Time – Pink Floyd
Ticking away the moments that make up the dog day
Fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
Digging around on a piece of ground in your home town
Waiting for someone or something to show you the way
Tired of lying in the sunshine
Staying home to watch the rain
You are young and life is long
And there is time to feel your way
And then one day you find
Ten years have gone behind you
No one told you when to run
You missed the starting gun.
So you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
The sun is the same in a relative way but you're older
Shorter of breath and one day closer to death
Every year is getting shorter never seem to find the time
Plans that either come to naught or half a page of scribbled lines
Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way
The time has come the song is over
Thought I had something more to say
Yesterday the sun was shining. It fell between the tree branches, casting patterns on the grass. The grass; soft and green. Too green for this time of year.
Yesterday the wind was cool, calming. The wind took the edge of the unseasonable warmth of the day. Blowing our hair, whirling dandelion seeds across the lawn.
Yesterday we were laughing. James, Lily, Remus and I. We laughed and we played. Still young at heart. Even James and Lily; even though they had a one year old son. We were young.
Yesterday they were alive. All of them. But now; now they are gone. James is gone. And Lily is gone. And Remus; I don't know where Remus is. But he will never come back to me. Not now.
Yesterday…
Sirius awoke with a start, the bitter wind howling through cracks in the stone wall, bringing with it the enticing salty smell of the sea that roared still outside the window. How long the sea had been roaring, out here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by nothing but water. That alone could drive a person mad…the endless water, as far as the horizon and further, smashing endlessly against the rocks, and stinging you to the bone with its harsh, uncaring power. The Dementors just made it worse. Drifting by the cell door, hollow, lifeless, inhuman creatures. Black as the depths of the oceans that bordered their homes – if you could call it a home. Lying back down upon the cold, damp blanket beneath him, Sirius desperately tried to remember the day. He had counted at first, counted down every day, every minute since the end of his life. Then he stopped…he couldn't remember when he had stopped, but he knew he must have done because he could never remember the day any more. It could have been just a week since he was sent here, or a month, or five years, or a hundred. He really did not know. The guard would occasionally leave a newspaper cutting on the wall outside and he would read it, realising with a funny twist in his stomach that his best friend had been dead for a year now, for two years now and that out there somewhere his godson was growing up, and his closest friend was growing apart. The dull echo of footsteps outside the clammy cell indicated the presence of the guard once more, and Sirius could sense the animal excitement of the Dementors, crowding around fresh prey, tiring of draining the energy from such limp, worthless beings as the prison contained. Around him the chill air grew colder still as these grotesque creatures gathered together near to his cell, where the guard was pinning another scrap of newspaper to the wall, the heavy sound of his laboured breathing drifting solidly across the silence. That was what Sirius appreciated most about the early winter mornings – assuming it was still winter, he had difficulty telling with the constantly damp, gloomy weather here – the silence. All through the nights, prisoners would be screaming, high pitched, unearthly sounds that pierced your head and reverberated around the rooms long after they stopped. You could only imagine the dreams, the nightmares that could possibly drag such violent sounds from the mouths of people. Sirius was glad he was saved that horror; his innocence kept him sane, that and his escape to the other world that Padfoot occupied, away from this dungeon, a strangely calm and peaceful place, entirely in his mind and safe from the rotting grips of the Dementors. When he retired to the comfort of his canine mind the days and months slipped by like seconds, so he would wake up with half a year of his time gone and barely any memories of anything that happened; but that never bothered him. It was better that way than to slide helplessly into insanity along with all of the criminals here.
Sirius slowly swung his legs off the side of the hard bed, feeling the twinge in his back that had plagued him for months, years, centuries now due to the chill, wet air. His long, black hair hung in limp curtains about his face and he swept it back with stiff, aching fingers, stretching his arms then raising himself to his feet and moving to the cell door. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the guard hurrying away from the painful presence of the Dementors, but ignored him and turned instead to the newspaper article on the wall opposite. A grey mist hung in the air and he peered through it, struggling to make out the small print until the horde of creatures drifted away again, resuming their torture of the prisoners at the far end of the corridor, still sleeping fitfully, their night hours swamped with horrific nightmares, worsened further by the depressive aura that overflowed the rooms. As Sirius watched the air silently cleared and the writing came into focus, a bold, gaudy headline about some wizarding family that had won an impressive prize and spent their holidays in Egypt. He quickly scanned the smaller articles on the page, ignoring the main story as uninteresting until something amongst the smiling, waving monotone figures caught his attention, drawing a gasp of shock and horror from him. There, sitting huddled on the shoulder of one of the taller boys…it couldn't be, he died weeks ago, months ago, years ago…Sirius looked up at the date printed in the corner of the newspaper. Twelve years ago! He could scarcely comprehend that it had been so long…twelve years…Harry would be at school by now, his third year of school, and Sirius had missed it all: Harry's childhood, finding out he was a wizard, his first day at Hogwarts…all of it. Harry was a young man soon…Sirius shook his head from the daze of memories that came flooding back at the thought of his godson and concentrated on the picture in front of him. There he was, tatty and dusty as he used to get as a rat, scurrying around the hidden passageways of the school, the small, black eyes, the murky brown fur…and a finger missing on his front paw. Sirius didn't remember that at first, then a flash of recollection from the days after his arrest; a finger was all they found. The dirty bugger had faked his own death to put Sirius in jail, scampering away in his vermin form then attaching himself to some wizarding family to escape. His heart fluttering, a tense, frightening excitement bubbling up inside him, Sirius scanned the article, then re-read a few short sections again, his mind working harder than it had done in so many years, centuries, millennia that he had been in here…no, twelve years. Only twelve years. And Pettigrew was out there, free when he should be rotting in this prison where he belonged and Sirius should be outside, with Harry, with his friends…with Remus. Sirius tore his eyes away from the article and collapsed on his hard bed, his mind racing and his stomach clenching at the stirrings of ancient memories, feelings, all of them fighting to be greatest. He could feel the air growing colder as the Dementors drew in hungrily, feeding on the sudden wave of emotion from him, but he closed his eyes and slipped away into Padfoot and was safe.
