Disclaimer: I don't own anything here, except the plot. All characters and names are copyrighted to J.K Rowling, and Raincoast Books.

A/N: This is my first Harry/Remus fan fiction, and is one that I had begun to write a long time ago, but never got around to continuing. Well, I was reading through all my old fics the other day, after writing more in Foundations of a Fugitive, and happen to stumble across this particular one. I read it, and thought, 'Hey wow, this is actually pretty good…This'd make a good fan fiction!', so I decided to resume it. I already have a bit of the second chapter done, and the ending I had written around the same time I wrote this chapter. I know exactly how everything is going to turn out, and a sequel already planned. You'll understand why after I finish this fic. I'm going to try my best to juggle writing two fics at once, as I have no intentions on giving up my Harry/Snape fic, but I'd also like to continue with this one. If anybody who reads this would like to be either a Plot Beta, or a Grammar Beta, please e-mail me with specifications. My address is in my profile. Thanks.

Summary: Remus Lupin takes in Harry the summer after fifth year, shortly after he begins his stay at the Dursley's. Life is hard for both of them, trying to deal with Sirius' death, but they soon find more ways to cope then one. SLASH. RL/HP.

Sweet Liar

Chapter One: A Dream is Just a Dream.

Harry Potter sat staring unseeingly out of the Dursley's car. Every tree that passed by him on the road seemed to be nothing more then a colorless blob of something entirely indescribable, even if he tried. Nothing seemed to penetrate the foggy haze that was filling his mind more and more by the minute. Even Aunt Petunia's incessant humming-out-of-tune seemed far away and drawn out, insignificant. Rain started to splatter across the car window, and inside through the small crack at the top to blow onto Harry's face in an almost caressing and caring way. He didn't even notice, and didn't register Dudley's complaints coming from the mound of flesh pressed up against him in the other seat.

'Deep breaths, Harry, deep breaths' He repeated in his head, but his nose didn't seem to be working, and every breath he took through his mouth tasted putrid and stale. Not that it mattered. Some sick, twisted part of him was hoping, wishing, that he could suffocate on the stale, lifeless air, and become just as lifeless as it. Maybe then he wouldn't have to deal with all….all this….

"It's okay Dudley Dummers, we're home now! Look, it's only five o'clock, I'm sure you haven't missed that new program on the telly." Aunt Petunia's voice floated to his shut-off ears has the car smoothly glided to a halt. He blinked his eyes a few times until a (coloured) view of Number Four, Privet Drive came into his field of vision.

"Space Adventures, Mummy! Get it right!" The greasy voice of his cousin rung loud and grotesque into his ear as he languidly unbuckled himself.

"Oh, I'm sorry Dudders, I'll have to remember that one."

"Good boy," Ick. Uncle Vernon. "Getting his telly shows right. What kind of man would he be if he couldn't tell the news from soap operas? You wouldn't get nowhere, is what. 'Could learn a thing or two from him, Petunia."

There came no answer, but Harry could almost perfectly visualize a simpering look on Aunt Petunia's face as she nodded her head vigorously. If only Hermione could hear them talk, she just might have a heart attack. She always was one for the Bad Grammar Bug.

Hermione…

Images flashed before his mind. Dreams, Thestrals, Corridors, Glass balls, Ron laughing, Hermione….Hermione are you alright? Tonks! Dumbledore! Lupin! Sirius, watch out, no, Sirius….SIRIUS!

"Boy!" His head jerked as his eyes welled, and his mind snapped back to the present. Uncle Vernon was glaring at him in contempt and was pointing to him, and then to the house. "You can't stay in there all day. I don't want you melting my car seats."

Harry emotionlessly got out and retrieved his trunks and Hedwig's cage (she had been made to fly home instead of being driven, by the Dursley's) and began to lug them towards the door Uncle Vernon had already disappeared behind. He entered the house to the familiar smells of cheap cleaner, a horrendous amount of Begonias and something that slightly resembled roast beef. He could hear the television in the living room blaring something that sounded to his drowned out ears like "Space Age, Space Adventures! Rolling down a highway, breezing past Mars…" in a cheesy voice that you often hear on shows for small children, always in the sort of high pitch squeal that sounds like it should have been made to entertain dogs.

