Title: Schadenfreude
Rating: T
Pairings: Sirius/Remus, Severus/Draco, Draco/Harry, Severus/Remus
Type: Multiple chapters, updated every two weeks.
Overhead, the sky was layer upon layer of black, a subtle shifting of pitch and raven hues that seemed draped inexplicably across each other, so carefully that Remus, though he stared, could not decide where one cloud ended and the next began. Bluish-black blended with shimmering ebony, falling darkly across the colour of crow's feathers and mingling with the bitter shade Remus associated with resentment. In any case, the night was dominated by darkness. Not a single star remained to puncture the looming thunderheads, and even if the sky were clear, Remus knew he would see no glowing, sultry orb. The moon was new, and thus invisible. He ought to feel safe, but he did not.
Gathering the velvet folds of his hood closer around his face, Remus hurried down the street, trying to creep as silently as possible along the cobblestones. He was in London -- Muggle London -- rounding the corner to the imposing structure that was the House of Black. 12 Grimmauld loomed silent and scolding before him. The house -- it would never be home to Remus, no matter how many months he lived there -- seemed to radiate dislike and malicious intention. It stood defenceless against his intrusion as he boldly climbed the crumbling steps and set one hand on the burnished brass doorknob. Brick and mortar and man-made it might be, but Remus could sense it's resentment of him, and he returned it ten-fold. Sirius' prison, he thought. Walburga and Orion's domain. Still, after a quick glance over his shoulder to make certain he had not been followed, Remus forced open the door, which had no choice but to swing open and admit him. He had been told the secret, after all, by the secret-keeper himself, and not even an ornate palace could restrain that magic.
"I'm --" Remus started, then fell silent. There was no use calling for Sirius. If he knew his old friend at all, Sirius would already be well aware that Remus had returned. Remus felt the last flare of hope within his chest gutter and die. There might have been a time -- had been, Remus considered -- when Sirius would have bounded down the stairs three at a time, panting and out of breath, eager to lay eyes on Remus, to explore Remus' body with his hands and make certain he was all right. Now, Sirius seldom stirred from the filthy bedroom in which he had secluded himself. He seemed to take no joy anything, not even the arrival of good friends. Pranks and rude gestures, like housing Buckbeak the Hippogriff in his deceased mother's bedroom, which might have once made Sirius burst in laughter each time he recounted the fact, no longer appeared to have any impact on him at all.
"-- back," Remus informed the empty foyer. His words seemed muted by the layer of dust that had settled on the well-worn carpet. With a sigh, Remus drew back the hood of his cloak, though he did not discard it. There was a dying fire cooking in the grate, throwing out feeble warmth, but nonetheless, Remus felt chilled. There had been something in the air outside, a spectre of trouble to come dogging his footsteps; something was going to happen, Remus was fairly sure of it. Unlike the frightening Professor Trelawney, with her jangling bracelets, over-large spectacles and clutch of crystal balls, Remus would never claim a psychic gift or even an interest in one, but he was a werewolf, and even that curse had a silver lining, in the form of enhanced senses. Short hairs on the back of Remus' neck prickled and rose, and he shivered, drawing nearer the fire, to which he added a few small logs.
With a wave of his wand to ensure that all protection spells on the house were in order, Remus reluctantly left the foyer, kicking off his boots and padding to the kitchen. It was late, past midnight, and he was exhausted from his efforts, but he also knew he was far to keyed up to sleep. Besides, he'd not eaten all day, and his stomach growled slightly in protest, reminding him of the hunger he had ignored too long. Supper, he decided. Then bed. As he rummaged through the cupboard and conjured into existence a battered, much-used soup kettle, Remus decided he would prepare Sirius' evening meal as well. If I'm not gravely mistaken, he mused darkly, the only meals he's had today have been liquid. As the thought occurred to him, Remus noted another empty bottle of fire whisky, left impertinently upon the counter. It's like he's flaunting it. Like he wants me to see. Remus waved his wand a bit too harshly as he silently performed the vanishing spell; the shrill sound of breaking glass lingered in his ears from a long distance away.
"Sirius?" he inquired cautiously a few moments later, as he carefully nudged open the door to the master bedroom with his foot. The place was, as usual, a disaster. Buckbeak was perched royally on the king-sized feather bed, the sheets upon which were streaked with mud and grime Remus could not identify and did not care to know about. A collection of small animal skeletons was stored in the far corner, gleaming whitely in the shadows. The hippogriff eyed Remus regally, rearranging his feathers, but the animal was the sole occupant.
