rolled Remus over onto his back, until he loomed over the other man, and he let go of Remus' cock, but not before he pumped, once, twice and Remus moaned and arched his back, shifting on the sheets.
"Are you?" Sirius asked, panting. Remus nodded, and whispered the incantation.
Sirius took the time to position himself, Remus letting go of Sirius so that he could do so. Sirius' eyes met Remus', and again, "But . . ."
Remus growled and took Sirius' head in his hands, one hand on each side of his face, not gently. "Now, Sirius," he said, pulling Sirius down for another smoldering kiss.
Sirius complied, his pace slow, measured at first, but that gentleness finally gave way to Sirius' want, need, desire as Remus writhed beneath him, shifting up and down on the sheets, hard enough almost to burn himself with the cloth. When Remus banged his heel against the bed and moaned, "Padfoot," Sirius came, and Remus came, too, spurting on his own hand and stomach, straining his head up off the pillow in order to kiss Sirius again.
After a while, Sirius slowly disengaged and took his weight off of Remus, rolling to the side and onto his back. Remus moved closer in, burying his face in Sirius' neck, his breath hot and wet on Sirius' skin.
They didn't talk, and Sirius could feel the weight of sleep pulling him further and further down; he wanted to follow it, desperately, elementally, but Remus was uncommonly stiff, aware in his arms, and so Sirius positioned his head, his face, so he could see Remus a bit--the top of his head, the curve of his brow. He kissed the top of Remus' head.
"Don't you . . . aren't you sleepy, Moony?" he asked.
Remus nodded, but didn't look up into Sirius' eyes.
Sirius tightened his arms. "So we'll sleep then, perchance to wake." He felt Remus' smile against his neck.
"Perchance to dream," Remus said.
"This isn't a dream. I'll be here in the morning," Sirius reassured, knowing that it was true. Remus merely nodded, and settled into the curve of Sirius' body even further, and closed his eyes.
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In the morning, Sirius was still there.
Thanks for inviting me; I hope you enjoy.
Title: The Elemental Trilogy: Fire, Ice, and Water.
Pairing: Remus/Sirius
Author: Edna Krabapple on LJ; Kitty Levina elsewhere--it's six of one, half dozen of the other.
Rating: PG or PG-13 for the first two parts; NC-17 for the last part
Disclaimer: I own nothing herein. It all belongs to J.K. Rowling and various people at certain publishing houses and movie studios. This is a strictly not-for-profit operation.
Summary: Post OotP. Sirius is dead; Remus mourns; Remus melts and Shakespeare is misquoted, quite badly.
Feedback: Always appreciated as the thoughtfulness it is.
Warnings: No real warnings, I don't think. Slash, of course. Spoilers for OotP.
Author's Notes: This is an R/S story in three parts. I'll post it all in one entry here for the sake of space, but each story is under a different cut tag; they are all related, of course. Note that the first two parts are around 3,500 words each; the last is at around 1,500. Thanks to ceciliaregent for the title inspiration. Also appears in my personal LJ (though not under the usual friends-lock) and was posted to the remusxsirius group.
After the fall, Sirius wouldn't have known where he was, except for the fact that it was James Potter who caught him halfway down. James then set him on his feet, hand hovering under Sirius' elbow. Sirius could still see out through the veil, saw Bellatrix laughing, bitterly and endlessly; saw Harry screaming, struggling, shouting, his face contorted so that his glasses were askew; saw Remus holding Harry in a grip so strong it was superhuman, his own shock and anguish visible on his face. Remus was saying something to Harry, but Sirius could not make out what it was.
James still had his hand under Sirius' elbow. Sirius turned to James, confused. James squeezed the elbow in his hand and said, "Welcome home, Mr. Padfoot."
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This place he was in, which he understood was death in the way that he knew that water was wet, was both time never ending and wholly without time. James and Lily looked just as they had in 1981. Sirius knew he looked completely different than he had in 1981. He knew he looked more like a print than he looked like his original. Azkaban had done its damage there, too. James and Lily did not remark upon the change.
This afterlife, it seemed to Sirius, was like floating on a raft in the middle of a vast ocean. There were others there, and he could see them at will, just by thinking about it, but it was not like life. In life, people spoke. In death, they whispered.
In fact, the entire experience seemed somehow secondhand. It was as if things seemed to happen to Sirius, but that he did not experience them. His joy upon being reunited with Lily, and most especially with James, was palpable, but also muted, like a painting done in watercolors and not in oils. Sirius did not know where the rest of the Blacks were, and aside from Regelus, nor did he care. He knew he could have seen them, spoken with them, yelled with them and at them but it did not seem in any way conductive to his time, or lack thereof, and not one of them came to him. He had James, and Lily was here, and Remus and Harry were elsewhere, and that was all he needed.
But it was this need, this desire, for Remus and Harry that was picking slowly at his brain, peeling away pieces of his heart. Every other dead person he met dealt with emotion more like memories than actual feelings. Lily and James loved each other, that much was certain, but it was as if they were in love because they remembered being so, not because they actually were.
But Sirius. Sirius burned. He ached and wished and feared for Harry. And what he felt for Remus, all the love and lust and tenderness and heartache was like a torch in his chest that he could not put out. He was a man on fire.
