Notes: Fic touches on all sorts of child abuse, I'm afraid. Rating for that plus excessive, over-the-top swearing. I was trying a thing!
Things that go bump in the dark
"Bloody hell!"
Peter is running at them. More accurately, he is running away from something, but what? Remus is mildly intrigued. Nothing interesting has happened all night.
"Any particular reason you're pissing your pants?" says Sirius, with more glee than the occasion demands. But then, he's orders of magnitude more easily bored than Remus.
"Fuck off, Padfoot," says Peter. "There's something in that dungeon. It went crack and I turned and -"
"And?" inquires Remus mildly.
"And bloody nothing!" says Peter. "So I turned round and it went crack again! I bolted, didn't I! Something's in there."
"Yeah," says Sirius. "Fungus and damp. Two hours and we haven't found anything more interesting than three hitherto unknown kinds of fluorescent moss."
"Objection," says Remus. "Moss is not a fungus."
"Objection," says Sirius. "You are a smart-arse."
Remus could think of about thirteen things he could be doing right now, twelve of those being his N.E.W.T. essays. The thirteenth being sleep.
That damn stupid map. The way things are progressing, that thing is going to be their legacy, not their greatest tool. He studies the parchment in front of him, but of course the dungeon Peter ran from isn't on there yet. That is, after all, the entire point of this operation.
"My guess is Peter's being a baby," says Sirius.
"I'll show you a bloody baby," says Peter darkly.
"Did you map it out before you ran?"
"I was running for my life, you twat," says Peter. "No, I didn't map the bloody dungeon."
"I'll do it," says Remus quietly. "What? The earlier I can get away from this stupid cellar and sit in front of a fireplace with a cup of tea, like a civilised person."
"Yeah, give us a holler if anything tries to kill you," says Sirius. "Merlin's tits, I don't think anyone's been here in centuries." He ducks underneath a low archway into a chamber and lands with both feet in a pool of water that lay undisturbed since the late Middle Ages. "Fuck!"
Remus heads for the dungeon Peter emerged from. Or tries to. Someone tugs at his sleeve, and Peter says, low enough that the still cursing Sirius can't hear them, "I really wouldn't, you know."
He looks sideways. Peter really does look rather pale.
"That thing scared the crap out of me," says Peter.
Yeah, but you're easily startled, thinks Remus. Aloud he says, "Think there's a chance James and Sirius will let us go to bed before we're done here?"
Peter's shoulders sag. "They're not the boss of us, you know," he mumbles. "We could just go. "
"As if you would," says Remus. "Best foot forward, you Gryffindor."
"I'll go get James," sighs Peter.
"Yeah, you do that," says Remus, peering into the dungeon. It's darker than the inside of a bear's arse, he diagnoses.
"Lumos," he says, and steps in. "See? Scared of your own shadow." But Peter has already wandered off.
Remus points his wand in all four corners, murmurs the spell that will copy the room's outline to their draft of the map, and mourns his wasted evening.
He notes a faint pop, though, and the spell doesn't usually do that. But then, the mapping spell is Sirius's invention, and those can be unpredictable sometimes. He prepares to leave.
Remus knows before he sees him. The light changes, not the gold of lumos, but something blue and jittery. The air changes, too, from the chill and damp of the Hogwarts dungeons to the dry heat of a centrally heated townhouse. But there's a stink in the air, a forest-y sort of stink, musk and cured meat and someone who hasn't washed in a month.
He turns around. And drops his wand, betraying all the reflexes he's worked so hard for in the last six years. But then, this was before that.
Well, maybe not all reflexes. "Bloody fuck," he shouts. "Holy fucking shit bloody… hell! What the fuck are you doing here? Stay the fuck away from me!"
Is that Moony cursing? he vaguely hears Sirius in the distance. He's not bloody good at it, is he?
Remus drops to the ground, not taking his eyes off the man lounging between him and the doorway. His hands are groping blindly for his dropped wand and his thoughts are a bloody unhelpful jumbling mess. Things like How did you get in here, are lurking on the edge of his panicked mind. Things like, This is a castle full of children. Things like, We found eight secret entrances and we never thought to tell someone –
The answer is just a grin, bearing the unmistakeable message that no, he's not going to stay the fuck away from Remus.
"You're sick," says Remus.