"Sirius?" Remus asked again, slightly concerned. It was too rash, even for Sirius, to leave the safe confines of the house when the entire team of Ministry Aurors seemed to be on his trail, eager to store him back in Azkaban; their prize catch. "Sirius, I've made some soup --"
"Here," came a gravely whisper. Sirius' voice sounded hoarse, from emotion or disuse, perhaps both. He spoke seldom, lighting up temporarily only when Harry paid a rare visit, then crashing back into the depths of depression once the boy had to leave. Remus was eager for the Christmas holidays, when, he assumed, Harry would be back, but it was a long time to wait. In Harry's absence, the only person who seemed to get Sirius' blood flowing was Severus Snape, and not in a good way. Snape's last report to Dumbledore had been interrupted when Sirius, after exchanging dire threats and below-the-belt insults with Snape, had finally wrenched out his wand and fired a blast of a scary, crimson-coloured curse in the direction of Severus' face. Luckily, Dumbledore had intervened, and Severus had escaped the house unscathed, but Remus had been disturbed at how quickly Sirius had found himself in near catatonia.
"I found these letters," Sirius said softly as Remus entered the small room. Sirius was perched on his knees on the floor of the bedroom that had been his as a boy. Someone -- Remus assumed it had been Sirius himself -- had ransacked the room, which had remained immaculate during the intervening years when the dust had settled and questionable dark parasites and little creatures had burrowed in. Sirius had created minor disorder, having dug through an old box, the contents of which were scattered about on the floor. "Look at this!" he marvelled. "Owl post -- pictures -- one from Lily --" he fell silent, a lump in his throat as he glanced at Remus' stricken face. "Oh, you made soup," he ventured, trying to change the subject.
Remus had quite forgotten the heavy tray in his hands, which he lowered onto the empty bureau. Crouching down beside Sirius, he nodded, reminding himself to breathe. "Yes," he said. Something deep within his chest seemed to have knotted; his heart beat was erratic, his breathing shallow. "You should have -- did you say letters from Lily?"
Gratefully, Sirius accepted a proffered bowl. "Onion," he remarked. It had been his favourite, once; in the dimly recalled sun-lit days of his early youth, when he had been his father's pride and joy and his mother's constant companion, Walburga had trained the house elves to make it. Funny, he reflected. I'd forgotten about that. How easy it had been to forget any decency within his family, once he had escaped to Hogwarts. Tasting a sip, he watched as Remus gingerly unfolded a piece of parchment, handling it as carefully as a curator in a museum with a particularly delicate artefact.
"She wrote to you?" Remus asked, not looking up.
Sirius nodded. "Once. At Christmastime."
"You were Harry's godfather. Are," Remus corrected himself. "I'd forgotten." Attempting to regain his composure, he shrugged and folded the letter, letting it flutter from his fingers to the ground.
Sirius flinched as he noted the sorrow etched on Remus' features. The other man, his most loyal and favourite friend, looked beaten, as though he had lived a lifetime of sorrows since venturing out of the house on assignment several days earlier. "You miss her," he stated, in what he hoped was an understanding tone. Sometimes, Sirius had to admit he felt the same, though it was almost always James whose memory stung him from time to time. He had adored Lily, laughed with her, appreciated her cutting wit and dry sarcasm, but James had been his best friend. They had been like twins, two of a kind.
"I miss you," Remus said. The words tasted like tears and he withdrew, rising to his feet and collecting his bowl of soup. He was no longer hungry, but the warmth filtering through the pottery was comforting, so he kept the bowl in his grip.
"Remus," Sirius tried, following suit and standing up as Remus moved slowly towards the door. "I'm still here."
"Barely." The jealousy, which Remus was so reluctant to admit to, sounded trite and trivial to his ears. He hated his whining, needy tone, and the way his chin quivered, as though he wanted to cry.
Sirius stared, at a complete loss of what he should say. Pain and exhaustion was visible on Remus' face, in the way his eyes, half-closed, reflected denied need, and in the sullen twist of his lips. "I just can't stand this," Sirius burst out, flailing for the right words. He felt confused, and looked to Remus beseechingly. "This house -- I've always hated it -- my family -- mother's portrait!" Trying to explain, Sirius let all of his resentments rise to the top, not caring that he sounded incoherent. "It's like being in a cage!" he added, practically shouting. "This, this --"
"What?" There was kindness in Remus' voice, but impatience too. "I want to help, but I can't if you don't tell me!"