At first he thought it was because he was newly dead. Those he knew here had mostly been here, wherever here was, for a good span of time according to the living world. James and Lily had been here for almost fifteen years; maybe time had doused their hearts as well. Sirius might have been appeased by this notion, except that those who came after him seemed the same way as the others: kind, patient, happy--muted. Sirius was none of those things; he took the time to reflect that perhaps he had been none of those things while he was still alive, either.
And where he was, there was a lot of time for reflection. It seemed that most bodily functions ceased to be. There was no need for food or drink or sleep; no such thing as hunger or thirst or exhaustion. He wondered if there was any need for sex, but he had not the nerve to ask James.
There was also a lot of time to watch. Sirius quickly found that he could see the living, if he only concentrated hard enough. He could see Harry at Hogwarts, Remus at Grimmauld Place. It was like watching them through a one way mirror, like those in Muggle police stations; Sirius could see and hear them, but they could not hear or see him. He stood apart.
He watched Remus the most. Watched him live at that hell trap called Grimmauld Place; watched as he coordinated agendas, strategies, assignments for the Order; watched him sleep. For a while, Sirius saw no sign of grief in Remus, no tears, not even one, not even when Remus was alone. Not even at night. This made matches strike and light in Sirius' chest; it made him angry and moody and above all, resentful. After all the years they had been friends, all the years they had been lovers, and Remus could not find it within himself to mourn Sirius' death?
And then, and then, later, Sirius watched as Remus finished getting ready one morning in late August. He saw Remus pick up his watch off the dresser and noticed that the watch was his, Sirius'. Remus had made Sirius buy it one Christmas during a shopping expedition in Muggle London, always perturbed that whether by magical or Muggle means, Sirius could never be anywhere on time. Sirius had claimed not to care which watch he purchased, so long as Remus would do right to shut up about it already, but he had bought the one he knew Remus had liked the most. Sirius had worn it constantly since then, more as a reminder of Remus than as a reminder of what the watch was actually supposed to represent. When it was dug up out of the property room in the Ministry of Magic, though Sirius doubted he wanted to know how, he had taken to wearing it again. In his haste that night at the Department of Mysteries, Sirius had left without putting it on.
Sirius watched as Remus fingered the watch slowly, sliding it deftly between his fingers before slipping it quickly into his pocket and fastening his own wristwatch around his bony wrist with a click.
After that, after he knew what to look for, Sirius saw signs of Remus' grief everywhere. They were there in the way he fixed his tea; the way he filled his quill with ink; the way he sighed before getting into bed; the way the new lines around his eyes crinkled, as if he were squinting, looking for Sirius.
Sirius wanted nothing more than to say: I'm here. I'm here.
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Finally, Sirius went to talk to Lily. He had tried talking to James, tried asking him if the feelings ever went away, if they faded--if he was the only one who carried them. Why no one else did. James' answer had been at straightforward and cryptic all at once: "They are them and we are us. Nothing is the same."
So in the end, he went to Lily.
And Lily, being Lily, made tea. It was completely unnecessary, of course. Neither of them had any thirst, any need to drink; they could if they wanted to, though, and people did, usually those who were new, or who wanted to feel alive. Human. Sirius wasn't sure if Lily made tea because Sirius was new or because it was such a Lily thing to do. In life, Lily had made tea whenever she or anyone else felt anxious or upset; she always said it gave her something to do at those times, and she was right. Now, sitting across from her at a table that seemed to have appeared for the purpose, Sirius was a bit surprised that she didn't have biscuits or scones available, too.
Lily sipped her tea, a quiet invitation for Sirius to start. Finally, he blurted, "I hate this!"
Lily started to speak, but Sirius stopped her by raising his hand. "That's not. That's not . . . what I meant. I just. I still feel for them." He did not bother to define them. "That seems different . . . for here."
"It's not so different, Sirius," Lily said, those green eyes Sirius now associated with Harry soft and compassionate. Understanding.
"Do you?" Sirius asked, not able to find another way to say it, and desperately wanting to know.
Lily thought for a long moment, clearly carefully crafting her answer. "I do. I . . . do. Harry is my son." She said each word so distinctly, with such conviction, that Sirius saw the woman who had laid down her own life to protect her child's. He blinked in the face of it, waiting for her to finish.
"But you're right, Sirius. I love Remus, our other friends. I love Harry beyond all reckoning. I look after him the best I can; I watch him sometimes. I want him to be happy. But . . . ." Here, Lily seemed to struggle. "But, ultimately, I suppose, I have done all that I can for him. I can't control what happens to him now. I've . . . let go. I have faith."
Of the things Sirius had imagined Lily saying, and there were many, that was not among them. He gaped for a minute, then managed, "Faith in what?"
Lily's lips quirked as though she might smile, but she did not. She shook her head. "Faith in the idea that everything will be all right in the end. Faith in goodness. In the light. In the people around Harry. In Harry himself."
"Pardon me for saying so, Lily, but that seems so . . . unbelievably perky."
At that, Lily laughed. "Naive, too, yes? All that talk of goodness and light?"
Sirius hesitated this time. "Well, yes."
Lily shook her head again, amused. Her hair swished gently back and forth. "Sirius. I think that . . . . it's not what you have that we don't. I think it's what we have that you don't.”