"I am what I am," rasps Fenrir Greyback, edging towards him. "And you are what you are." Those teeth, bared in a face like a clenched fist. "Prey."
Bile rises in Remus's throat. "Right," he says. "Sod the wand. I'll kill you with my bare hands."
In the distance, he can hear someone running. Greyback is advancing, though, and Remus's hands are not cooperating. Pressed into the wall, he isn't feeling it. The wolf isn't feeling it, and he can usually be trusted to be stupid. Remus just wants to hide, under the desk, under the bed, anywhere –
Hide, or run away, like Peter did ten minutes ago, wait a moment –
"You!" someone shouts, and Sirius comes barging into the dungeon. "You're a fairytale! Get the fuck away from Moony!"
If Sirius is surprised to find a stinky stranger in the dungeons, he is already over it. He fires a hex, but it deflects harmlessly off Greyback's thick skin.
"Werewolf," says Remus, noticing distractedly that his voice is shaking.
"What?"
"Needs more oomph."
Sirius doesn't need telling twice. He fires curse after curse, and his repertoire is ridiculously extensive. Stupefy. Entomorphis. Confringo. Ebublio. Reducto. Orbis. Sectumsempra. Greyback moves towards Remus in snapshots, illuminated by the flying spells that do not seem to interest him at al. Remus is well and truly cornered, without a wand, in the dark.
Funny. He hasn't really expected to die today.
Silvery moonlight breaks through the clouds. Wait.
What clouds? What moon?
"What the fuck?" says Sirius distantly.
The shape of Greyback collapses. Cotton rips, then leather. Bones crack and regroup as the great big stinking man folds himself into the great big stinking wolf.
More snapshots. The wolf, ready to jump. The wolf in mid-air. Remus finds, disappointed, that there's nothing in his repertoire of reflexes but to cower in the corner of the dungeon, waiting for claws to hold him down, foul teeth to tear into his skin, again. Scared doesn't even begin to cover it. He's terrified, as terrified as only a five year old child can be – oh.
Of course.
Only this time, the wolf doesn't come. A great black dog intercepts it in mid-air, and they crash to the floor in a flurry of fur and teeth and claws. Then Sirius is on his feet again, standing over the beast with his wand drawn, panting and bleeding.
Now he has its attention.
"Too easy," he says.
"Sirius," says Remus, his throat dry.
Sirius looks to him just for a moment, but that moment is enough. There is a pop, and Sirius turns his attention back on the beast.
Well. Back on where the beast has been.
"Oh, fuck," says Sirius, with gusto.
In place of the wolf, there stands Regulus Black, Sirius's jarring almost-mirror image; quiet, dark, slight, and that annoying half inch taller than him.
"What the fuck, Reggie," says Sirius. Apparently, everyone's vocabulary is quickly shrinking tonight. "Was that you? Did you send the wolf to scare us? How did you work it out?"
"Didn't have to," says Regulus with a shrug. "Snape did. You know he's been suspecting this. Personally I didn't think you were that crazy, but old Snapey was right."
"What was that, conjuration? Illusion charm? Nah, too solid," says Sirius. "Human transfiguration? Funny, I thought you'd be too thick for that. And I will kill you if you breathe a word of this –" he waves an impatient hand " – to anyone."
"This," says Regulus with a scowl. "This is what you chose over your family. A traitor, a half-blood, and a werewolf."
"This is what anyone would choose over this family," snarls Sirius. He's not the most patient even on good days, and Remus really dislikes the way Sirius's wand is at his brother's throat.
Regulus surprises them both by not rising to the bait. "They will never let me go now, you know," he says.
Even Sirius stops at that, it is entirely too pensive for hot-headed young Regulus.
"Sirius," Remus tries again from his corner in the dungeon.
"Sorry," says Sirius. "Family matters."
"Yeah," says Regulus. "Family matters." He smiles sadly and draws up a sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark freshly etched into the skin on his forearm.
"Not family," says Remus weakly, but no-one is listening to him. Typical.
"What the fuck, Reggie," Sirius says again. "You've gone and done it. Mum and Dad will be so proud. They'll have their tea by your grave." He spits.
"They'll never know yours," says Regulus.
