"A man who's pure of heart and says his prayers by night may still become a wolf when the autumn moon is bright"

~Florence and the Machine

Remus watches Sirius fall.

It happens as though in slow motion. There is a slight rock of his heels, as though he is bored of standing and wants to run, but he does not launch himself forward and back into the fight. He tips, back and back and back, first his head, then neck and shoulders disappearing into the veil.

And Remus can do nothing. Sirius has already fallen. Sirius is slipping away from him. Sirius is dead.

Sirius is dead.

The knowledge propels Remus forward, because in front of him, Harry is screaming. Harry is running, and Remus knows that Sirius and James would kill him if he let their son (because Harry really does belong to both of them, all of them, he was theirs to protect too) die. He jumps, wraps his arms around the boy and tries to soothe him, "You can't do anything more for him, Harry," He says, and he is crying, the words choked and strangled in his burning throat, "You can't do anything for him because he's d-"

He can't say it. He can't.

Harry is struggling in his arms, all bloodstains and dirt and taunt muscle. He's strong, and Remus is exhausted, but he digs his fingers into the boy's jacket and holds on while Harry screams.

Afterwards, Remus goes back to Hogwarts with the others.

The images of Harry, curled on the floor surrounded by broken glass, of finding Neville, cursed and terrified, seeing Hermoine's broken body, the heat of spells flying past his head, the screams, Sirius's laugh, are forever burned into his memory. He leaves the hospital wing because the Weasely's are a large group, clustered around the two beds, and Molly's nervous, motherly clucking is to overwhelmingly kind and irritating for him to handle at the moment. He strolls the castle aimlessly, slipping into empty classrooms so none of his old students recognize him. The thought of a conversation with anyone sends bile rising in his throat.

"Remus?"

He'd heard his name called that way many times, and it says something of his mental state that he responds by standing a little straighter and answering, "Professor?"

Minerva McGonagall steps into the room and closes the door behind her. She is dressed in simple green robes, her hairy done up, glasses perfectly balanced along her sharp nose. She is looking at him with familiar, stern fondness. "Dumbledore would like to see you in his office," she says, the words firm, but also gentle. Her voice is trembling slightly, and so are her hands, as she reaches for his arm. "Wait until Harry comes out before you enter," she says, and he is struck suddenly that she did not call Harry by his surname, "Dumbledore was adamant that they be left in private."

He nods, unsure of exactly what he is supposed to say. "I'll be there in a few minutes," he says finally. He is proud that his voice does not shake.

She returns his nod, formal and businesslike, because she knows that is what he needs. Remus does not think that he will ever be able to thank Minerva McGonagall enough for the seven years she spent as his mother while he stayed at Hogwarts. She is strict and unyielding, but she also knows him like no one else.

He turns from the room, straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin. If he does see Harry, he cannot be a broken mess. He is an adult. He has fought in a war, he needs to be the strong one.

"Remus?" McGonagall calls after him.

He does not turn, because he does not want to see her face, but he pauses and answers, "yes?" because it is polite, and it is expected.

"I am so terribly sorry."

Remus's eyes sting. "Thank you," he whispers.

Dumbledore invites him the office, and Remus feels like a student again.

The Headmaster's office is like many rooms at Hogwarts-vast and filled with secrets that he cannot even begin to understand. There are books stacked to the ceiling, magical objects that hum and tick with their own song. High windows that are dark now, inky black against the night sky.

Dumbledore is sitting in the chair behind his desk. He looks old and exhausted, and Remus can see the silver gleam of dried tears on his cheeks. "Have a seat, Remus," he says, gesturing to the chair that was lying prone on the ground as if it had been thrown. The chair rights itself with an unsteady wobble.

Remus sinks into it. He's trying to control his expression into something resembling attentive listening, something that seems together and calm and mature. He feels none of these things. He feels like the outcast, lonely child Dumbledore had first met. Even their positions are similar-sitting across from each other at a table, Dumbledore's folded hands and curious eyes.