"Which is?"
"Peace."
Sirius closed his eyes, thinking. He could search his heart and find any number of things: love, hate, friendship, weariness, passion--but peace was not one of them.
"Then how do I get that?"
"I don't think it's something you can 'get'. I think it's something you come to . . . . something you have. You can't just decide to feel it and there it is. That's not the way it works."
"How did you . . . come to it?"
"That, I can't tell you," Lily said.
Sirius gritted his teeth in frustration. Lily jumped in again before frustration could flare into anger.
"I can't tell you because I don't know how it happened. I just know that I feel . . . happy. Peaceful. Like I know Harry and the others that I love will be safe and happy. I always have. I don't have to be worried or afraid."
At that, Sirius barked a sudden, bitter laugh. "You don't have to be worried or afraid? What about when Harry was small, living with those Muggles?" He knew "those Muggles" were Lily's family, but he didn't care. "When they locked him in a cupboard? Barely fed him? Gave him no clothes of his own? No toys, no books? No love? The boy is starved for affection, for attention, Lily! it isn't right! Your son! James' son!"
He was shouting now, far over any kind of line, and not caring a single bit. "And what about now? When that freakish bastard murderer Voldemort wants him dead? Dead! Or do you not care about that because if Voldemort succeeds he'll at least be with you again?"
Lily was regarding him steadily across the table. Her gaze never wavered, the same understanding in them. But when she spoke, her voice gave Sirius the same impression as earlier, of the woman who had died so her son could live. "All of those things you said, about what happened to Harry, those are true. But I can't change them. Or alter his future. All I can do is continue to love him."
There was silence as Sirius looked down at the table, seething and embarrassed in the face of Lily's certain and unshakeable devotion. He was surprised when she took his hand in hers. He didn't look up.
"And that's all you can do, too, Sirius. Just continue to love him."
Both Lily and Sirius knew that him did not refer to Harry Potter.
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Sirius waited. He waited as late summer turned into fall, as fall began a harsh descent into winter. It was December, and those who lived were dealing with gloves and coats and scarves and hats; with snow falling thickly and ice carved as if from stone.
Sirius had to deal with none of those things. He was waiting for the flame within him to become as cold as the bitter London air.
It seemed to him that he had been waiting for that just short of forever.
Finally, he could wait no longer.
He had spent weeks hesitating. If one went to Lily Potter for compassion and sensible advice, then surely one went to James Potter if one wanted assistance of the less reasonable kind.
Except that the James Potter Sirius knew now was both like and unlike the James Potter that Sirius had known then. James was still smart as a whip, quick witted, and good of heart. The measure of steadiness and compassion he had developed over the years were serving him well. But James was also content here in a way that he had not been in life; mischief had been James' calling not out of cruelty, but out of a restless intelligence, and the thing about contentment was that while the intelligence remained, the restlessness did not.
However, on all accounts, when one, especially if one was Sirius, was seriously contemplating breaking out of heaven, one still went to James Potter.
James, of course, was nothing short of incredulous, and Sirius could hardly blame him. After all, James was happy here. Even knowing Sirius' problem, James could not contemplate not wanting to be here. Besides which, it seemed very well to James that once one was here there was no going back. No one else had. It was an inconceivable thing. James sat through many discussions with Sirius, where Sirius had passionately argued that, somehow, there had been a mistake. Sirius couldn't be dead. He felt too much; he burned with emotions most of their kind no longer remembered, much less had.
Sirius had carefully explained that Bellatrix had not, in fact, hit him with the killing curse. It was only a stunning curse, and had caught him by surprise; if he had fallen to the ground instead of the veil, he would still be alive. What made the veil so different? To which James had replied that the veil was as much a weapon as Avada Kadavra or a Muggle rifle. Bellatrix's curse might not have killed Sirius, but James maintained, loudly, and for a long time, that the veil had.
So Sirius continued to wait, as January blew into February, February into a particularly cold March and then March into a rainy, soggy April, out in the world of the living. Remus still carried Sirius' watch in his pocket, and Sirius knew that the day Remus stopped doing that, and he would, was the day that Sirius would no longer care to go back. Maybe he did only need to wait long enough, after all.
One day in April, James came to him with a plan. At first, Sirius thought that it had been the sheer challenge of bringing someone back into the world of the living that made James want to help him. James Potter thrived on a challenge.
But it was James himself who said, after telling Sirius he would help him, exactly why he would. "It's because you're unhappy. First, no one here is unhappy. It's not right, and it's not normal. Not that you've ever been normal. But mostly, it's you and I love you too much to watch it without trying to help."
Sirius considered this, and smiled, clapping James on the shoulder. It was the closest he had felt to James since they were barely out of adolescence. "You have a plan?"
"I do. We're going to make a Marauder's Map."
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And that is what they did.
They needed Lily's help, of course. The project was too big for the two of them alone, and Lily had always been the best of all of them at charms, of which there were a very many in this task. Besides, Lily recognized Sirius' pain, knew that it was somehow wrong for it to exist here, and, like James, did not like to see him suffer. Sirius and James marveled at her skill, and knew that if she had had a hand in the first Map, it would have been done twice as fast.
