Warnings: Slash (and snogging), alcohol/drinking, hallucinations, depression, one use of profanity
Disclaimer: Don't own Harry Potter
Padfoot stared up at the red door before him; it felt as though no time at all had passed, yet it had been over a decade since he had last been here.
Beyond the door, he was greeted by a grey corridor. He remembered everything about it distinctly: the two doors on the right hand side, and the three on the left; the staircase dead ahead, leading up and towards his destination. His paws padded on the wooden floorboards as he made his way to the stairs, ascending one floor to where the blue door awaited him.
Padfoot had only got to the other side of the door of the hospital wing at Hogwarts on that fateful night when he had realised that while Dumbledore had told him to 'lie low at Lupin's', he hadn't told him where 'Lupin's' was. He had considered turning back to ask, yet as soon as he had thought of it, a memo had been dropped in front of him by an owl soaring in the rafters, with a single address on it.
An address he remembered all too well.
He went up to the door, nostalgia rising within him at the familiarity of it all. With no one around to see, he transformed.
He raised his thin, tattooed knuckles to the door, and knocked.
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
The chatter at the Gryffindor table was being interrupted by the noise of a quill scratching on paper. As much as Sirius tried to ignore it, the sound had been following them around for days and was beginning to get on his nerves.
He turned to Remus, reaching out to steal the Daily Prophet from him.
"What are you doing?" Remus asked indignantly, pulling the paper back towards him.
"What are you doing?" Sirius demanded, peering over the boy's shoulder. Remus tried to shield the newspaper from the Animagus, but said Animagus was rather determined, and he still managed to catch a glimpse of the circles dotting the page.
"You've been pouring over the classifieds for days now, and I demand to know why."
His grip still tight on the corner of the pages, Sirius tugged the paper towards him and read the circled adverts.
Beside him, Remus fell silent.
"Flats?" Sirius asked, turning to Remus. "Why are you looking for a flat?"
Remus grabbed hold of the paper and yanked it back towards him, staring at it as he answered.
"I want to move out of my parents' house when we leave Hogwarts. Only problem is, I can't afford most of these places, and I'm still looking for a job."
Sirius stared down at the marked page, the words 'one-bedroomed', common to every circled listing, making him feel very uncomfortable indeed. He blinked, licked his lips nervously, and then turned to Remus, whose eyes were still gazing down at the newspaper.
"Why don't you move in with me?"
Remus turned to him slowly, disbelief shining in his eyes. "I'm sorry?"
"Live with me. In my flat. You won't have to worry about rent, cause Uncle Alphard gave me enough money to buy the place straight up-"
"Only for you, not for some random… you-know-what to live there as well."
"Nonsense! Besides, you don't want to live in… Leyton, do you? What are you going to do in Leyton?"
"I could find something…" Remus mumbled, not meeting Sirius' eyes.
"No, you won't. Because you won't need to. Because you'll be living with me."
Remus sighed, finally looking up at Sirius.
"Is there more than one bedroom?"
"No," Sirius shook his head immediately.
"Sirius!" Remus all but whined, drawing the attention of the Animagus.
"Does there need to be?"
Remus scoffed, looking from side to side to check that no one was eavesdropping. He leaned nearer anyway, just in case. "Sirius, we've only been going out for a few months."
Sirius blinked. "So?"
Remus' eyes widened. "So, are we… ready? To live together?"
"Ooh, I don't know. I mean, we have only been living together for the last seven years."
Remus bit his lip nervously, looking down at the newspaper on the table and the circled advertisements. Sirius sighed impatiently, grabbing the edge of the page and closing the paper.
The violence of the sudden action made the werewolf flinch, but in the silence that followed, his mind began to work. As much as the thought terrified him, he had to admit that it made sense. It would certainly be a lot easier – and cheaper – than finding somewhere on his own.
Plus, he reasoned, he'd be with Sirius…
"Okay," he agreed finally, and he couldn't stop the smile that twitched at his lips when Sirius' eyes began to twinkle like the star after which he was named.
"Brilliant!" the Animagus cried, pulling his goblet of pumpkin juice towards him; some of the contents sloshed over the sides and onto the table in the process. "To moving in!"
Remus clinked his own goblet against Sirius'. "To moving in."
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
His knock was not answered straight away. The moments passed in awkward silence, as he hoped that no one else in the corridor would think to leave their flats while he was still standing out there.
Even though this was a mainly Muggle area – though a few of the characters Sirius had seen around the building when he had been living here before made him think that it wasn't as wizard-free as he had hoped when he had first signed the lease – he couldn't risk being seen by anyone who might have recognised him from the television. Harry had mentioned that his face had been plastered all over the Muggle news when he had first escaped from Azkaban, and seeing as he was still 'at large' (as the Ministry liked to describe him), he couldn't be sure that the police would no longer accept information as regards to his whereabouts.
Everything seemed so different now than it had when he had lived here, so long ago. So much had happened since then, that he found himself wondering why Remus would have stayed here; why he wouldn't have moved.
Perhaps, a bitter and pessimistic voice within him began, he had never been able to afford to.
He was saved from dwelling on that thought for any longer, however, when he heard footsteps approaching the door, and the sliding of metal on metal followed by a heavy clunk. Slowly, the door creaked open, thudding against the chain.