"Harry was..." Dumbledore says, grounding Remus suddenly in the present, "understandably furious with me." He seems to age as he says the words, his head falling deeper into the cradle of his long fingers.

Remus does not say anything. There are no words left in him. He is hollow. He is acutely aware of the space inside him-the crevices between his ribs, the pull of air in his lungs, each quick beat of his heart. He is empty and numb, and there is a part of him that is raging, howling and sobbing and tearing at his insides, but it is muted now. He knows from experience that that other self, grief, will attack him soon, and he will not be able to escape its crushing weight. But for now, he is still.

"Remus," Dumbledore says, and like McGonagall, he is gentle. He lowers his hands and leans across the space separating them. "What happened?"

Slowly, Remus meets those blue eyes and swallows hard. He is sure that Harry, in all his traumatized fury, had told Dumbledore something. But the headmaster wants the truth, and the reason why Remus is here is to deliver information that Harry could not.

So he will do his duty. He owes everything to Dumbledore, everything. He cannot let him down.

It requires a great deal of focus to keep his voice from shaking, but halfway through the story he abandons the attempt and allows the details to spill into his mind: Harry's terror, Ron's hysterical laughter, Neville's broken nose, the blood brilliant against his pale face, the acrid smell of dark magic in the air, Sirius shouting...

Dumbledore says very little throughout the telling, but he nods encouragingly when Remus hesitates and stands when he begins to describe the battle between Bellatrix and Sirius.

Remus has to pause after describing Sirius's fall, and stares through blurred eyes at his hands, struggling to regain control of his suddenly harsh breathing. At some point during the course of the story, the other, raging part of him had roared a little louder. The numbness is waning slightly.

Dumbledore's hands are on his shoulders, a gentle support that Remus leans into. "Thank you," the older man says thickly, and Remus realizes with a start that Dumbledore is crying as well, "I know that was not easy to speak about so soon."

Remus swallows hard. He can only nod.

Tonks corners him as he is leaving Dumbledore's office.

Remus has been trying to avoid her for weeks now, because he can no longer deny his feelings for her, but she does not deserve someone like him. She is bright and young and hilarious. She does not need to be weighed down by him. He is old and tired and half mad every month. He carries many scars. Sometimes, he forgets how to laugh.

He tries to sidestep her, but she grabs his wrist and spins him around. He is taller, but the force of her stare makes him feel incredibly small.

Her hair is red now, her eyes a muted gray, her furious, worried colors. She is pale and trembling, but her jaw is clenched and her hands are fists on the sleeves of his robes.

He doesn't even know how to begin to say anything to her. He's breaking and he's exhausted, and he has never felt so young and so old at the same time. "Hello?" he tries.

She smiles, just the smallest quirk of her lips, and then her eyes harden and she yanks him down into her arms. He lets out something that might be a yelp or a sob or a protest, he really doesn't know anymore. He collapses against the pure warmth of her, buries his face in her hair and against his will, relaxes.

Tonks kisses him, gently, sweetly on the cheek, and he does not have the energy to protest. "I'm sorry," she says, over and over," her fingers tangle in his hair and she rocks him as he finally, breaks and sobs against her shoulder. "Remus, I am so very, very sorry."

Other members of the Order pass them on their way to Dumbledore's office. Arthur pats Remus on the back. Molly hugs him, and it is uncomfortable and lingers like a mother's would, but he is grateful. Mad Eye claps him on the shoulder and whispers a gruff condolences, which Tonk whispers to him later is actually a very gentle response from the Auror. Even Snape offers him a nod as he passes.

Tonks lingers with him in the hallway, her arm still wrapped securely around his shoulders. "What do you need?" she asks, eventually, looking up at him with eyes that are closer to a blue now. Her hair has faded to her favorite bubble-gum pink.

He needs his best friends not to be dead. He needs to be a student again, when everything was adventure and the world was not quite so dark, and he remembered what it felt like to laugh until his ribs ached.

But she cannot help him with any of those things.

He needs to be alone.

He needs to find Harry.

"I need to be alone," he says. The words are more sharp on his tongue than he wants them to be, but he does not have the heart to apologize at the moment. Still, he adds on a, "please," because Tonks deserves so much better.

