It's just a dog, Remus thinks desperately, when he opens the door of The Burrow at three o'clock in the morning some otherwise unidentifiable Sunday night, and sitting there is a large black shape he's seen hundreds, thousands, uncountable times before. It's just a fucking dog, he thinks. But, of course, it isn't.
For a moment the dark, half-cold June air is stilled. The inside of the Burrow, silent and blue, clocks ticking, seems attached to a different universe, completely separate from what Remus is seeing. He thinks nothing. There is nothing to compare this to, no frame of reference from which to draw the sudden fulfilment of a wish he never expected ever to see daylight. He remembers in a flash feeling this before. Betrayed, forsaken, alone for so long and then together but broken but together and then, alone. Again.
Despite all this, the dog whaps its tail against Molly's front step.
Remus wants to step back to allow it in, but somehow his feet seem to have disappeared. He can't smile, because this isn't – can't be – real. It defies explanation. It is simply not true. The dog – the 'just a dog' – stares at him endlessly. He slowly finds something at the end of his legs and stumbles back to let the dog inside. It enters, slowly, nose pressed to the floor. Its fur is matted. It is larger than Remus remembers. It is, he thinks for the first time, not a dream.
This is cruelty at its finest. This is the moment when he either lives or dies.
He's had dreams like this.
The dog noses its way in and sits neatly, with a small 'whump', in the middle of Molly's kitchen. Madly, the thought crosses Remus' mind that Molly might be bothered by the prospect of dog fur in her kitchen, but just as quickly it is replaced by terror. He holds it in. He shuts the door. He stands before the door, staring at the dog, which stares back.
"Sirius?"
He hadn't dared think it before he said it. The dog cocks its head to one side for a moment; its eyes are grey; its posture does not quite say 'dog'. Most telling of all, though, it starts to shift.
Sirius – because of course this is who it is, of course, and Remus starts to wonder if he has died, and if he hasn't, when will he wake up – emerges liquidly from the bones of the ragged dog. For a man who has been dead two years, he is relatively unchanged. Remus never sobs, but he does so now. It is a noise he hardly registers making. He is choking a little, and that will never do.
"Rem." Sirius says, soft. It is like nothing else. It is unchanged. It is just like - exactly like - coming home.
The distance between them in the kitchen suddenly seems unjustifiably far, but he cannot cross it for fear that this is another, more vivid fantasy. Another trick. He saw Sirius for months after he died, around every corner, in the kitchen, just out of sight, but not like this. Never the dog, never with a voice. Never so close or so accurate. Never so achingly near.
Remus is standing there like an idiot. He cannot make a sound for fear of shattering whatever magic is holding Sirius, solidly, there. He moves towards him and can't concentrate and only makes it a step or two before he stops again. A slow grin spreads unsurely across Sirius' face. "Rem?" He says again, half-laughing. Remus can't laugh; can't even see, really. He covers his mouth. He gains the ability to speak, again.
"Oh, my god." Is all he can manage. Sirius looks mildly sheepish and puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans and looks at the floor, then up at Remus again. This isn't fair, that this boy – this man – should come back, should have his same mannerisms, his same eyes. It isn't fair that Remus had forgotten all these things about him that now come rushing, screaming back and almost make him stumble again. He breathes in twice. He decides it doesn't matter if this is a dream. He crosses the room.
Sirius waits for him, and is solid – solid, and warm – when Remus defies, for once, the oldness he has felt since he was born and throws his arms around Sirius' shoulders, presses them as close together as he possibly can, thinks briefly that this could be anyone; a death eater, disguised; a shape shifter; a fantasy; and doesn't, doesn't care. He almost can't bear to draw back, until Sirius softly pries him away and looks at his face and kisses him so briefly that it hurts.
"Are you -?" Remus is holding his shoulders, digging in with his nails. "Are you?" He repeats. Sirius shrugs infuriatingly, smirks, but his brows draw together. His mouth goes slack, breathing. They stare at one another.
"Sorry it took me so long." He says, and Remus can't bear it.
"You-" Words are completely evading him. Time has slowed to almost nothing; the kitchen seems to make no noise. Remus knows he should call everyone downstairs, especially Harry, but he seems stuck to Sirius now and he's not entirely upset about it. All in good time; this moment is theirs. "This isn't-" It's far too good to be true. "I thought you were dead." He says, quietly, worried this too will shatter the spell, will send him back to a reality where Sirius is gone. There is a pause. Nothing happens. Sirius continues to look back at him, continues to breathe, looks desperately sorry.
"How long has it been?"
"Too – too, too long." Remus shakes his head. He surges forward and kisses him again, properly, almost bowling him over. He grips even tighter on Sirius' shoulders; Sirius holds him at his sides, and he can feel his hands shaking. He is shaking, too. He starts to pull back – knows that now there are people to wake, there are things to be shared, things to tell Sirius (and oh, about Albus, and the mess this fucking world is in-) – but he manages to say, "I missed you. Every day."
And Sirius squeezes with his hands in response, and says, "Of course I came back." It sounds like a prayer. "Of course."
Remus pulls away, almost afraid he will disappear, but he does not. He'll have to get used to this - he looks forward to un-learning what he has learned. To not being alone anymore. To all the days ahead of them, even in this war. To Harry getting to know his godfather; to all of them knowing the man he knew, who wasn't insane (mostly), who was arrogant and perfectly idiotic and brave, brave enough to die; foolhardy enough to come back.
He edges towards the stairs and calls up them, voice louder than he's ever heard it before. "Harry!" his voice carries up the stairs. He hears rustling; he calls again, over and over, eyes still fixed on Sirius. "Harry!" he shouts, finally feeling the joy over the disbelief, finally feeling together, finally believing (almost) that this is truth. "Harry!" He calls again, and doors start to open and feet start to shuffle and annoyed voices mumble, woken so unceremoniously. When he speaks again, these voices hush. "Harry!" Harry is at the top of the stairs, groggy, teenage in his loose pyjamas, rubbing at one eye, having fallen down the flight from Ron's room. He looks at Remus, standing at the bottom; from where he is, Sirius can't be seen. "Harry. He's alive."
It is like nothing else.
Harry flies down the stairs, knowing somehow who he means, and stands still for only a second staring before launching himself on Sirius, Sirius clearly shocked by how much he's grown, by to what degree Harry is a man now, by the way he looks so much like James. Everyone else, speechless, comes down the stairs slowly. Harry and Sirius, finally reunited, embrace. Remus, watching them, feels like he has never felt before. Feels safe.