Still, even with Lily's help, and with the fact that none of them had to take time to eat or sleep, April crept into May before they had any real working documents.
Mapping the entire world of the living and the world of the dead would have been the task of several lifetimes, so they started smaller. First, they mapped a few specific places, much as James, Sirius, Remus, and Peter had done all those years ago. Hogwarts was fairly easy to reconstruct; Grimmauld Place followed; the Department of Mysteries came last.
As James and Sirius had known even as teenagers, much of the magic in the Map was focused on life, on the essence of what it meant to be alive. Otherwise, it would have been impossible to follow people around on a map. Maps were inanimate things, meant for places, but the Marauder's Map had been meant for people as well, and therefore had tapped into those corners in the spirit where the soul goes and only magic can follow. It was ancient magic, and the four boys had had quite a time of it, but Lily, who knew and had used ancient life magic once before, came to it like it was embedded in her bones.
To map the dead was the opposite impulse--to search for a void where there should be none. Lily struggled with this, and Sirius found he could not tap into that magic at all; whether because he had a metaphysical block or a psychological one, he was not sure. It was here that James did most of the work, and they stuck to people they knew, whom they could connect with: James' parents, old teachers, old friends. Death took too much searching to do them all.
But when they succeeded, when they had two working parchments, it was a sight to behold.
And Sirius Black, sketched in small black ink, appeared both in the Department of Mysteries on one map and with James Potter and Lily Potter on the other.
James was the first to speak, and when he did, it was, "Holy shit."
Even Lily seemed too stunned to rebuke James for his language.
Again, James was the only one with verbal capacity. "Does that mean there are two of you? Two Sirius Blacks?"
Lily peered at the Living Map and shook her head. "I don't. I don't think so. Look, here, in the Department of Mysteries, there's just the banner with his name. Like . . . it's a placeholder or something. Here, on the other map," she moved the papers around so the men could see, "there's both the banner and his foot prints."
Sirius bit his lip in concentration. "So . . . does that mean I'm really dead? That my place is here, and my name elsewhere is just . . . residue?"
Again, Lily shook her head. James' hand got caught in the swing of her hair, and he laid a hand on the nape of her neck.
"No. I think that means your spirit is waiting for you."
Sirius frowned. "How can you be sure?"
"I'm not," Lily said honestly. "But I . . . it's the best explanation I can come up with. No one else we've mapped as dead has appeared in the Living Map, even if they had died at Grimmauld Place or Hogwarts."
Sirius considered his next words carefully; they seemed to be stuck in his throat. "So what do I do?"
In answer, James handed both maps to Sirius. "I think you should take your footprints and walk back to where Remus is waiting for you."
And so, after saying goodbye to Lily and James, that is what Sirius did.
There were some things Remus Lupin simply did not do.
For example, he did not put sugar in his tea. He never went to bed without brushing his teeth if it was at all possible (full moon nights didn't count). He did not cease, in all his moves, to shelve his books in alphabetical order by author, neatly divided into categories of fiction and non-fiction, though he did allow Muggle to intermix with Magical. He would not shop without a list; he kept a running shopping list, items he needed to pick up at the market scribbled on a scrap piece of parchment on the nightstand, to be used on market day and discarded when all items had been crossed off. He would not think to miss saying thank you to the woman at the cafe who always gave him extra cocoa in his hot cocoa.
Also, Remus refused to believe that Sirius Black was anything other than dead. He also could not cry for the man he had loved passing all reason, all understanding.
The tears were eating away at him from the inside, but refused him any type of release.
Remus found he couldn't bring himself to care that they were slowly killing him, either.
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Life went on as normally as possible, or as normally as it usually did for Remus. There was Order business to take care of; Harry to look after, even if he had gone back to the Dursleys for a time. He would be here later, and that was what counted. Remus wasn't sure if Harry would need him, but he knew Harry would need someone. The prospect of a grieving, angry sixteen year old desperate for comfort and repair filled Remus with a dread far more vicious than anything Voldemort could come up with. In that way, Voldemort would actually be more reasonable; death would be easy in the face of nurturing a damaged Harry. It made Remus wonder why fate had conspired to leave that task up to him; he felt unready, and very, very weary. He made sure that Molly, Ron and Hermione would be on hand, too. Remus was gathering the troops to him, even as all he wanted was a quiet corner of the world to exist in. Alone. He would be glad not to have to talk to or deal with anyone about anything ever again.
And yet he still did, of course. He planned strategy out with Arthur and Snape and Dumbledore. He winced when Tonks broke his favorite mug, and teased her gently about it later. He did the dishes when Molly cooked the meals, and they would converse lightly about the weather or seriously about Death Eaters, though none of it really mattered to Remus.
He supposed that what he was doing was getting on with life, which was the thing he was expected to do. It was what he always had done. Remus was always the one who carried on, always the man who stood up.
This time, what Remus carried seemed far too heavy, and he was tired of standing. But no one offered to let him sit, so he didn't.