A face peered around the side of the door, visible only through the gap between the door and the doorframe. Remus hardly looked any different than he had the year before, though he had more grey hairs and visible scars. His brow creased in confusion when he saw who was standing there.
It would seem that Dumbledore hadn't sent word ahead as regards Voldemort's return, as Sirius had thought that he had. The thought of having to explain everything that had happened to Harry that night added another weight onto his shoulders, one that made him feel as though he had been travelling down from Scotland for months rather just a few days.
"Sirius?" Remus asked quietly, though with no small amount of incredulity in his voice.
Sirius smiled awkwardly. "Hi."
The door slammed in his face, sending a blast of air towards him so forceful that it made the ends of his hair ruffle slightly against his shoulders. More metallic sounds came from the other side of the door, and it was opened fully. A hand grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside. Remus checked the corridor outside before closing the door again.
The flat didn't look that much different than the last time he had been there. The front door opened out into a large room, cut in half by utility: to his left was the kitchen area, complete with an oven, a sink, and too many cupboards for his exhausted brain to process. The whole area was white, even down to the linoleum on the floor.
In the middle of the kitchen area was a round, light blue dining table with three chairs around it. Sirius felt his heart drop as he forced himself not to wonder how long it had been since any more than one of those chairs had been used.
The kitchen area was cut off from the living room area by a sofa: orange felt with bits missing and fuzzed edges, though it looked comfortable enough. Just in front of the sofa was a rickety coffee table, atop which were resting a few heavy-looking books and a couple of coasters, one on either side nearest the sofa.
Only one of the coasters had the tell-tale rings of having been used.
The coffee table sat on a garish rug, which Sirius' eyes couldn't bear to look at in his current state, dimmed though it was by the subtle moonlight pouring in from the window on the wall opposite him.
On the far wall, separated from the sofa by the coffee table, was a Muggle television, sitting atop a stand. When Sirius had first moved into the flat, he had thought it would be a great idea to load the place up with as much Muggle technology as possible. Unfortunately, he had got his exchange rates between Galleons and pounds wrong, and hadn't realised that, once he had purchased the television and the license for it, that he would be in the situation where he would have to choose between a stereo (and the cassettes on which to play it) and food.
So, he had stuck with the television, though it appeared to have been updated to a slightly more modern model since… Well, since he had last been here.
The stand on which the television sat had a shelf beneath it, on top of which a gramophone sat. Its needle was poised expectantly above a vinyl record. Sirius couldn't see what it was from here, but he hoped that it was some form of punk rock.
Not that they would be listening to music that night.
There were only two rooms leading off of the kitchen/living room, through the closed door just beyond the dining table. The door led through to the bedroom, in which there was a double bed, and the ensuite bathroom complete with a shower, but not a bath.
He was distracted from his thoughts of rushing through the door and not emerging until it was daylight by Remus addressing him.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice harsher than Sirius remembered him being capable of. The werewolf turned from the door to the Animagus, his eyes alight with concern and fear. "Is it safe?"
Sirius nodded. "I'm here on Dumbledore's orders."
Remus' face fell. "What's happened? Is Harry alright?"
"Harry's fine. But we're not."
"What do you mean?"
Sirius sighed, not wanting to say it. He had had the entirety of his journey to pretend that it hadn't happened, and if he said it now, it would make it real, and he wasn't sure if he could handle that. But no matter how much he wanted to deny it, he couldn't. He had to say it. He had to tell him.
"He's back."
Remus looked at him blankly.
Sirius grimaced. "Voldemort. He's back."
All of the energy seemed to drain from Remus' body: his shoulders slouched, a frown fell across his face, and he all but sank into the nearest chair sat at the dining table. In the last few seconds, he seemed to have aged decades.
As the werewolf rested his elbow on the kitchen table and covered his face with his hand, the Animagus went in search of alcohol. He opened every one of the numerous cupboards until he found one with glasses and another with a bottle of Firewhisky. Depositing all three on the kitchen table, he took a seat of his own and began to pour.
Remus looked up as his glass was slid over to him. He took a large swig before he spoke.
"How?" he asked simply.
The word made Sirius' head pound, but he had to explain. He downed his drink, and told Remus everything that Harry had told him and Dumbledore on the night of the Third Task. By the time he had finished, the once three-quarters full bottle was completely empty, though neither of them felt better for it.
A long silence followed his retelling, punctuated only by the scrapes of the glasses on the table as they rolled them back and forth. They both stared into the empty vessels.
"What are we going to do?"
Sirius sighed, finally leaving his glass alone. It thudded onto the table.
"What we can do. Nothing. That is, until Dumbledore gets in touch. He wants to reform the band."
Remus let out a humourless huff, staring at his shoes.
"And until then?"
A sombre silence descended over the pair. Neither of them looked at each other. Sirius looked over towards the sofa, noticing a clock on the wall saying that it was the early hours of the morning.
He wondered how soundly he would be able to sleep tonight, and he desired nothing more than to find out the answer to that question as soon as possible. Unfortunately, there was something else he had to do first.
His clothes were filthy, baggy from old age rather than ill-fitting, and they had not been changed since long before he had left Hogsmeade. He had got rid of his old Azkaban clothes not long after he had first left Hogwarts on Buckbeak, instead stealing from the homes where he dared to crash on occasion. He was pretty sure he had got his current attire from someone staying overnight in The Three Broomsticks, but that didn't really matter.