"Sirius," Remus tries again. He finally trusts himself enough to untangle his elbows from his knees and get off the floor. Still feeling a bit wobbly on his feet, he leans against the wall for a bit.
"Moony, you shut up. Death Eater in the dungeon."
Are those tears? Remus wonders. It's too bloody dark to tell.
"Not a Death Eater," says Remus. "Boggart."
At this, Sirius turns sharply. "What?"
"That," says Remus. "Boggart. Regulus is safe and sound in his dorm. We checked all the prefects on the map before we went, remember?"
"Unless the algorithm is looping again," says Sirius. "Piece of crap map."
"Regulus doesn't know about the wolf," says Remus. He knows Sirius wants to believe. "And he's not a Death Eater," he adds for good measure, even though they don't know that, that's the entire problem about the whole Regulus Black situation.
"Boggart," Sirius snarls. "All right. We can handle a bloody Boggart." He grabs a fistful of Regulus' dark robes. "You don't scare me, you tosser."
Regulus just grins and does absolutely nothing. Though to be fair, the real Regulus hasn't listened to Sirius in years.
"Not how it works," says Remus. "Remember. Something funny. Riddikulus." He has finally located his wand.
"Don't feel like laughing," says Sirius darkly, and isn't that a first.
"Please? I don't want to spend the night here," says Remus. "And it's your Boggart now. You have the honour."
"I'd rather just punch him," says Sirius.
"Won't work, mate," says Remus. Also: Won't keep Regulus from joining the dark side. But he keeps that wisecrack to himself.
"Right," says Sirius. He doesn't look amused at all, but he concentrates, and it's a credit to what an exceptional wizard he is that his Riddikulus is doing anything at all. In front of them, Regulus de-ages rapidly, the proud Slytherin now a four feet tall first year, pompously waving his arm, which is sporting a Dark Mark drawn in sharpie, while snot is running down his chin.
"Ha ha," says Remus dutiful.
"I know, right," says Sirius grimly. "Think I made it worse?"
"Oy! Wankers!" comes a voice from the corridor. "You better stop snogging cos Prongsy is coming in."
"Piss off, James," says Sirius through clenched teeth, and, as if that isn't a massive contradiction, adds, "Took you long enough."
"What the fuck," says James, now at the door. He has a smirking Peter in tow.
"Swing your arse in here," says Sirius. "We need someone with a sense of humour."
"I'm your man," says James, taking in the scene. Already little Regulus shifts attention and – pop.
"What the fuck," say Sirius and James simultaneously, and Remus would have joined in had the phrase not been so damn overused already.
In the middle of the dungeon stands Walburga Black, grey layered silk, lacquered hair, powdered face, and starts screeching. Blood traitor. Scum. Shame of your ancestors' flesh. That sort of thing. It is a source of great confusion.
"Moony, you're the eloquent one," says James. "Explain?"
"Boggart," says Remus.
"Ah," says James.
"Not mine, though," observes Sirius.
"Peter?"
"Nah."
"Moony?"
"I wish."
"Righty-oh," says James. "Must be mine."
Sirius just stares at him incredulously.
"What?" says James.
"My mum is your Boggart?"
"Your mum," says James testily, "is a scary lady. I still jump whenever I see a black parasol at King's Cross."
Remus remembers that scene. Mrs Black had called James a despicable blood traitor not fit to lick the boots of a Black. To which James – after a train's ride worth of reminding Sirius over and over to keep his head down for the summer and not provoke his mum – had replied, You'll find that I'll lick whichever parts of Sirius I like, ma'am.
On the platform, Sirius's carefully crafted composure had held up for all of five seconds before he'd cracked up. Even Regulus had grinned briefly, though he at least was clever enough to turn away from his parents.
It had been the summer Sirius ran away from Grimmauld Place and never returned. Remus can sort of see how this has turned into James' worst fear.
Sirius, apparently, can't. "James Potter," he says after a long while, "you have been so sheltered."
James shrugs. "Riddikulus," he says, and Walburga turns into an old-fashioned gramophone, broken record spinning in uneven circles, a tinny, wailing voice in the distance. Vicious, repetitive, inconsequential. Sirius, bless his heart, snorts at the image.
"All done with the dungeons on the west side," James adds.
They leave the gramophone where it is. Maybe the Boggart will crawl up two floors and scare the crap out of a few Slytherins.