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He kept Sirius' watch in his pocket. Years ago, those few years after Hogwarts but before death, Azkaban, and loneliness, Sirius and Remus had gone Christmas shopping in London. Remus remembered making Sirius buy a watch then, something, anything to get Sirius to just be on bloody time for once. The watch hadn't served the purpose Remus had expected; Sirius, being Sirius, kept his own time, as usual. But it didn't escape Remus' notice that Sirius still wore the watch every day, put it on the same way he put on his aftershave, his clothes, his socks--automatically. Sirius would twist his wrist sometimes when he was nervous or anxious, a quick flick of the arm, as if checking to see the watch was still there. And twice, Remus had seen Sirius touch the watch briefly with the fingers of his other hand when Remus would unexpectedly appear after a dangerous or difficult mission, just as he would touch Remus later, to make sure he was indeed still there.
One morning in August, when he was pocketing Sirius' watch quickly, so no one could see, Remus thought that they might not have worn rings, might not have needed them, but that he would never stop carrying the watch, because he knew what it really meant. And it was all he had left.
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The children would be leaving for King's Cross in the morning. Tomorrow was September 1, and all that that implied. Hermione, Remus knew, had been packed for ages, and she was now diligently avoiding Ron and Harry, both of whom had yet to pack. Remus suspected Hermione's sudden avoidance had more to do with a private refusal to help the boys pack and to avoid them asking than with any real ill-will toward them. Two years ago, even a year ago, she would have been upstairs, loudly lecturing both of her best friends about their procrastination. Remus could hear her "Oh, honestly, Ron" echoing in his ears.
This year, however, Hermione was curled up in the corner of a couch in the library, a book propped up on her knees. Remus reflected that Harry wasn't the only one who was doing some growing up.
Remus, like Hermione, was in the library doing some hiding out of his own. As much as he knew he should appreciate the fullness of the house, he didn't. The Weasley clan, bless their pure hearts, were both numerous and loud, and took over every space they inhabited. Remus was profoundly grateful for their support of Harry, but with Harry leaving for Hogwarts tomorrow, Remus would no longer really need any of them around. He knew Sirius would have loved the full house, that he had wished for nothing more than company and companionship after all those years alone in cold and darkness. But now, what Sirius wanted was no longer what Remus wanted, and it made Remus stop breathing momentarily every time he thought about that fact.
Molly Weasley had reasoned, argued, cajoled, and even tried to guilt him into leaving Grimmauld Place and going back to his own flat. It wasn't healthy for him to stay in this big, empty house all by himself, she had said. Logically, Remus agreed with her. It probably wasn't healthy for him to be living here, to sleep every night in the same bed he had shared with Sirius. To use the same set of sheets over and over because he fancied he could still smell Sirius on them, no matter how many times they had been washed since June. To see signs of Sirius everywhere he looked--no matter how much Sirius had hated the house, he had made it his own in the months he had lived there: his clothes in the closet, his newly acquired reading glasses on a random shelf among the library bookstacks; a set of fingerprints on the dusty stairs leading to the attic. Staying here might not have been the right thing to do, but it was the only thing Remus could do at the moment.
He looked up from his parchment, where he was supposed to be writing out a tracking spell to try to get a handle on where some of the more elusive Death Eaters were--and not making much progress on it--when he felt a pair of eyes on him. He looked over, and Hermione's eyes flashed down once again to the book she was supposed to be reading. Remus caught the slight tinge of pink on her cheeks, even in the candlelight.
"Is there something you require, Miss Granger?" Remus asked, trying to sound both formal and slightly friendly, but only managing to sound choked and horse.
Hermione looked up and shook her head, a bushy bounce of light brown curls. The summer sun had bleached her hair a bit. "No, Professor. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"You're not disturbing me, Hermione. Do you have a question?" Again, Remus went for kindly teacher, and missed it due to the roughness of his voice.
Hermione hesitated. "Well . . . yes. But I don't think it's an appropriate question, sir. It's a bit . . . personal."
"There's no such thing as an appropriate or inappropriate question, Hermione. Just questions. If you have one, you should ask it." Remus could hear Sirius' mocking voice in his head: There's no such thing as a stupid question, Remus, just stupid people. Remus shook his head slightly to get rid of the voice. He was fairly sure he was on solid academic territory when it came to Hermione's questions. Besides, he had spent a year as a teacher at Hogwarts, where he had heard any number of personal questions, mostly from puberty stricken young boys. After that, little else was . . . inappropriate.
Hermione still looked doubtful, but she closed her book and set it aside purposefully. Remus raised his eyebrows and motioned with his hand for her to continue.
"Were you and Sirius Black lovers?" Hermione asked it in a rush, one long breath blown out.
Remus rocked back in his chair a bit, figuring that maybe there were some questions he was not prepared to deal with. It took his brain such a long time to come up with any response, any at all, that he began to hope that Hermione might actually abandon the subject and leave the library entirely. She looked just about ready to do that when Remus simply said,
"Yes."
Hermione nodded, and knitted her fingers together in her lap. "I didn't mean to embarrass or offend you, Professor. I just. I've just been wondering, that's all. You don't have to talk about it. I'll go now."
She made move to get up, but Remus waved his hand, a gesture implying she should stay sitting. "How long?" he asked.
Hermione's nose wrinkled in confusion. "How long? Oh! How long have I wondered?"
Remus just nodded.
"Since before . . ." she stopped suddenly. "Since before, sir."
Remus nodded again, knowing what before meant.