What mattered was that they were disgusting, and so was he.
"Well, I am going to have a shower," he announced, making to stand. He had only pushed himself halfway into a standing position before he paused awkwardly. "If that's okay?"
Remus waved it off. "Go ahead. You know where it is."
Sirius nodded in thanks, straightening himself up and turning towards the door. The sight of the wooden panel – and the thought of what lay beyond – made him pause.
He turned back to Remus. "I can take the sofa."
Remus lifted his head and looked over at the back of the sofa. It was a long moment before he shook his head slowly, his eyelids drooping.
"You don't have to."
Sirius inclined his head, though the werewolf didn't see it. He backed away, ducking into the bathroom.
He didn't hear anything else going on in the flat after that, all sounds drowned out by the noise of the water. When he emerged, swaddled in towels – and when did the feeling of just being wrapped up in a towel become so bloody wonderful? – Remus was already lying in the bed, on the side furthest from the bathroom. The near side, however, was completely untouched, save for the clothes that had been laid out on top of the quilt.
He reached bony hands out to the garments, picking them off of the bed. He looked down at the figure already probably half-asleep in the bed, and considered just getting changed there and then.
Yet there was something holding him back, and he took the clothes into the bathroom, changing behind a closed door.
Once he was decent, in clothes that were slightly too big for him – the ends of the sleeves hung limply beyond the ends of his fingers – he peeled back the covers from the bed and got in, unable to prevent a sigh from escaping his lips at the pure, unadulterated luxury of having an actual bed in which to sleep. By the time his head hit the pillow, he was positively grinning, the action tugging painfully at the edges of his mouth.
He dropped his head to the side, looking at the back of Remus' head. The greys were pretty much invisible in the low light, blending into the light brown. He couldn't tell from this angle whether or not his friend was actually asleep, and he certainly didn't wish to disturb him if he was.
He was just about to turn away, to look back up at the ceiling and try to get some sleep himself, when the figure beside him suddenly shifted, flipping onto his back with a huff.
His eyes were closed, but he was not asleep; on the contrary, he appeared to be expecting Sirius to say something, and was all ears for when he did.
It was a look that Sirius remembered well. Even after all the years which they had spent apart, Remus was still there to offer an ear when he needed to talk – even if he didn't know that he needed to talk. It was a look which gave him the courage to speak his mind, to share his feelings.
"You know… we never actually broke up."
Without opening his eyes, Remus chuckled. "Not tonight, Sirius. I've got a headache."
And the smile was back on Sirius' face again. Suddenly they were twenty again: they were laughing together, despite the war and all the horrors which came with it.
This flat was, as it had always been, their refuge. Where they had hope that they could win, that no matter what the losses were, when everything was said and done, they would be standing victorious while the Dark fell.
And now, on the eve of the second war, Sirius had a feeling that they would need that again. They would need to be the same joking selves that they were before the years flew by, before Azkaban and loneliness.
It was this that got Sirius reaching out his hand, until it connected with its counterpart lying just a few inches away.
Remus' brow twitched, the sudden contact startling him. Yet the shock was momentary, and soon fingers were intertwining with his own.
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
He couldn't remember how long it had been since he had last spoken. Not that there was anyone to speak to. The only people he had seen for he didn't know how long were new inmates being dragged in, being held up by Dementors, their bony fingers curling around their arms as they lead them deeper into the bowels of the prison.
He wasn't sure any of them would be able to speak back to him if he tried.
That only left the option of speaking to himself, and that was out of the question; that would mean that he had finally gone mad and would spend his nights screaming nonsense at nothing, like he heard so many of the others doing.
Instead, he just kept silent.
He was huddled in the corner of his cell, shivering pathetically against the cold, his teeth chattering and his arms wrapped around his dangerously thinning form in an effort to keep any form of warmth inside himself, when it happened.
It began with a Dementor passing by the bars of his cell – it happened so often that most of the time he didn't notice it, but this time, something was different. This one must have been stronger, or perhaps he had been more hopeful in this moment than he usually was.
Whatever the reason, there was suddenly a drain on himself, his memories and emotions pouring out from him and through the bars. He couldn't bite back a groan at the pain, doubling over on himself and tightening his grip around his torso. His eyes squeezed shut, and the shivers grew worse.
He was distracted from the horrific sensation by a voice, calling his name.
He snapped his head up, his eyes opening as he gazed out at the bars, at the world beyond his cell, and his cold heart leapt within his chest when he saw someone standing there.
"R-Remus?"
As he had expected, his voice was dry and cracked, and his throat burned with the effort of talking after so long. For it was his friend standing outside, gazing upon him through the bars, a mixture of horror and pity on his face.
Sirius scrambled towards him, scraping his hands and knees on the floor. It seemed to take him much longer than it should have done to reach the bars, and when he got there, he couldn't push himself to his feet.
"What are you doing here?" he asked in disbelief, barely louder than a whisper.
"They found Pettigrew," the werewolf told him simply.
Sirius shook his head in disbelief.
"W-where is he? Are they bringing him here?" He paused, almost denying himself a flutter of hope. "Can I come home?"
Remus smiled down at him.
"Yes," he nodded. "You can come home."