"Everything!" Drawing a deep breath, Sirius clawed at the air, as though he might pull an explanation right out of nothingness. "I can't leave here, I can't get away. It's been so long since I've even been able to, oh, I don't know -- watch a sunset -- breathe fresh air! Dumbledore has me stuck here, for my safety he says," Sirius' sarcasm was evident. "But right about now I'd gladly go head to head with a dozen Death Eaters or Aurors, just for the adventure." His eyes gleamed, not just with passion but also with tears. "I'd rather be in Azkaban than cooped up here a moment longer."
"If you left," Remus attempted to explain, "you would be. You'd be put back in prison, or worse." He could not bring himself to say 'dead'. The word sounded harsh and ragged coming from Sirius himself.
Recklessly, Sirius shrugged. "So?" He kicked at a pile of old Muggle motorcycle magazines, sending them spilled across the carpet. It was as though he was the unwilling victim of a time-turner. Time had twisted, and his life had turned from its logical course and returned him to the hated house at number 12. He was trapped, just like he'd been as a teenager. "James is dead! Lily's dead! Sometimes I think --"
"Don't." Remus heard the coldness in his tone and shivered. "Don't you dare." He forced his shaking hands into his pocket.
"Why not?" Sirius' face was flamed; his cheeks burned with useless rage. The fury sent some blood pumping through his veins, for which he was thankful, because it let him feel a little more alive. "What good am I to anyone alive, anyway? What's the use of my remaining here?"
Remus raised his chin, attempting to look dignified, though inside, he was shaking. He felt weak, immature, definitely unequipped to handle Sirius' pain. "You're Harry's godfather," he announced. "You have a responsibility to him. Harry hasn't any family -- you're all that's left." A sliver of the wolf within was visible in his glowing eyes. "Perhaps your life doesn't mean much to you, Sirius Black, but you'd be more mistaken than you know to ever believe it isn't valuable to others, Harry and I included."
Deflated, Sirius sunk down against the wall, his hands at his temples as though controlling a pulsing headache. "You don't understand," he said mournfully. "It's not just being trapped here that I can't stand, though it's making me crazy, it truly is. I feel like I'm going mad in this place. So would you be as well, if it was you stuck here," he added, glaring at Remus. "But it's this -- this --" He touched his face, letting his fingers comb through the once-sleek hair he used to be so proud of. "This isn't me! I feel trapped in this body, like it isn't even my own skin."
"But it is," Remus pointed out.
"You don't understand," Sirius repeated sadly. He thought about the years lost to Azkaban, years wasted silently pacing a miniscule cell. Time had been measured in the meagre allotments of food and water he had received every few hours. The only company he'd had were the voices in his head assuring him of his guilt in a thousand petty sins, and the dull pain that came with the memory of a whispered conversation with James, assuring his best friend that Voldemort would never think Peter -- chubby, awkward, untalented Peter Pettigrew -- would ever be made secret keeper, not in a million years. Every moment had seemed an hour, every day a lifetime, and yet he had never quite grown up. There had been none of the usual milestones. He'd had no career, and for years had known no love interest save distant pangs at the thought of Remus, out there in the woods alone. A part of him had remained the arrogant, confident prankster, prepared to lead an easy life even as he endured unspeakable hardship. Then he had escaped, and he had assumed things would finally go back to normal. James and Lily would be gone, yes, and Peter lost forever, marked a traitor -- but Remus would be the same, and he would be the same, and life would be lived easy and carefree. Nothing had turned out the way he had expected it.
"I found the community of werewolves Dumbledore asked me to search for," Remus supplied, aware that Sirius was slipping away again, back into his own tortured thoughts. He could not stand to see Sirius returned to the silent prison of his mind. "Sirius -- did you hear?"
Blinking, Sirius focussed his grey eyes. "I -- werewolves. Yes, I heard you. That was the big assignment, huh? Find a werewolf den?" I could have done that, as Padfoot, he mused.
"Dumbledore feels Voldemort may decide to coax cooperation from them at some point, so it's well worth it, us being kept informed. Most of them are completely feral," Remus added, frowning. He shivered, remembered the flashing red eyes that had sought him out in the darkness, the bristling fur he had sensed right beneath their skin. "They've never lived among wizards, nor had any desire to do so. Most of them were cast out as children. Their parents gave them up, or threw them out, disowned them at any rate. The rest were chosen, mostly kidnapped. Greyback -- he created a few, and took them from their families to raise as his own. He trains them."