"And I just. Well. You see, I'm a bit worried about you," Hermione continued, obviously gaining courage and momentum. Somewhere in Remus' brain, a part of it pinged and told him she was a Gryffindor and that he should have expected no less.
Still, Remus had no answer for her, no ready response, no certain reassurance. If soon-to-be sixteen Hermione was worried over him, he must be in a right awful state. He still didn't much care, and there was no reason to pretend otherwise. Hermione certainly seemed to know the truth.
What finally came out was a surprise to Remus. "I love him."
"I know. I mean, I understand. If Harry or Ron . . ." she broke off.
Remus flushed with anger. Sirius was not the same to Remus as Ron and Harry were to Hermione. They had not only been friends, but lovers, irreparably bound for years now. How did Hermione, in her schoolgirl experience, have any way to measure the sum of Remus' devotion? How dare she even try?
Hermione must have seen some of this in his face, for she quickly backpedaled. "Not that it's a good comparison, Professor. But. I love Harry and Ron, too, in my own way, and if something happened to one of them. I think about that, you know. Especially with Harry, and. What I'd do." Hermione faltered to a stop.
Remus had calmed down slightly during this speech, but not enough to keep the scorn out of his voice. "And what would you do, Miss Granger?"
Hermione's cheeks became pink again, but neither her voice nor her gaze was unsteady, and Remus felt the need to shift on his chair a little. "I think I'd do the only thing there is to do, sir." She paused, but Remus didn't ask. "I'd continue to love them. I think that's all you can do."
Hermione stood up, and much to Remus' surprise, stepped over to kiss him lightly on the cheek. She quickly backed away then, toward the door. "I should go see how far along Ron and Harry are with packing. I'm sure Ron's trunk is a proper mess by now." She smiled a little, reassuringly, once again trying to ease them back onto familiar teacher/former pupil ground. Remus smiled a half-smile back.
But before she left entirely, she said, "And I think that's all you can do, too, Professor Lupin. Just continue to love him."
As she slipped away, Remus considered that in order to keep doing that, he'd also have to keep on living.
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So Remus kept living. He kept living as August descended into fall, as fall turned into a coarse, cold, bitter winter. The front hallway and the kitchen of Grimmauld Place were now always a veritable riot of winter gear: hats, gloves, scarves. Tonks was endearingly no better about keeping a set of gloves together as she was about her clumsiness. Coats lined every available surface as Remus worked at the kitchen table; the desk in the library; the bed. Snow fell in thick patches outside of icy windows, and Remus felt as cold and still as the air outside.
Christmas held court in Grimmauld Place, but it was a shadow of the event of last year. There was no Sirius bounding from room to room, delighted to see so many people, have so much company. He had been so full of the seasonal good cheer that Remus hadn't the heart to stop him even from charming the mistletoe.
This year, though Harry was there and therefore, so too were Ron and the Weasleys, and Hermione, the atmosphere was forced. The gifts were sincerely given, even if there was a halting manner to the way in which they were received. It reminded Remus of the last Christmas Lily and James had been alive, Harry's first. They had all made a fuss over the infant, but there was no stopping the dark cloud of Tom Riddle's destruction as it loomed ever closer. The comparison between Harry's first Christmas and his latest left Remus' hands shaking as he put on the kettle for tea, and he had to sit when he realized he was the only person living who would be able to compare the two events. His heart stopped beating momentarily in his chest, and for a second, Remus wished that it had just stopped altogether, but it began beating again, painfully and loudly.
Remus was made to stir only when Ginny Weasley came in fetch a tin of biscuits and escape her twin brothers, who had already inflicted their latest creations on as many unsuspecting guests as possible. Ginny looked as if she were about to ask Remus if he was alright, but before she could do so, he stood up and made a light joke about Weasley snack boxes. Ginny laughed softly and appreciatively, and helped him manage the pot, cups and saucers as they left the kitchen together, juggling china and sweets.
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As the New Year continued, blowing from a cold January and February into a wet and sopping early spring, Remus found himself more and more concerned with two things that had evaded his attention for quite some time: moons and money.
As for the first, Remus had not had as much trouble with full moons since he was eight, nine and ten, when his parents had regretfully and painfully locked him in the woodshed out in the back yard, left with only a blanket and a silencing charm. At Hogwarts, of course, and even for a few precious years after, full moons had taken on a less painful tone; they had at least been about familiarity, the comfort of a pack. And, yes, Remus had spent thirteen long years getting used to solitary full moons again. He had done so out of requirement; he always did what was required, and this was no different, registering with the Ministry and having a small room in his flat inspected every month and furnished with a silver door.
But none of that, not his childhood, not the years before finding Hogwarts again and the helpfulness of Wolfsbane, had prepared Remus for the present, for the ten agonizing months he had endured the full moon, shaken and alone. Mostly, Remus blamed himself for his own misery. He had gotten far too used to having Sirius, having Padfoot, with him far too quickly, heedless of any possible impact on his future. To Remus, that had been the expectation of his future: Padfoot would be there again, once, always.