Sirius let out a strange noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob, hardly noticing when Remus produced a key from the pocket of his cardigan and unlocked the door to his cell.
He barely noticed what was happening until there was a pair of hands on his shoulders, and he looked up to see Remus kneeling before him.
"I'm sorry I doubted you," the werewolf told him, but Sirius shook his head emphatically.
"No, I'm sorry. I put myself here. If I had only trusted you, it was just… Dumbledore said…"
"Never mind that now," Remus interrupted. "All that matters is that you're innocent. We both are."
Then the werewolf was leaning closer, and a pair of lips collided with his own. Warmth began to spread through his entire body, from his face outwards to his fingers and his toes. He smiled, and everything was alright with the world…
Until he was attacked once more by an intense cold, washing over him and eradicating the warmth from Remus' kiss. Snapping his eyes open, he looked around furtively and with dismay to see that Remus had gone. He was kneeling by the bars of his cell, completely alone.
"Well," he said to no one but himself, "it seems you really have lost it."
The words echoed off of the walls, the only real sound he'd heard in weeks.
They were soon replaced with despairing sobs.
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
"Cheers for lending me some of your clothes, Moony," Sirius began, waving his arm up and down to make the sleeve of his shirt shift further up his arm to free his hand from within the fabric, while his other hand was occupied with a bowl of cereal, "but I really think I need to get some of my own soon."
"And by 'get'-"
"I mean 'buy'!" Sirius insisted. "I don't need to steal anymore."
The Animagus plonked himself down on the sofa next to his flatmate, before shoving a large spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
Remus watched him, sipping on a cup of tea, his lip curling in disgust as a dribble of milk ran from the corner of Sirius' mouth and onto his chin.
"You can be neater," he told him.
Sirius grinned.
It had been a week since Sirius had arrived on the doorstep of the flat, and Dumbledore had yet to get in touch. In the name of initiative, the two of them had tried to get together a list of names – people they remembered from the first Order of the Phoenix – who they could contact for help now that Voldemort had returned.
It had been a depressing task. They had begun with an impressive list, though they had soon realised that most of the names upon it were of those who had not made it through the last war, and so they had begun crossing names off, one by one, until they had a pitifully tiny number of people who had survived intact.
It had been during these talks that Number Twelve Grimmauld Place had first been mentioned. They knew that, if the Order of the Phoenix were to be reformed, they would need somewhere to meet: somewhere large enough to accommodate them all, somewhere Sirius could still be part of the proceedings without risking capture by the Ministry – who, they had seen in copies of the Daily Prophet, were blaming the Animagus for every single crime that could possibly be Voldemort- or Death Eater-related – and, most importantly, somewhere that was either currently owned by an Order member, or was completely abandoned.
With such harsh criteria, Sirius had argued, Grimmauld Place was the only option.
A dark shadow had crossed Remus' face at the suggestion. "But you hate it there."
Sirius had shrugged. "I hate Voldemort more."
Remus had reached a hand out across the kitchen table, laying it over Sirius', and it was a movement that was so familiar – so like before – that Sirius had had to remind himself that it wasn't before; that time – so much time – had passed, and they couldn't just go back to what they had had.
They had barely spoken about it since, though there had been some meaningful glances over the past few days.
Even now, just the two of them sitting next to each other, so close to each other, Sirius had to rearrange his hair carefully to shield his blush from the man sitting next to him. He munched on his cereal, and Remus sipped at his tea, and they were both silent, until they were both finished, and the quiet was punctuated with the clunks of china hitting the coffee table.
As he sat back, both hands now free, Sirius couldn't help but reach one of them out to the side.
"Sirius?"
The question was tentative, quiet, asked as soon as contact had been made. Sirius took a chance at glancing sideways, and almost smirked at the blush that was rising up his flatmate's cheeks.
It wasn't like before – and they could never go back to that – but it was something, and that something was familiar, and that something was what gave him the courage to lean over and press his lips to Remus'.
They had made contact for less than a second when Remus pulled away. Sirius opened his eyes, his brow furrowing, while his heart hammered in his chest as he wondered if he had just made a huge mistake. He gulped nervously.
"Uh…" he stammered, not entirely sure what to say.
"Sirius…" Remus began, in a tone that suggested that what would follow was not something that Sirius would like, "I think we need to talk about this."
Sirius sat back, his gaze dropping to his hands, sitting limply in his lap. His hair drooped over his face, hopefully hiding his face enough that Remus wouldn't be too aware of his embarrassment.
"You were right before. We never broke up."
Sirius felt the sting that wasn't there.
"Is there… someone else? Or has there been?" He almost couldn't force himself to drag his gaze away from his hands to Remus' face, but he managed it nonetheless.
Remus' eyes widened. "No!" he insisted. "No, there isn't… hasn't been. But it has been a while."
Sirius tried not to flinch.
"We can't just start where we left off."
Sirius' heart leapt, but he didn't allow himself to feel completely hopeful – not yet, not until he understood completely.
"But…" he began slowly, "we can start?"
Remus licked his lips nervously. "I am saying… that if you don't want to break up… then we don't have to."
Sirius didn't bother trying to up with a verbal response; words were Remus' thing, and he would always be second best in that category; instead, he surged forward, crashing his lips to Remus', the force sending them flying back onto the sofa.