"Told you there was something scary in there," mutters Peter, when they're on their way up.
"Yeah, I was wanting to talk to you about that, mate," says Sirius. "Things that go bump in the dark? Seriously?"
"Fear of the unknown," says Peter wisely. "Not the worst fear. Keeps you careful. Unlike you morons, who come barging into a dungeon that you just saw someone run away from. Reminds me, I never saw. What's Moony's?"
"What do you think?" says Sirius. He's in a bad mood.
Remus is very silent on the way up.
"Out," says Lily Evans, two days later.
"Why?" says James.
"Because you're pissing the rest of us off and I'm a prefect," says Lily.
"That's just Sirius, and he left half an hour ago," protests James. "We still need to… test run these potions."
"It's not. Just. Black," says Lily through gritted teeth. "Some of us would like to study without you pillocks burning down the Common Room. Go to bed."
"I'll go," says Remus quietly.
"You of all people, Lupin," says Lily. "You are tidy and make very little noise. You I can tolerate."
"Actually, I think I should go," says Remus. "Someone needs to find Sirius before he lands himself in even more detention."
"It's hours after curfew, Lupin."
"But he's my friend," says Remus innocently, his go-to excuse for all the things he's let slide in his time as a prefect. He probably shouldn't use it as often as he does.
Lily rolls her eyes, but her heart is clearly not in it. "Just don't get caught. And I can't believe I'm saying this, but take the other morons with you, will you?"
"What?" says Remus. "You watched James making everything so much worse tonight."
"I watched Black rile everyone up and then leave in a huff," says Lily.
"Handling Sirius can be a very subtle art," says Remus, exchanging a look with James, who at least shrugs apologetically. "And today is a day for subtlety. I'm therefore leaving these morons with you. Sorry, Lily."
"You can't have my Potions homework."
"You fight dirty, Evans," he says, regretfully getting up from his favourite armchair.
"You'd be surprised," says Lily. She sighs, and follows him to the portrait hole. "What's wrong with him?" she asks in a softer voice, so as to not be overheard. "He's been in a terrible mood for two days now. Regulus flirting with the dark side again?"
"Don't know, probably a bit of everything," says Remus carefully. "You know how he can be." He doesn't want to elaborate on the subject of Boggarts and werewolves and treacherous families just now.
"Wish he wouldn't take it out on the rest of us," says Lily. "Good luck. I'll cover for you."
"Thanks, Lily," says Remus. "You're a good person."
"You still can't have my Potions homework."
"Okay, you're a bad person," he says, climbing through the portrait hole.
"Sod off and bring Black back," says Lily. "In one piece."
He finds Sirius in the most obvious of places, on top of the Astronomy Tower, underneath the glittering namesakes of his family. Sirius is lying on his back on the low wall securing the observation platform, one arm under his head, one long leg dangling over the side. He's staring up into the sky as if he's never seen it before.
"Found me," says Sirius.
"Followed the wet dog smell," says Remus. He inches closer, not wanting to disturb what looks like a complex equilibrium. Damn, this is one tall tower.
Sirius snorts, lighting up a cigarette. Not his first, by the look of it.
"You've been in a bit of a pissy mood, mate," says Remus.
"And?"
"Cut it out," says Remus. He settles down next to Sirius's head, follows his gaze up towards the night sky. The constellation of Leo, and in there – of course.
"You know it's actually a multiple star system," says Sirius.
"Yeah," says Remus, who tends to pay attention during class. "But what kind of shite name would Regulus A be?"
Sirius laughs at this, which tells Remus that he's actually making an effort not to be in a pissy mood. It's a bit novel, for him.
"So is Sirius," says Remus. "Double star."
"Knew that," says Sirius. "Just means that our parents are utter shit with names."
Remus shrugs, indicating that he considers the Black family's naming conventions to be the least terrible thing about them. "Means that neither of you should be doing this alone."
"He's not alone," says Sirius. "I think that's why."
The wind picks up, and Remus draws his cloak tighter around him. Sirius, of course, is wearing his leather jacket. It's that sort of day for him.
Remus waits.
"What if that Boggart was right," says Sirius eventually.
"It's a Boggart," says Remus.
"No way," says Sirius. "… How do you mean?"