"Sounds dangerous," Sirius said, licking his lips.
"I did not have to interact with them, much, just observe. It's safe enough for the time being, though Dumbledore has suggested that at some point, I may have to join them. Undercover, you know, to find out exactly what they're up to."
He had obviously said the wrong thing, for Sirius' expression hardened. "He'll risk your life, but mine is so precious I can't even be allowed to sit on the front stoop?" he asked, angry. "I don't care what Dumbledore says, or what he wants. I can't be kept here forever, being useless." He stared at Remus so forcefully that his gaze seemed to bore right into Remus' soul. "You should infect me."
"What?"
"Bite me, you know, next time the moon is full," Sirius commented. "What the hell am I doing, staying here out of sight, hiding like some useless coward --"
"You're only talking that way because of what Snape said," Remus retorted.
"And he was right!" Sirius sprang up, full of energy. "My life is being wasted. Dumbledore is treating me like I'm incapable of anything, like he thinks there is nothing I can do out there for the Order. Well, to hell with the Ministry. They'll figure out about Voldemort being back soon enough, and once my name is cleared it won't matter anyway. You should transform me. If I was a werewolf too, at least I could go with you." Tears glinted in his eyes. "I hate that you're out there risking you life while I sit here doing nothing."
Baring his teeth, Remus narrowed his eyes and glared at Sirius. His expression was savage. "If I ever hear you suggesting I make you a werewolf again…."
"What?" Sirius challenged.
"Don't." Remus' hands balled into fists.
Sirius threw his hands up in the air, in a gesture of exasperation and surrender. "God, Remus -- you don't know -- hell," he remarked, storming past the other man. From the bedroom closet, he withdrew a half-filled bottle of fire whisky and took a tremendous gulp, appreciating the burning heat as the brew went down. He could see Remus gaping at him out of the corner of his eye. The man's expression was hurt, shocked, and angered, but Sirius told himself he didn't care. "Look what I'm reduced to, eh?" he said, sneering, as he hoisted the bottle up so Remus could see it clearly.
Rather prissily, Remus crossed his arms. "That's your choice, not one that was forced on you."
"Well, what the hell else am I supposed to do?"
"Stay sober, for Harry." For me. "Keep yourself thinking clearly, at least, for the sake of the Order --"
"Oh, please," Sirius seethed. "What does the Order need me for, besides my house? Hmm?" He waved his arm. "You're all more than welcome to it, whether I'm pissed or not. Doesn't matter if I die either -- there's that handy trick about it being given to Harry, in my will. Magical," Sirius added, his voice filled with artificial grandeur of a sarcastic sort he only used when drunk. "Binding. Inde - bloody - structable!"
"Sirius," Remus said mournfully, his ire ebbing away as he noticed the sheen of tears in Sirius' eyes. "I'll speak to Dumbledore, perhaps he can find a more useful task for you here, within the Headquarters. Maybe even something you can do as Padfoot."
Sirius stared at Remus, bleary-eyed. "He won't," he said flatly.
"Might," Remus countered, though personally, he agreed. "Look, Sirius, there was something else I wanted to speak to you about. Have any owls come today?"
Sirius shook his head, then shrugged. "Buckbeak ate one --"
"An owl?"
"Just a wee barn owl. He caught it when he was out, flying. I guess he was sick of rats." Sirius glowered, painfully envious. "Don't worry, I think it was wounded. Why?"
"Just a feeling I've had," Remus explained. "Am having, actually. Like something is not quite right. Like there is danger about."
Sirius peered at him, uncomprehending as he sampled a bit more fire whisky. "We're gearing up for war," he said softly. "We are part of a resistance organisation that the Ministry of Magic disapproves of and refuses to support, and we are the enemy of the strongest and most frightening Dark wizard in the recent history of magic. Oh, yeah, and we lost half our ranks because last time this sort of situation came about, nearly everyone we knew betrayed us or died." He gulped down some whisky, wishing the warmth would give him comfort. "You're bound to feel like something's amiss."
Remus opened his mouth to respond to the sarcastic reply, but before he could, a hollow banging sound reached his eyes. Both men startled as the sound of someone pounding frantically on the door downstairs reached them.