The cushions protested as their weight was shoved down upon them, and the two of them rearranged themselves into a more comfortable position. As the kiss became more heated, and hands began to wander onto heads and into fistfuls of hair, Sirius only became more irritated with the fact that the sleeves of his shirt covered most of his hands. His fingers snagged on the material, but his efforts were interrupted with a pair of hands pushing against his shoulders, pushing him up and off.
Remus stared up at him, his face confused and his lips swollen.
"Where's Buckbeak?"
Sirius' brain short-circuited. Where had that come from? "Well… I was kind of hoping we could do this without him."
Feeling that the question had been dodged, he leaned down for another kiss, but he was pushed back up again.
"No, really. Where is he?"
Sirius sighed, doing an appalling job of masking his disappointment. "He's at Hogwarts. I left him in the Forbidden Forest. How do you even know about Buckbeak anyway?"
Remus shifted his hand, so that his palm was resting against the side of Sirius' neck, beneath his hair.
"Dumbledore told me," he explained, bringing Sirius' head down for another kiss.
"About how you had to run away."
Kiss.
"About how you were on the run."
Kiss.
"Just think-"
Kiss.
"-if you hadn't had to go-"
Kiss.
"-we could have had this for a year already."
Remus pulled him down for another kiss, but Sirius pulled himself back up before he could. Remus stared up at him, his brow creased, as angered confusion ran through Sirius' veins.
"Why couldn't we have had this for a year? If the flat is so safe, why did I had to leave back then?"
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
It had been a few minutes since he had stopped whooping for joy. He had done it – he had finally done it. Well, he hadn't cleared his name, but Harry knew the truth.
The cold air whipped past him as he soared through the air on Buckbeak. He hadn't flown on a Hippogriff before – although not for lack of trying, especially when James had got the idea.
The two of them could go anywhere…
Well, almost anywhere.
"What do you think, Buckbeak?" he shouted to the beast below him, doubting that the Hippogriff could even hear him over the noise of the wind let alone understand what he was saying. "Where should we go? Somewhere hot? Somewhere cold? Wherever Remus is living these days?"
He was saved the trouble of coming up with another option when they were suddenly joined by a bright and beautiful bird, soaring alongside them.
A bird Sirius recognised from numerous trips to Dumbledore's office.
"Fawkes?" he called out to the bird, surprised.
The phoenix flew over to him, landing on Buckbeak's neck, just above where he was holding on to the Hippogriff's feathers. He had a note tied to his leg.
Untying the note, he unfurled the scroll, seeing Dumbledore's signature handwriting upon the parchment. With a graceful nod of his head, Fawkes took off once more, heading back for the castle.
Sirius skimmed the note: it told him to go on the run, to get out of the country, to leave the Ministry's jurisdiction because it wasn't safe in England anymore.
Well, that crossed going to see Remus off the list.
Folding up the parchment once more and tucking it into his pocket, he leaned down to Buckbeak's ear again.
"You know, I've always fancied the Mediterranean."
With that, he squeezed on the Hippogriff's right side, guiding him in the general direction of warm weather and beautiful waters.
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
Sirius took a sniff of the smoking potion, grimacing at the awful scent. He slid the goblet across the kitchen table to Remus.
"Where do you get this stuff now?" he asked, unable to hold back a wince as Remus downed the entire gobletful in one go.
"Now our dear old friend is no longer making it for me?"
Sirius snorted.
"There are a few people who are willing to cater to… people like me."
"I hope St Mungo's is one of them."
Remus didn't answer.
Sirius tried to distract himself by turning to look out of the window, but it did nothing to ease his nerves; they had a perfect view of the full moon from this angle, its bright light shining onto the sofa.
"When does it start?" he asked, feeling his mouth go dry.
"Soon." Came the emotionless reply.
The sound of a chair scraping against the floor reached Sirius' ears. When he turned away from the window, Remus was standing, his fingers pressing down on the surface of the table.
"How do you… where do you…?"
Remus nodded towards the bedroom.
"Is it big enough?" he asked sceptically.
"With that, it is." He pointed at the empty, but still smoking, goblet.
Sirius had yet to see the infamous Wolfsbane potion in action; it had been invented while he had still been in Azkaban, and the one transformation that he had been there for – if he could even have been described as 'being there' – had not happened under its influence.
A part of him was curious.
The rest of him hated himself for even thinking that way.
He was drawn from this thoughts by a pained grunt. Remus hunched over slightly, his eyes squeezing shut.
A second later, he was heading straight for the bedroom. His now impossibly long legs carried him beyond the threshold faster than Sirius could imagine, and the next thing the Animagus knew, the door was being slammed in his face.
He stood outside the closed door, one hand poised and ready to knock, unsure whether or not it was a good idea.
"Remus?" he called, hearing nothing.
It was another half minute before he got the courage to take the door handle and open it himself.
The sight that greeted him was not one that he had not seen before, but it still never failed to make his heart sink.
Somehow, in not very long at all – and surely the transformations took longer back at Hogwarts? – there seemed to be very little of the man left, at least in physicality. There were fur and legs and paws and teeth and claws, and whimpers of pain that had not been preceded by the screams which he remembered hearing within the Shrieking Shack (not that he was upset about that).
But the eyes… The eyes were different.
They were clear, they were knowing, they were complex.
They were not the eyes that Sirius remembered being set into the face of the wolf.