Remus shrugs. It's a complicated shrug, meant to convey, That it looks directly into your soul, and it plucks from there the thing that constricts your throat and freezes you on the spot. "It can't be right, and it can't be wrong," he says. "It can only be accurate."
"The further I run from my family," says Sirius, "the more they hold on to him. He's right. They will never let him stray away now."
"It's everyone's responsibility to choose between what is right and what is easy," says Remus. "He will have to choose soon."
If he hasn't already, is what he's careful not to say.
"It's harder for him," says Sirius. "They learned their lesson after they drove me away. They're kind to him. That thing, that tattoo, that could have been me, if only they had been – "
"Kind?"
"Human," says Sirius.
"You still have us," says Remus. "We'd have smacked some sense into you."
"Yeah, and he has Snape," says Sirius. "And Cissa, and Bellatrix, and Mulciber, and all the other Slytherin toadstools. He hasn't got a chance. I should have toughed it out."
"Sirius."
"Just a couple more years," says Sirius. "Should have kept my head down. Can't be too hard, if he's doing it. Just until we're both of age. Andromeda did it. Perfect little Slytherin, prefect, Head Girl, poof. Away she walked through smoke and wreckage, with a Muggleborn on her arm and precious little else."
"Remember last summer, Sirius."
"Could have made it work if I'd tried," says Sirius.
"Last summer, Sirius," repeats Remus gently. "Your mum used an Unforgivable on you. They're quite aptly named, you know."
"And I'll never forgive her," says Sirius simply. "Could have stayed. Regulus would have been in my debt forever, the little shit."
Remus says nothing. The thought of strong-willed, stubborn Sirius under the Imperius curse, docile, obedient, even if only for the weekend of Narcissa Black's wedding, still sickens him on a level he'd thought didn't exist.
He slowly, tentatively, lets his hand sink into Sirius's hair, petting it as if it were Padfoot underneath his fingers. That always cheers the dog up, so why not Sirius?
Sirius smirks, briefly, then his gloomy mood returns. He moves to take a drag off his cigarette, finds that it has gone out, and drops the butt over the edge. He lights another.
"Regulus is clever," says Remus. "I know you don't like hearing it, but he's really quite smart. He'll see through the bullshit."
"I grew up with him," says Sirius. "He can be the densest motherfucker you've ever met."
He's not the only one, thinks Remus. "He needs positive role models," he says.
"I need," says Sirius, "to change the topic."
His hair is smooth and richly textured under Remus's hand, and he turns his head into the touch. Smoke rises. Sirius looks up at him, eyes too bright and clever.
"Oh no," says Remus.
"Your Boggart," says Sirius. "We've dissected mine. Your turn."
"What's there to dissect?" says Remus. "You know I hate the wolf."
"So many questions, Moony, my friend," says Sirius with a sigh. "But first of all, Fenrir Greyback?"
"How do you know his name?" says Remus.
"He's a fairytale," says Sirius. "He's a bogeyman. He's the story they tell us to stop us from wandering off at night."
"…I'm really starting to hate Pureblood families," says Remus. "Are they trying to scar you for life?"
Sirius laughs softly. "You tell me," he says. "Greyback's a real person then? Not a story?"
Remus hesitates. "Yeah," he says.
"Well, shit," says Sirius, and inhales deeply. Smoke curls up. "Second question. You saw his face?"
"I – yes," says Remus. "Obviously." It's so long ago, he thinks. There's not much he remembers. There's precious little he'll never forget.
"Before he transformed," says Sirius, and something clicks.
"You really think too much sometimes," says Remus softly.
"Can't help it," says Sirius. "It won't turn off. Not ever." With these words, he rises, swings his other leg over the edge to sit next to Remus.
"I thought you just wandered off when you shouldn't," he says. "I thought you got lost in the woods. Should have known. Not your style, wandering off."
"I was five," says Remus indignantly. "My mannerisms could have changed since then, you knob."
"It was deliberate," Sirius says. "He did it on purpose." His bright eyes are boring into Remus's. "I know you. You would be inconsolable if you accidentally killed someone's pet rabbit, and this – this –"
"Werewolf," supplies Remus.
"No, you're a werewolf," says Sirius. "He's a bastard. Wanker. Scum of the earth. I don't have words for what he is. Should ask my mum, she's good with that kind of thing. He was human when he chose you." He shakes his head in disgust. "Why would anyone do that?"