He trundled past the kitchen, were Aunt Petunia had already begun to make supper (Macaroni and cheese, one of Dudley's favourites, and one of Harry's least favourites), and into the hallway. He caught a brief glimpse of Dudley and Uncle Vernon sitting together on the couch, their beady eyes bulging like a bullfrog's and glued to the screen. They looked as if the could wet their pants with excitement. Nutters, the lot of them. As he made it to the staircase, he cast a quick, contemptuous look to the cupboard door and quickened his pace.

Memories, such hateful things.

He made his way up the stairs, one slow step and a time, lugging his baggage behind him and straining the joints on his knees. He ignored the pain that belonged to the legs and arms of everyone whose only form of actual physical activity is riding a broomstick. Running through corridors and 'hard action adventure' did not count in this own, personal tally mark.

He made it up to the second floor landing and began to drag his bags heavily across the floor to the very end door. He could hear Uncle Vernon yell up, "Not so loud, Boy, I can't hear the telly!", but he didn't bother to try and soften the scraping noise. His luggage got caught on the threadbare rug that adorned the hall floor, and bunched it up, dragging it with them. He ignored that, as well.

He reached the last door and felt an odd sort of elation at seeing the plaque that had been erected on the front of the oak door.

POTTER'S ROOM

Dudley probably wasn't too happy about that. He swiveled his head slightly to the left and caught sight of another plaque, this one gold plated instead of wood, like his.

DUDLEY DUMMER'S ROOM

Harry burst into outright laughter, a sound that seemed sick, and strange to his ears. Foreign and unreal. It echoed throughout his head and ricocheted off his gut. Dudley Dummer? Well, they got the dumb part right. Dudley must have been completely mortified when he saw that. Wonder what his little friends will think when they see that? Where did 'Big D' go?

He snickered one last time before turning the knob and opening the door to his temporary bedroom. He dragged in his luggage and placed it unceremoniously on his bedroom floor, right at the foot of his bed, before carrying Hedwig's cage over and setting it on the now cleared desk. His pet, his owl, his only friend in Privet Drive, Little Winging, Neighbor to Magnolia Crescent, had not yet returned. Harry Potter would have to wait.

It was shortly past eight, when Hedwig flew in through the open window and laded on his bedpost with a soft hoot. He had been lying on his bed, listening to one of Dudley's old, semi broken radios, playing in a scratchy voice that hinted to broken speaker boxes.

He leaned over and offered Hedwig a small smile of appreciation before lying back down. Now that he had her, part of him wished that she would go away, leave him alone. But alone, brought memories. He could do things, he knew, to distract himself. Draw, write, even hum tunelessly to the radio and songs he didn't know, but it all seemed so frivolous and half forgotten.

He never did like memories, they always seemed to bring hurt. Whenever he remembered, pictures if the dead seemed to creep into his mind's eye. Lily dying, James dying, get Harry! Don't take Harry! Take me, but don't harm Harry! Foolish girl…And now more memories, memories of a new life, one known and loved, new and old at the same time, and taken away. Sirius. Sirius, where are you? I made a mistake…he's not…Sirius, what are you doing here? Sirius, it's Bellatrix! Lupin, Sirius, stop! No, no don't….The Veil! He's gone Harry, he's gone! There's nothing you can do, nothing…

"No!"

He sat bolt upright in bed, alerting Hedwig, who took wing and refuge on top of his broken dresser, the door hanging slightly of it's hinges. He heard Uncle Vernon shout up, asking what he was hollering about up there, and then he didn't. He couldn't hear anything, but yet he could hear everything too. Taste, touch, smell, sound….Super sensitive and deceiving. His heart beat seemed to thunder in his ears, and he could almost feel the blood pulse in his veins. He could smell the fresh night air, the asphalt down below, and the night's leftover supper. This sense overload was too much for such a fragile person, and he began to hyperventilate, his eyes welled up, and then it happened.

He cried. Long and hard.

Now, all that was left was the washed out, sick feeling, the strange humming in his ears, and the salty taste of his own tears that had trickled down his cheek and into the corner of his mouth. He wiped his face angrily and glared at the just visible moon outside. He mustn't think of Sirius. He mustn't. He couldn't heal if he did. But did he want to? He couldn't shut Sirius out, he'd love him forever, dead or alive.

No. No no no no no. Sirius was not dead. Not dead. Just trapped….trapped behind the Veil. And he was bound and determined to get him out.

Harry curled up into the fetal position, not even bothering to pull the blankets around his chilled body, and fell into an uneasy sleep.