They were the eyes that Sirius remembered being set into the face of his friend.
The wolf stood there, on all fours, breathing heavily from the exertion of the transformation, looking up at him.
With each moment that passed, Sirius expected those eyes to change: to lose their clarity, to lose their knowingness – to lose their humanity.
Yet with each moment that passed, it didn't happen. They stayed as they had been when the two of them had been talking about the potion.
For the first time in a long time, Sirius found himself smiling as he transformed himself.
The next morning, Sirius woke up earlier than Remus. He had found, in his years of illegally following a werewolf into the only place where it was safe for them to transform, that this was a fairly common phenomenon: post-transformation Remus could sleep for England, and Padfoot always grew restless whenever the faintest hint of sunlight touched his black fur. James had always joked that it was because he wanted to go for walkies, and he himself offered such services many times.
Even to this day, Sirius feared that he might have accepted once, while under the heavy influence of alcohol.
Pushing that thought from his mind, he headed straight for the kitchen.
There wasn't much in the fridge, but Sirius decided to cook all of it anyway. They could always get more food later, and that was a problem for the future versions of themselves to worry about. The present versions of themselves would be hungry and craving anything and everything as long as it was edible, so everything was being cooked.
The third omelette was almost ready when Remus stumbled, bleary-eyed, from the bedroom, eyes closed but nose sniffing.
"Morning," Sirius nodded. "Eat. You'll feel better."
He placed several plates of food in front of the chair where Remus usually sat, and they were almost completely clean by the time he shoved the last omelette onto a plate for himself.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome," Sirius chuckled. He shoved all of the plates in the general direction of the sink, and considered writing a letter of apology to his future self.
He turned his back on the mess, leaning against the worktop.
"What do you normally do now?"
Remus shrugged. "Watch television."
"I thought you said it was shit during the day?"
"It is." Was the simple reply.
Remus pushed himself up from the chair, heading over to the sofa. Sirius followed him, taking the seat next to him as the werewolf reached over to turn the television on.
Once the set was playing quietly in the background, Sirius found himself watching Remus out of the corner of his eye. It was a habit that he had developed when he had first seen a full transformation, to keep constantly checking if he was okay. Even now, he could see that he was barely keeping his eyes open, and he was lilting slightly to the side, as though he wanted nothing more than to lie down.
So Sirius told him to do just that.
"What?" Remus asked, chuckling slightly. "Where will you sit?"
"Don't worry about me," Sirius told him, sliding from the sofa onto the floor and transforming.
Remus let out a breathy laugh, and took the invitation to rest down on the sofa, one hand resting beneath his head, and the other lying in front of his face.
Seeing an opportunity, Padfoot jumped back up onto the sofa, burrowing his snout beneath Remus' arm. He flopped down on the sofa, one of the werewolf's arms wrapped around him, and laid his head down next to Remus', as the werewolf closed his eyes, and the television played away in the background.
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
It had been a while since Padfoot's tale had stopped wagging. Now, he sat on the other side of the room of the Shrieking Shack, staring ahead and barely blinking.
There was a bloodied body on the other side of the room, surrounded by dust and destruction, but sleeping peacefully on, unaware of the pain that awaited them when they awoke.
Padfoot didn't know what to do. He didn't know what he could do. He had only ever seen post-transformation Remus in the hospital wing, when he had been fixed somewhat already by Madame Pomfrey. He had never seen the damage so raw, so new.
He didn't know what to do.
Sunlight was beginning to stream through the curtainless windows – the werewolf had ripped them down and all but torn them to shreds during the night – when Remus began to stir.
It began with a groan, then the scrunching of facial features, then a small gasp of pain.
Padfoot whimpered, rushing over to his friend, nudging his nose with his own. Remus' eyes shot open, scared and confused, still half-glazed from sleep. His eyes fell upon the massive dog filling his field of vision, and he calmed somewhat.
"Oh… yeah…" he mumbled, his voice cracked and dry. "Got to get used to you being here. Though you should have gone by now." He gave Padfoot a grateful smile, which all too quickly morphed into a grimace of pain.
Padfoot's claws scraped on the already scratched wooden floorboards as he made his way over to the window. The curtains were lying in strips of material on the ground in front of the glass, but Padfoot found one of a reasonable size and dragged it over to his friend, draping it over him for modesty.
"Thank you," Remus smiled up at him, rearranging it where Padfoot couldn't.
When Padfoot was looking down at his face once more, Remus looked up at him with confusion dancing in his eyes. "Where are… the others?"
Padfoot whimpered, and shook his head.
He considered transforming, as though he could offer more comfort – or something – if he were a man, but such thoughts were cut short when there were footsteps on the stairs just outside.
Remus looked up at him with fearful eyes.
"You have to go!" he whispered.
Padfoot sat down, holding his head high in defiance.
"Padfoot-" But Remus' rebuke morphed into a grunt of pain. Whimpering once more, Padfoot leaned forward, sniffing at his face and rubbing his fur against his skin. He wasn't sure if it would help much, but it was the best that he could do in this form.
"Mr Lupin?"
Madame Pomfrey was calling from the staircase, and she was getting louder with each footstep that made its way nearer to the room. Padfoot paid her no mind, continuing his ministrations.
"Pad…" Remus chuckled, finally giving in.
