Shadowed Souls
Disclaimer: Not mine. Never were, never will be. They are all J.K. Rowlings'. You can tell because she is making all the money, and I am making a big zero. Oh, and they also belong to publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury and Scholastic Books.
Rating: PG-13 for slash.
Summary: Sirius rejects Remus. Will what was broken ever be fixed again? It is so easy to wound, and so hard to heal. Seriously, seriously angsty and sappy Remus / Sirius. What more could you ask for?
Warning: This is SLASH folks. If you don't like it, don't read it, but don't bug me about it. If anyone wants to be homophobic, they don't need to do so here, and can go and join the other bigots in a corner. As you may have gathered, unnecessary anti-slash flames make me VERY annoyed. I really am a sunny person, but I just wanted to say that. Now, read the fic and enjoy. J
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It was not the most romantic of settings. Only magic prevented the tiny, ramshackle cottage in Otter's Down from leaking onto the inhabitants, as rain swept the walls. Inside, it was cosy enough, but books and scrolls chronicling the rise and fall of dark wizards littered every available surface. In one corner, purple liquid oozed ominously in a cauldron. In another, a broken Cleansweep leant crookedly against the wall, fallen twigs littering the floor. At the oak table which took up most of the room, the remains of a meal stood cooling on top of open volumes of Grindelwald: A Definitive History and Whither Darkness?
In the middle of all this industrious chaos, the two men stood, wrapped in up in a deep embrace. Midnight black and golden brown hair mingled, as two pairs of yearning, searching hands swept over the familiar forms. Two sets of luminous eyes gazed at one another before flickering closed. Briefly, the burdens of weariness and bitter knowledge seemed to slip from their shoulders, as they concentrated solely on each other. Gradually, the rhythm of their breathing matched as Sirius murmured contentedly against the fairer man's lips.
It was Remus who broke the kiss first, pulling away and smiling gently at the taller man. Certainly, Remus had no reason not to be pleased at the sight. Sirius stood before him, their faces only inches apart, his eyes still almost closed, lashes shading the perpetually angry blue, almost brushing his cheeks. The old mock-solemn smile touched the corners of his mouth. Peaceful. Content.
Then, as if moving through treacle, Sirius dragged his limbs out of the werewolf's embrace and averted his gaze. When, finally, he raised his eyes, they were cold, empty, and as icy in expression as in colour. The look reminded Remus of that picture in the newspaper, vacant and inhuman, or of the furious maniac that day in the Shrieking Shack, not of the old friend who had been cluttering up his house these last few weeks.
"I don't want you, Remus."
"You seemed to, just then," Remus answered, attempting to keep his tone light; to bring years' worth of hiding who and what he was from the world into play; to conceal the numbing cold spreading through his bones. The people in the photos adorning the walls stared; faces alight with tension and curiosity. Lily and James clutched each others hands and craned forward, leaning together. If either man had spared the attention to look, they would have seen that in one Hogwarts picture, Sirius was thumping his head against the frame. In the background, Lily, her hand still entwined with James', yelled and waved one shoe at Sirius.
"It didn't mean anything. You were just a warm body. You can't expect us to forget the past fourteen years. We aren't those people. We can never be those children again."
"I never expected anything from you."
"Oh don't be so dense, Remus," snapped Sirius. "You know what I mean. I know you aren't being arrogant. You never are. Perfect Remus," he laughed bitterly and broke off, staring moodily into the fire. When he finally raised his gaze from the dancing flames, his eyes were colder even than before, glittering like obsidian in the flickering light.
"You can't think that there's a chance of making everything the same. You can't imagine that we can go back to being Moony and Padfoot, twenty-two years old and madly in love. I can barely remember what it was to be that person anymore." Sirius' voice was infused with deepening anger, rising in volume with each syllable.
"Of course we aren't those people, but that isn't the point. We're still here, and past events won't necessarily prevent us from doing this."
"Remus, I spent twelve years in Azkaban. That hardly leaves me in a mood to contemplate the joys of spring."
"So you're letting Wormtail win, you're giving up?" Remus asked, his voice tinged with desperation.
"There's nothing to give up, Moony. It died fourteen years ago. You don't know me. You don't really want me. I don't want you. I don't need you. And I don't have time for this. It's not important enough." With the last spiteful word, Sirius' face twisted with disgust at the distress so plainly marked on the slighter man's face.
The two remained fixed in their places, as if waiting for the end of the world, until Remus broke the tableaux with an abrupt gesture of one hand, his face as white as the waxing moon outside. In sharp contrast to the rest of the conversation, with its furious crescendos, when Remus spoke, his words were soft, barely audible.
"You're probably right. I can't imagine Azkaban, and you can't imagine what these years have been like, being alone. We don't belong together anymore: it's been too long. Perhaps we never really did. I was foolish. I was weak. Probably, it was just relief at finding you innocent. Goodnight, Padfoot."
"I'll be gone as soon as possible."
Remus merely nodded, and began gathering up the scattered debris of the late supper. As the forlorn candlelight fell upon his face, it highlighted the harsh lines of sorrows both old and new carved around his mouth and deep grey eyes. Silver-streaked hair fell over his forehead, as he stooped his tall frame over the table, until he pushed it carelessly away with one pale, trembling hand. To Sirius, watching with eyes swimming with misery, he seemed to be a suffering Orpheus, balancing the dishes and schooling his expression into one of studied composure.
At the kitchen door, Remus paused, and with an air of resignation swivelled back towards where Sirius remained frozen, light from the fireplace glinting in his blue-black hair. Remus said haltingly, "You will want to be gone by Tuesday night: it's the full moon, and you won't want to be here. Anyway, with the Wolfsbane, I'm better off alone. I'm sure that Arabella will give you a room." Despite his best efforts, the words still bore a hint if the razor-edged pain which was slowly yet effectively slicing his soul to ribbons. All too well he remembered the previous month when, for the first time in over a decade, he had not been alone during the dreaded transformation.
Sirius flinched at Remus' words, yet he concealed his reaction so quickly that Remus, who could not meet his eye, failed to notice it. The Animagus nodded sombrely.
Having set a spell to clean the dishes, Remus wearily climbed the rickety stairs to the cottages cramped bedroom. Only yesterday, Sirius had crashed though one of the steps as he ill-advisedly thundered downstairs with the same reckless vigour and grace Remus remembered from Hogwarts. To Remus, this recollection seemed as vulnerably remote and faded as those school days, as the Sorting itself.
Reaching the chaotic room, nauseous with dread, Remus slumped on the bed, his hair forming a dappled curtain of silver and brown to blot out the world. He willed himself not to scream, or cry, not to throw the massive antique lamp across the room, not to give a single sign of the maelstrom of emotions, not to yield to the wolf rising within. Eventually, he rolled onto his back, his limbs weak with emotion, and, breath calming, stared blankly at the ceiling, tracking the cracks in the plaster, sleepless and oblivious to Sirius doing the same on the sofa.
Finally falling asleep with the arrival of the sepulchral, pre-dawn light, Remus awoke from a few hours' uneasy dream-wracked doze to find the soft scuff-marks on the downstairs floor the only sign that the cottage had not always been his alone. A bitter, self-mocking smile twisted the werewolf's mouth.
Why did I expect anything else?
TBC?
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Flames will be used to burn my textbooks so I have a good excuse not to work. Positive reviews are as welcome as hot chocolate on a cold day. J