She nods, and steps away from him. "Okay," she says, and offers him that crooked smile again. "I'll go."

He feels her absence sharply in the back of his throat, the sting in his eyes, and the hollow of his ribs where her arms had so gently encircled.

But it is better that she leave. He's already given her too much today.

Remus finds Harry in the Owlry.

The owlery is the top room of Hogwart's west tower, and not an easy climb on Remus's battle-worn legs. Still, he knows that no one will be up here at this time of night, so it is the place where Harry is most likely to be.

The young wizard is standing with his bare forearms resting on the cold stone of the balcony, staring off into the night. He does not say a word as Remus approaches and joins him, although Remus is certain that Harry is aware of his presence.

Remus wants to pick the boy up in his arms and hold him. He wants to tell him that everything is going to be okay. He wants to reassure him that there are still good and decent people left in their terribly broken world. But Harry is fifteen, furious, and fragile. He does not want to hear those things, because he knows that they are no longer true. He is too proud to be properly comforted.

He is so much like James it stings.

"I can't believe he's gone," Harry says, finally.

Remus looks down at him.

He's shaking, his eyes are wet and red with tears, and the cuts along his cheeks are still an ugly red. There are shadows of bruises along his jawline and neck. But Harry meets his eyes with something that looks like defiance, but Remus knows is raw, vulnerable pride, and a longing for answers.

He can't give Harry the answer he is looking for. He can't reach into the sky and pull back the veil and say, "Look! Sirius is right there! He's fine!"

Gently, Remus slips an arm around the boy's shoulders and pulls him close. "I know," he whispers through a tight throat, "I can't either."

Harry is tense against his side. "It's my fault," he says, the words sharp and raw and furious. "If I hadn't-"

"No, no, don't you dare do that to yourself, Harry," Remus makes the words stern, fierce, absolute. "It was not your fault. Look at me," he cups the boy's face in his hands, tips his chin up so they are eye to eye. "Sirius was," the past tense catches in his throat and he swallows hard, "so very proud of you, Harry. He loved you more than I think you realize. He was more than happy to die for you."

"I don't want anymore people to die for me!" The words are almost a shout. Harry twists away and walks back to the balcony, shoulders hunched against the night's chill-his profile rigid and haunting.

Sighing, Remus steps up beside him and rests a gentle hand on the boy's head. Harry tenses, but does not pull away. "I know," Remus says quietly, choosing the words carefully, "how much this hurts, Harry, but-"

"Do you?" Harry turns to face him, expression twisted and furious, "because I don't have anyone, everyone who has ever cared about me is dead-"

"No," Remus says softly, "no, they are not. Ron. Hermoine. Neville. Dumbledore. The Weasley's. Mad Eye. Me."

Harry lets out a strangled sob, and Remus opens his arms.

Harry is tall and gangly and all awkward elbows and hot tears and messy hair that feels both like James's and not. Remus holds him close, cradle's his former student against his chest and whispers that he's sorry because he really doesn't know what else to say.

And Harry is saying he's sorry too, and Remus whispers, "No, you have nothing to be sorry for, it's alright, you're going to be fine," until the words taste like their true and they have both stopped crying enough to return to the hospital wing.

Remus dreams of the Mauraders that night.

It's a memory, of when things were simpler, when he was simply an outcast, a sickly werewolf boy who had somehow been lucky enough to find the best friends in the whole world.

They are lounging under a tree by the side of the lake. It's summer-late June. The sky is a perfectly clear blue. The sun is blinding. Remus closes his eyes against it.

"Tired, Moony?"

"Shut up," Remus says absently.

Sirius's laughs. His head is resting on James's stomach. He's twirling his wand absently above his head in casual circles.

Remus lowers his arm. "Padfoot you're making it snow."

James guffaws and shoves Sirius away from him. Peter yelps indignantly,"Hey!"

Remus wakes up with Sirius's laugh still ringing in his mind.

Under the light of the moon, he howls his grief to the stars.