"Oh, there you are… What is going on?"
Padfoot smirked at Madame Pomfrey's shock, but he didn't stop what he was doing.
"He-he's a stray who's moved into the Shack at some point. I've seen him a couple of times." His lie turned into a small giggle as Padfoot's fur tickled his skin. "I call him Snuffles."
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
"Is that the handwriting of my great-great-grandson I spy?"
Albus Dumbledore folded the letter in his hands in half, carefully placing it in the middle of the pile of parchments on the side of his desk.
"It is," he answered simply.
"What does he say?"
Dumbledore turned in his chair to face the portrait of Phineas Nigellus on the wall.
"He and Remus Lupin are doing as I asked," he explained. "They have been contacting members of the original Order of the Phoenix."
"So you're getting what you wanted?"
Dumbledore quirked an eyebrow. "Is it not what we all want? We need a force with which to fight against Voldemort. The Order worked last time. And this time, we are prepared. Your great-great-grandson is even offering his old family home as Headquarters."
Phineas' brows raised. "I shall see him again?"
Dumbledore nodded. "You shall."
Dumbledore turned back in his seat to face his desk. "He's doing well. We shall need protection for Harry when things begin to get heated."
There was a snort from the wall behind him.
"Of course. Potter."
Dumbledore chose not to turn around to reply.
"What is wrong with Harry?"
"Nothing," came the terse reply. "The boy is just fine. How you treat him, however-"
"How I treat him is none of your business. You are not here to question my actions. You are here to obey me and support me in my endeavours."
"And yet I am to just sit back and watch while you destroy this boy like you destroyed his parents? How you destroyed their best friends, one of whom is my only living descendent?"
Dumbledore paused, his frail and withering hands hovering over the surface of his desk.
"Harry is the only way."
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
Dumbledore waved at his office door, opening it with ease. The creak was not as comforting as it usually was.
The Headmaster trundled towards his desk, ignoring the greetings that the paintings on the wall offered; at least, those who pretended that they cared enough to do so at this late hour.
Dumbledore plopped down into his seat with a sigh, wishing for nothing more than his bed.
"You appear troubled."
Dumbledore let out a calming breath of air before turning around in his chair to face the painting of Phineas Nigellus on the wall. The man on the canvas was looking down at him with an expression which could almost have been taken for concern.
If only Dumbledore didn't know him better.
"I have just spoken with Severus Snape," the Headmaster explained.
A strange expression crossed Phineas' face.
"Slytherin boy," he nodded, saying nothing else.
"He has done what I feared. He has told Voldemort of Sybil Trelawney's prophecy."
Phineas straightened himself up. "And what does the Dark Lord have to say about it?"
"According to Snape, Voldemort has suspicions about the subject of the prophecy."
"Oh?" Phineas quirked an eyebrow. "And who might that be?"
"The unborn child… of Lily and James Potter."
Phineas inclined his head, his brow creasing in confusion. "You said that it could have been the Longbottom child."
"It could have been," Dumbledore nodded. "However, as Voldemort has chosen the Potters as the subject of the prophecy, it is now self-fulfilling. Voldemort will seek to get rid of the child before the child can get rid of him."
"Then he must be protected."
Dumbledore nodded. "At all costs."
"I assume you already have a plan in place?"
Again, Dumbledore nodded. "A Fidelius Charm."
"You will be Secret Keeper?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "I will offer. But they will not accept. And that is what I need."
A dark look crossed Phineas' face. "Why? Why would you not ensure that the Potters' safety is entrusted to you, and you alone?"
Dumbledore turned back to his desk.
He did not answer.
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
"And in that belief, you sacrificed two of the most promising wizards of their generation."
Dumbledore did not reply at first; he retrieved a blank piece of parchment and a quill, dipping the end into the pot of ink on his desk as he made to write a reply. "It was for the greater good."
There was a scoff from behind him. "You always say that. You hide behind that phrase because it makes you feel better."
"That phrase is important to me," Dumbledore replied quietly.
"Indeed, it is. But it does not excuse some of the things you've done."
Anger flared within the Headmaster, and he had half a mind to turn around in his chair once more and glare up the painting, for all the good it would do.
"To what do you refer?"
"I refer," Phineas began angrily, "to my great-great grandson, and his friend. Did you really have to meddle with them? It was bad enough that you sentenced his two best friends to death for your own schemes, but you also took away the one thing that he had left in the process."
Dumbledore couldn't stop a smirk quirking at his lips. "I'm surprised you care so much. After all, Sirius was not in your house, and the Blacks are not usually ones for supporting such… unconventional activities."
Phineas huffed in disbelief. "He is the last surviving member of the Noble House of Black, and that is enough for me. I know you do not put as much stock by such things, but your love of your Hogwarts house is no different from the love purebloods feel for their ancient houses. I would have thought that you would have wished to protect a fellow Gryffindor from the pain of loss, not be the orchestrator of it."
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
There were three knocks on his door, fast and urgent. Dumbledore raised his head from his work, his quill hovering over the parchment on his desk.
"Come in," he offered, and the door swung open almost immediately.
The man who entered his office was tall, his wavy black hair reaching to just below his chin. He was older than the students at Hogwarts, but had not long left its halls.
Sirius Black closed the door behind him, fear written into every inch of his face.