It had been reckless of him, and now Remus was dealing with the consequences of not having the dog there to herd him, play with him, comfort him. He had to deal with not having Sirius there in the morning, to wrap him in blankets, bandage any cuts (which there were less and less of), to curl up behind him and wrap firm arms around him and kiss the nape of his neck while Remus murmured in the state between sleeping and waking. Remus had been careless in his happiness, and now he dreaded the moon more than ever. He transformed shaking and shivering and howling and woke bloody and bruised, left to bandage his ever increasing wounds, left to look at fresh scars that wouldn't heal over, or fade, in the mirror. After the last one, he had wondered if the wolf would finally have its way and if he would tear himself to pieces soon.
It was a very likely possibility.
As for money, Remus began to realize, even more acutely than before, how he had none of it. He gave up paying rent on his flat. He was living at Grimmauld Place anyway, and refusing to go elsewhere; now there was literally no elsewhere to go to. Working full-time for the Order was not a paying job, though there was no doubt that Dumbledore would have liked to help Remus, if at all possible. It just wasn't possible. They were a secret society of rebel fighters, not an office at the Ministry of Magic. Remus reflected that if nothing else, the other side was certainly better funded; there was a bit of class warfare mixed in with the truths about light and darkness.
Sirius had not left him without thought to Remus' future, of course; Remus was named in Sirius' will, along with Harry. The problem was, with no body, and with very little conscience, the Ministry refused to certify Black as legally dead; to them and the general public, he was still a murderous convict on the loose, running about criminally footloose and fancy free about the English countryside, or perhaps Tahiti. Which left his will to be unopened and unprocessed until he was officially categorized as dead. Remus thought ruefully that Sirius Black was likely to outlive most of the current inhabitants of Britain at this rate.
But like that Muggle American heroine written by Williams, Remus Lupin had always depended on the kindness of strangers, especially when those strangers supplied him with work and minimal payment for it. Thankfully for Remus, Lionel Lovegood had offered Remus contract work as a proofreader for the Quibbler, having heard about Remus through his daughter and remembering him slightly from his own schooldays. The work wasn't fancy, or even plentiful, but Remus took it and the small compensation that went with it gratefully, sending owls back and forth to the magazine usually once or twice a month, more than that if they were nearing deadline with a particularly prickly piece.
One night in May, he was marking an article on the potential uses of gronwits toes as an aphrodisiac (and thinking it more like correcting high fantasy fiction than a promising how-to article) when there was a knock at the door. This in and of itself was a rare occurrence; all Order members used the floo network, and the house was so heavily spelled that no one who didn't know it was there could find it. There was no one Remus could even fathom was calling, and not at ten in the evening, either.
So it was with soft, cautious footfalls and his wand at the ready that Remus slowly opened the heavy oak door.
He was in no way prepared for what was on the other side of it.
Remus opened the door, slowly and cautiously, with his wand out and ready. Sirius' inexplicable first thought upon seeing Remus standing there, backlit by the candles in the hallway, was that Moony had always been better at DADA than he was--and that he might be in a bit of trouble should Remus turn out to be serious about using his wand.
Instead, they just stood there for a long time, Remus on one side of the door and Sirius on the other, until Remus said, calmly enough to impress Sirius,
"How. How did you get here?"
"I walked," Sirius said.
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They went into the kitchen and Remus made tea. Sirius would have laughed, as it occurred to him that perhaps Lily had picked up her tea habit from Remus, if he had not been suddenly and powerfully struck with thirst. He drank the entire first pot of Earl Gray, and Remus had to put the kettle on again, this time dropping Darjeeling leaves into another pot.
Remus was quiet, silent as a stone, not having said a word since he had asked Sirius his question at the doorway. Sirius didn't know where to start; obviously it wasn't every day that you came back from the dead, to be met at the doorway of your childhood home by your lover. Sirius took to reading the parchment Remus must have abandoned sideways, and finally came out with, "Gronwit toes, huh?"
"I. It's for my. It's for my job. I'm editing some pieces." Remus poured milk into his mug. Sirius nodded.
Finally, "It is me, Remus."
"I know."
"Because if you're not sure, I don't know. You could ask me something only I would know. Or that only the two of us would know. Like during sixth year, that time, in the hall closet when . . ."
"I know it's you. I can. I can smell you." Remus sipped his tea, though Sirius noted that his hand wasn't quite steady.
"Oh."
"I. You smell a bit . . . stale. But real. Alive."
"Oh." Sirius knew that Remus wouldn't be able to describe his sense of smell, so heightened by the wolf, in any way that he could understand, so he merely accepted what Remus was telling him. Remus didn't say anything else, so Sirius waited. He could do that; he'd gotten used to waiting.
There was silence for a long time as they drank their tea.
Finally, Remus sent his mug down to the table with a definitive crash. "Holy Merlin, Sirius. You're supposed to be dead."
"I know. But I'm not."
"Well. That's just great, Sirius. Fantastic! It's all explained to me now! How could I have ever been so foolish as to mourn you?" Remus finished with a flourish, his palm slapping the table.
"You mourned me?" That wasn't what he meant to say. He knew Remus had felt grief; he'd seen it, watched it, remembered it. But it was different when he heard it said out loud.
Remus' face took on an expression that made Sirius' chest ache. "I'm not exactly finished."
And suddenly, the ache in Sirius' chest flared into flame, and he took hold of Remus' hand from across the table. He didn't know what to say. Remus hung his head, and Sirius knew that he was crying, tears dropping down onto the tabletop.