"My dad pissed him off," says Remus.
"That's not a reason," says Sirius. "We piss you off five times before breakfast. You throw your teacup at us and call it a day. That's not a reason for anything. You were five. Your mum showed me photos. You were fucking adorable."
"Still am."
"Still are," says Sirius. "I'm going to kill him." He breathes toxic smoke into the night air.
"Up until five minutes ago you thought he was fictional," Remus reminds him.
"Even better," says Sirius. "Means no-one will look for him. Tosser. How could he. How could he."
A fairytale, thinks Remus. Told to children so they won't run off. No wonder Sirius is as crazy as he is.
That night, no, that whole first month, is a jumbled blur in his memory, snapshots of faces, blood, pain, a chunk torn out of his thigh and swallowed, gone, the moon outside his hospital bed first waning, then waxing. His parents more anxious with every passing night. So heartbroken after the first full moon had come and gone.
"If it helps," says Remus, "I've been counselled to within an inch of my sanity."
"Moony," says Sirius. "It's eleven years later and he's still your worst fear. I can't bear it."
Sirius sort of folds forward, his forehead resting against Remus's shoulder. Remus sees no reason not to pet his head awkwardly. Eleven years. A hundred and forty moons, give or take. He feels like he has pondered all this to death, and yet he understands that it can all get too, too much sometimes, especially for someone who isn't Remus. Especially for someone like Sirius.
"Padfoot," he says, breathing the smell of cigarettes and leather. "We moved to Wales when I was ten."
"And?"
"Wales is a very damp place."
"I know that, you weirdo," mumbles Sirius against his shoulder.
"Our house was full of nooks and crannies and tight spaces. It attracted Boggarts like you wouldn't believe. The grandfather clock had one, for fuck's sake."
He knows Sirius understands, and Sirius confirms it by saying, "That wasn't your first."
"And it never used to be Greyback. That's why I was so slow to recognise it today."
Sirius extricates his head, just a bit, to take a drag off his cigarette.
"It was usually the moon," says Remus. "No, it was always the moon. I guess it would still be the moon, but you guys came along."
Sirius understands. "Oh, stop it, you," he says. "It was nothing."
"It was three years of your lives," says Remus.
"So?" says Sirius. "We've got plenty of time."
He looks up at Remus now, staring earnestly into his eyes even while he's blowing smoke in his face. "That's what friends are for," he says. "You keep me from becoming a lunatic with a fucking stupid tattoo. We keep you from eating yourself on the full moon. James needs us to keep his enormous ego in check, and as for Peter, he needs friends like he needs his right hand."
"You're setting me up for a masturbation joke, aren't you," says Remus, waving away the smoke.
"You're too clever," says Sirius. "Stop it."
Shit, thinks Remus. It should be a positive thought, but today it isn't. He doesn't usually mind relying so much on his friends, but today might be the first time in years that he thinks, What if. Maybe Boggart Regulus had got it right. Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs. Werewolf, half-blood, traitor, traitor.
All prime targets in the war raging on beyond the walls of Hogwarts.
Sirius looks unusually thoughtful himself, like he's lost in much the same ruminations. No wonder. The dark mood that has cloaked him for the past two days is still there. The darkness is just not directed at Remus anymore.
"We won't let it happen," says Sirius. Impossibly, he huddles closer. "Any of it. By the way, you're bloody freezing, has anyone told you?"
"It's bloody October," says Remus, who has ignored the shivers so far. "Thought it was implied."
Sirius, that human furnace, shrugs and takes off his leather jacket, drapes it across Remus's shoulders, over his cloak, then leans into him again.
"You complete lunatic," says Remus.
"It's nothing," says Sirius. "Stay."
Remus has been on the brim of suggesting they go to bed now. It's a Sunday night and they have Transfiguration in the morning, and it's cold as balls on the Astronomy Tower, and anyway, all this is just an invitation for James and Peter to let their filthy imaginations run wild.
But Sirius has stayed more nights with him than he dares count. The least Remus can do is stay until the darkness lifts. Until Sirius has finished all his cigarettes and the ghost of that Boggart is gone in smoke and the light of dawn.
But he's also a wizard, damn it, so he conjures a little fire to keep them warm.
The End.