"Ah, Mr Black," Dumbledore smiled fondly at his former student. He carefully placed his quill parallel to the parchment sitting before him, waving elegantly long and thin fingers at the chair on the other side of his desk. "Please, have a seat."
Sirius' shoes clapped loudly against the floor as he took up the offer. He slumped down into the seat, staring blankly at the parchment before Dumbledore. It was such a different image than the Headmaster was used to seeing: not Sirius sitting in that chair – that had happened so often they almost made his visits merely a chance to catch up rather than a disciplinary effort, much to the chagrin of whichever Professor had sent him there on that occasion – but that he was not staring straight up at him, with that cocky and mischievous look in his eye for which he had become almost infamous during his time within the halls of Hogwarts.
Dumbledore waited for his glazed eyes to recover some of their clarity. He watched as they did so, the glaze melting from his deep irises as he slowly raised his head to face his old Headmaster.
"I can't do it," he mumbled.
Dumbledore's brow furrowed. "And what is it that you cannot do?"
Sirius gulped nervously, the colour draining from his face.
"Be a Secret Keeper," he clarified. "Hide Godric's Hollow, Lily and James… I can't…"
"And who would you have replace you?" Dumbledore asked quietly.
Sirius stared at him desperately. "You."
Dumbledore sighed. "I have already explained to the five of you-"
"I know they said they trust us – they trust me-"
"And do they have reason not to?"
That made Sirius stop. He paused, looking up at Dumbledore with a strange look on his face.
When he spoke, it was quiet, tentative, and cautious.
"What are you saying?"
"I am asking you if you feel that you would not be the best person to keep your friends safe. That you fear that you would hand vital information about the whereabouts of Lily and James Potter over to the wrong party. That you would put your friends in danger."
Sirius shrunk away from the Headmaster. "I… Of course not!" he breathed.
Dumbledore held his hands wide in a questioning gesture. "Then what is the problem?"
"It's… it's too obvious."
Dumbledore left a silence, waiting for him to continue.
"Everyone knows James is my best mate. They'll know they made me Secret Keeper."
"On the contrary," Dumbledore countered, "Voldemort will believe me to be the Secret Keeper. Which is precisely why it can't be me."
Sirius sighed, slumping back in the chair.
"However," Dumbledore began after a brief pause, drawing the youngster's attention once more, "there may be something to be said for appointing a different Secret Keeper. The only way that Voldemort could learn of the true whereabouts of the Potters once the Charm has been cast would be for him to obtain the information from the Secret Keeper themselves, and there may be someone who could coerce you into giving up the information to him if you are indeed made the Secret Keeper."
Sirius' brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, that while you deny being a traitor, it does not mean that one does not exist. And I believe that there is a traitor in our midst; one who is closer to us – and closer to your friends – than any of us would dare to believe."
Sirius' eyes widened. Dumbledore watched, his poker face – perfected from many games with Hagrid over the years – settled across his features as he watched the cogs within the young man's head grind.
"No…" he breathed finally, as the cogs clicked into place. "Remus?"
Dumbledore shrugged. "There are not many werewolves who have not been recruited. It is entirely possible."
Dumbledore tried not to let the satisfaction show on his face as he watched Sirius' crumble.
"But… I would have known. Surely I would have known. He doesn't have the Mark-"
"A traitor wouldn't. It would be too obvious."
Sirius began to tremble. "But…"
"You must understand that you cannot confront him. He may not be the Secret Keeper, but he knows where the Potters are regardless. He can still cause damage without having to give the information over to Voldemort."
Sirius' eyes began to glaze over again, his head turning involuntarily to the side as tremors continued to wrack his body.
"Peter…" he mumbled thoughtfully and fearfully. "Peter has to be Secret Keeper. And Remus has to think that it's me, so he can't use me to give the information away."
Dumbledore said nothing.
~{butdumbledoresaid}~
"You have done abominable things to that boy – to both of them. To make them think that they would turn on each other-"
"I gave Sirius all of the information he required to know that Peter was the traitor."
"Except outright telling him that the traitor was Peter."
"Do you not wish to work with me to defeat Voldemort in this new war?" Dumbledore asked harshly. "Do you plan to stage a mutiny?"
"Of course not," Phineas spat. "Voldemort is a monster who must be stopped, I do not deny that. However, while I may be duty-bound to obey the current Headmaster of Hogwarts, I by no means have to condone his actions, nor be partial towards him. And I certainly do not have to think it fair that you meddle in the lives of two men just because you are jealous that they had what you had been denied. Now, if you'll excuse me."
Dumbledore didn't have to look around to know that the old Headmaster had left his portrait.
But his hand was stilled, his quill hovering over the parchment, a blob of ink dropping from its end. He tried to form a reply to the boys in his head, but his gaze kept drifting over to the stack of parchment on the side of his desk.
When he could fight the urge no longer, he sighed, placing the quill parallel with the piece of parchment before him, and lifted the pile up, revealing a single photograph on the bottom of the pile, resting face-down on his desk.
With nearly shaking hands, he removed the photo from the desk, carefully turning it over to reveal the face of a handsome boy smiling up at the camera. A mixture of sorrow and nostalgia filled him, turning his lips up at the corners.
He stared at the photo for a while, before taking a deep breath and replacing it, glancing at the name scrawled on the back in his atrocious handwriting: Gellert.