He waited until Remus lifted his head, his face wet and shiny with tracks of tears, and then cupped Remus' face with both of his hands. "Are you finished now?" he asked.
Remus smiled a damp smile. "Almost."
Sirius leaned across the table and kissed him.
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Later, after Sirius had had another whole pot of tea, and eaten most of the chicken Remus had for sandwiches; after Sirius had explained about the James and Lily and the Maps; after Remus had looked at both Maps and asked questions and proclaimed his amazement; after they checked that Sirius appeared only on the Living Map, and no longer held place with those who were dead; after Sirius told how he'd gone to the Department of Mysteries, and just walked back through the veil, and out the door, and down to Grimmauld Place, as if it were the most natural thing in the world; after Sirius had asked about Harry, and Remus had said, along with the fact that Harry was well, "Please. Just. It's selfish but. I want you to myself. Even if it's only tonight."; after all of that, they slowly climbed the stairs to Remus' bedroom, extinguishing candles as they went.
Once they were inside, Remus closed the door behind them, and Sirius undid the buttons on Remus' white Muggle Oxford. He pulled the fabric aside, and Remus turned his head to the side, ashamed, when he heard Sirius' gasp of "Moony," knowing that Sirius had seen the new scars he'd given himself in the past months. He was unprepared when Sirius removed the shirt completely and then began to gently, reverently, kiss each new scar, scrape or scratch, and this time, it was Remus who gasped in surprise, feeling Sirius mouth, Sirius' mouth on him, all over him.
And then Remus got impatient, and pulled Sirius up, a brief tug on his hair bringing the other man up to eye level, in order to kiss him. It was a kiss both bruising and branding and yet entirely, gracefully loving, and it seemed to go on forever, or at least until Remus got impatient again and started tugging on Sirius' shirt, lifting it out of his trousers and over his head, breaking the kiss to do so.
Sirius, of course, had not changed during his period in the after life, in almost death, but Remus was comforted by this fact: this was his Sirius, the Sirius he knew, and he started remapping Sirius' body with the fervor of the forgotten. His fingers trailed over Sirius' chest, his arms, his hands. Remus took the time to handle every finger, every muscle, smiling as he kissed Sirius' abdomen and felt the familiar clench beneath his mouth.
Somehow they made it to the bed, though neither was quite sure how. They each removed their own trousers and boxers with shaking hands and met in the middle, each man on his side, kissing like eager, hormonal teenagers, hands roaming up and down and over. Sirius tickled Remus against his ribs, under his knee, and Remus laughed into their kisses, and in answer circled his own fingers around Sirius' cock. Sirius gasped and bucked slightly, clearly trying not to give too much away, too fast, but Remus was ready, and he pumped a searing rhythm until Sirius' mouth pulled away from his, and their foreheads met instead.
"I. You." Sirius didn't know what he was trying to articulate, he was so far gone with dizziness and desire, breathing heavily. Maybe it didn't matter.
"I want you inside me," Remus answered, not having any problem with articulation.
"You already know I'm alive." Sirius gasped as Remus' fingers tightened.
"Do I really have to ask you to prove it?" Remus answered, taking a deep breath as Sirius' fingers reached their own destination.
"Moony." Sirius rolled Remus over onto his back, until he loomed over the other man, and he let go of Remus' cock, but not before he pumped, once, twice and Remus moaned and arched his back, shifting on the sheets.
"Are you?" Sirius asked, panting. Remus nodded, and whispered the incantation.
Sirius took the time to position himself, Remus letting go of Sirius so that he could do so. Sirius' eyes met Remus', and again, "But . . ."
Remus growled and took Sirius' head in his hands, one hand on each side of his face, not gently. "Now, Sirius," he said, pulling Sirius down for another smoldering kiss.
Sirius complied, his pace slow, measured at first, but that gentleness finally gave way to Sirius' want, need, desire as Remus writhed beneath him, shifting up and down on the sheets, hard enough almost to burn himself with the cloth. When Remus banged his heel against the bed and moaned, "Padfoot," Sirius came, and Remus came, too, spurting on his own hand and stomach, straining his head up off the pillow in order to kiss Sirius again.
After a while, Sirius slowly disengaged and took his weight off of Remus, rolling to the side and onto his back. Remus moved closer in, burying his face in Sirius' neck, his breath hot and wet on Sirius' skin.
They didn't talk, and Sirius could feel the weight of sleep pulling him further and further down; he wanted to follow it, desperately, elementally, but Remus was uncommonly stiff, aware in his arms, and so Sirius positioned his head, his face, so he could see Remus a bit--the top of his head, the curve of his brow. He kissed the top of Remus' head.
"Don't you . . . aren't you sleepy, Moony?" he asked.
Remus nodded, but didn't look up into Sirius' eyes.
Sirius tightened his arms. "So we'll sleep then, perchance to wake." He felt Remus' smile against his neck.
"Perchance to dream," Remus said.
"This isn't a dream. I'll be here in the morning," Sirius reassured, knowing that it was true. Remus merely nodded, and settled into the curve of Sirius' body even further, and closed his eyes.
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In the morning, Sirius was still there.