The night was black, not just the shade, but in every sense of the word. Dark beyond a colour, beyond suffocation, beyond meaning. The darkness was thick, heavy, almost tangible, and Harry could swear he could taste the hate on his tongue. It spoke of evil, things sent from places the fifteen, soon to be sixteen, boy had never even dreamed to think of. Was this what this was? A dream? Could it be trusted, after all the other dreams he had? It didn't feel like a dream, but then again, they never do.

If it was a dream, he didn't like it. If it was real, that was even worse.

He took a step forward, feeling as though he should have fallen into some kind of bottomless pit. To his relief, however, the earth seemed to materialize beneath his bare feet, and stretched out, now visible even in the impending darkness. There was a sensation of grass beneath his feet, but it felt unreal, like an illusion of what it really was. A copy, a rough one. A moon appeared in what he guessed was the sky in this world, and presented to him light to see by. It hung oddly in the air, almost like it was hanging limp like some kind of stage prop, and he was the marionette dancing on the stage for everyone to see except himself.

He surveyed his surroundings. He seemed to be standing on the outer rim of a deep gouge in the earth, like a gully. There was no trees to make it a grove, but it gave off the forest feeling regardless. However, it was not welcoming. He couldn't see, feel, or hear any other form of life around, as if all life of this world had been drowned out, or put in slow motion, so slow, he was not able to see it move or change with the naked sight.

'Your hallucinating, Harry, hallucinating' He thought, closing his eyes. The devil voice in him whispered menacingly in his ear, bringing words meant to spark doubt within his soul, 'And you're talking to yourself. Not a good sign'. He clasped his hands over his ears and squeezed his eyes tighter shut. 'It's just a dream, just a dream, just a dream…'

That's when he heard it. It sounded like someone's voice from far away, being carried to his ears on a wind that was not there. "Harry…" It whispered, it caressed, it gouged and it frightened. It slowly faded away, as if someone where carrying the voice away over their shoulder down a long corridor. He snapped his eyes open and looked around hysterically. He checked down to the treeless grove, and saw something that made his heart stop. Something down there was moving. It seemed as if boulders were pushing their way up out of the earth, splitting it in front of them and causing mounds of soil to push up out of the fissures and make strange, humplike mounds, in indistinct shapes. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, a cold shiver run down his spine, and cold perspiration drip into the corner of his mouth. He was scared.

He turned around to run back to wherever back was, but it seemed like some kind of barrier was erected preventing him from going anymore then two feet. It was magic, he could tell. He could tell by the feel of it. Not the type of feel you can conduct with your hands, or tongue, or body, but the kind you conduct with your mind. It was obvious now; Someone was in here with him.

He reached for his wand in his jeans pocket, but surprised himself when he discovered it wasn't there. It was also then that he discovered he was stark naked, which only made him feel even more vulnerable. He sank to the ground on his knees and cradled the back of his head in his hands. His glasses were still there, so he could see. He rocked back and forth, eyes closed, and drew himself up into his body for whatever kind of measly protection he could concoct.

He felt two, long and thin, hands grab his shoulders and haul him up. He whimpered helplessly, and didn't even bother to reprimand himself. This isn't like the other dreams in which he dreamt of the dark. In them, he had always been somebody else, but in this, he was just Harry, making him all the more scared, and vulnerable.

The hands dragged him forward and towards the grove. Every sense of being in his body cried out in protest, but it seemed as though he had lost complete control of his body. The marionette was definitely here. He felt his knees being scraped against the rough gravel and rocks as he was dragged down the slope, and each scrape seemed to display a hundred fold more of pain, sending violent shocks through his legs, but he could do nothing about it. Tears spilled down his cheeks harder, and harder, out of pain and fear. That seemed to be the only movement his body was doing on it's on.

As the reached halfway down, he began to make out what the odd lump was, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to believe. He heard cold, high pitched laughter that stung his ears as if it was a strong blast of cold wind. Then, a voice filled with malice whispered in his ear, "Look, Potter, Look."

Harry was drug roughly to a stop on top of something very soft. He opened his eyes reluctantly and looked down. Fresh soil. He was kneeling on freshly upturned soil. "Look up, Potter!" Harry refused to, and felt sharp nails dig into the back of his head, lifting his head up and tearing open his eyes. He felt a choked sob come out of his throat at what he saw.

There, before him, was a heavy set, gray tombstone. He traced the inscription delicately with his hands as he felt feeling momentarily seep into his nerves.

Sirius Black
1969-2001
Died Trying to Protect
The Boy Who Lived

Harry felt himself begin to cry harder as he shook his head in disbelief. "No…." He choked out, but was met with only laughter. The rough hands tore him away from it and onto another mound of Earth that had just appeared. The voice rang out again, slicing through the chill in the air, and Harry's heart.

"Don't deny it Harry. It's your fault he's dead, and you know it. If you continue to fight me, not only will your Godfather be dead, but so will all your friends. Do you love your friends, Harry?"

"…Yes…."

"Do you love me?"

Harry ripped his head painfully away from the hands, and screamed, "NO! You killed my parents you sick bastard! I hate you, I hate you, I….hate….." Harry broke down again, and the hands grabbed his shoulders and ripped him back up.

"Look!" It shouted again, cold and cruel, "Look at what will happen if you do not side with me!" Harry's head was ripped up and he stared at the new tombstone.

Harry Potter
1986-2001
Buried Alive Because
He Was
The Boy Who Lived

Harry squeezed his eyes shut. "It's just a dream, just a dream and nothing more, just a dream."

The laughter started up again.

"A dream is just a dream, just a dream, that's all a dream is, nothing more, nothing more at all…"

"Just a dream, Harry! Are you so sure? What about when you dreamed of Mr. Weasley, or of Sirius? Were they just dreams? Don't be so sure of yourself. The future appears in many funny ways. A dream is never just a dream, even though you don't know it." The hands released him and he fell flat on top of the soft earth of his own grave. He felt a strange sensation that rattled his body, like a clap of thunder without sound. Then, in the distance, seemingly carried on the wind, he heard,

"Goodbye, Harry Potter."

He sighed and rested his head in his hands, dirt mixing with the tears and smearing his face. Just as he thought it was all over, he felt two hands again land lightly on his shoulder. But these seemed soft, and caring. He felt them help him up, and slowly turn him around.

Harry screamed.

He was looking up into the face of his dead Godfather, Sirius Black. Except, it wasn't his face. The once tired, but handsome features were half rotten, skin peeling of in places to reveal rotting muscles, or bone. His eyes were coal black, and he seemed to stand crooked. His tongue was gone.

Harry kept screaming as he turned, and with a sudden rush of adrenaline, ran up the hill. He made it to the top, and heard strange noises coming form the grove below. He saw an array of people, who weren't exactly people, appear as more tombstones popped up out of the Earth. The rest were to rotten to make out who they were. He could hear Sirius say, "What's wrong Harry? Don't you love us anymore?"

He heard cold laughter and looked up to see Voldemort himself standing before him. Harry glared. "That was cruel, Voldemort."

He laughed. "Well, guess I'm cruel then."

Harry saw a flash of sharp little teeth, gleaming in Voldemort's own, twisted smile. He ducked his head and half wished he had the Ruby Slippers so he could enchant, "There's no place like Home, there's no place like Home…" Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut tight and screamed, "A DREAM IS JUST A DREAM! IT ISN'T REAL!"

When his eyes snapped open again, he was looking up at a white plaster ceiling, with various thumbtacks in it, and the soft glow of the light. Thank God. He rolled over in his bed and checked the time. Two o'clock, a.m. Hedwig was looking at him funny, and he just smiled, then climbed out of bed and headed quietly down to the kitchen.

He poured himself a glass of milk, drank it down, then sat staring at the odd arrangement of flowers that decorated the table. They were yellow. Harry hated yellow. It was a way too happy colour. He sighed, and pressed his hands together flat, against his brow.

He prayed for a dreamless sleep.

A/N: Okay! If you've gotten this far, thank you for reading, and feedback is always appreciated. I'm a lot more motivated into actually writing my stories, if I know that people are reading them. SO, please Review, but no FLAMES! Constructive criticism is welcomed, and if you have any plot ideas, or advice, feel free to leave them. Don't bother leaving a flame, 'cause I'll just laugh at them. Seriously, if you hated this fic, why's you read the whole thing, and then take the time to actually review? Pathetic.

PS: Here's the title of the next chapter, and the first paragraph. I'll leave the same thing at the end of every chapter.

Chapter Two: Contemptuous

Remus Lupin sat in a dusty chair at Twelve Grimmauld place, back rigid and breathing heavy. He was staring with wide eyes at the fireplace on the wall across from him, a half full bottle of fire whisky clutched in his hand, the cover long ago lost. A scotch glass sat off to the side, but it was still bone dry…