Smoke, curling up from the red hot bricks that singed the ivy crawling across them. The whole building was blackened, destroyed, dead…just like his friends. A burning rush of anger, then he was there, in the street, that ill-fated street with him standing there, pointing, accusing, blowing himself up along with the whole crowd of Muggles, no, not blowing himself up, blowing them up and running away the coward, and leaving him in prison…
Sirius awoke with a start from the nightmare, the same this night as it had been every night, the whole week since he saw the newspaper article. He lay staring blindly at the dripping stone ceiling, his stomach churning and thoughts flitting wildly through his mind, half formed crazy ways of escaping, of finding Pettigrew, finding Harry, setting things right, saving what little may be left of his former life. There was a dull clink outside, followed by the piercing, dreadful shrieking of a new prisoner being dragged into the compound, his painful, desperate voice echoing around the rooms, stirring the other inmates into a frenzy of mad excitement, the Dementors drawing in close and visibly enjoying the presence of a new victim.
Sirius rose gingerly from his bed, creeping over to the heavy door and leaning his forehead against the chill metal, twisting to see better as the old man was thrown into a nearby cell, the door clanging with a sick finality behind him. As he watched, the old man threw himself back against the bars, his thin frame crashing onto the metal, arms groping frantically for the edge of the guards robe and he was pulled suddenly as the guard jerked the fabric away. With a faint sense of hope Sirius slowly leant back, staring down at the bars of the door and at his own wasted body. He closed his eyes, picturing the ragged, starving body of Padfoot, even skinnier than himself and his heart skipped a beat at the sudden rush of adrenaline, a fully formed plan dancing in his mind.
Just one glimpse, that's all he wanted, a glimpse of the boy so many people had sacrificed so much for; who he had sacrificed so much for: his friends, his lover, his freedom. Sitting there across the road, half silhouetted against the street lamp, he could have believed it was James, the same slim but sturdy frame, the same shock of black hair framing a face that promised to be angular and handsome when the last traces of baby fat disappeared. Losing himself in so many treasured memories, Sirius crept forward, leaving the relative safety of the tangled hedgerow he had encased himself in, edging towards the pavement, eyes never leaving his best friend – no, his godson, Harry his godson. The trees creaked ominously in the wind, causing Padfoot to jump, anticipating at any moment the hated pressure of a wand-tip pressed against his windpipe; harsh, impersonal voices directing his hands and feet to be bound and the dreadful journey back to Azkaban. A sudden rumble, out of nowhere and he looked back to see Harry sprawled on the floor, wand in hand - strong hands with long fingers, just like James - then a flash of purple skidding across the road and a tall, unsteady bus drew to a halt beside the boy. He edged slowly away from the roadside back to the comfort of shadows, fearful that the young man may have seen him, half-illuminated near the pool of light opposite to where he was stood. Sirius waited, watching as Harry stood before the Knight Bus, throwing one last inquiring look at the bushes where he had secreted himself, then with a shake of his head – thick, messy black hair, just like James used to have – boarded and was gone.
Hogsmeade was so familiar and yet so worryingly different as well: the same shops still lined the main street, gas lamps at intervals pouring dull light across the shimmering cobbles, damp with early morning dew, but a tense, scared stillness hung in the air, an almost tangible fear that he recognised immediately, but was all the more terrifying for intruding upon this usually calm, safe village. Creeping through the thick undergrowth at the border between Hogsmeade and the Forbidden Forest, Padfoot paused, scenting the air, shivering even in canine form at the memories of the Dementors, draining all peace, happiness, comfort from the world. He turned his head towards the school, sensing their presence strongest in that direction, confused at first until he remembered his panicked, fitful dreams, desperately hunting Pettigrew down, to here. Something like guilt throbbed in his throat, but distracted by the scent of rabbit and a rustle in the nearby plants his canine instincts took over, driving his human consciousness under a wave of hunger as he sprung at the creature and dragged its broken body away to the secret entrance of the Shrieking Shack.
Damn! that had been too close. Sirius had wanted too badly to find Pettigrew, to hunt him down, force him to confess, to kill him that he had just stupidly thrown all caution to the wind in actually going into the school. Did he really think the Fat Lady would just let him stroll into his old common room, especially with everyone thinking…thinking what they did about him. He smashed a fist against the crumbling plaster wall of the Shack barely registering the throb of pain that coursed through his arm, not noticing at all the thin trickle of crimson that dripped from his knuckles, splashing amongst the decades of dust and grime that coated the rotting floorboards beneath his feet. Now they all knew that he was here, why had he been so damned stupid? Sirius spent a goodly while swearing to himself and inflicting more damage upon himself than the walls and tables he attempted to mutilate in self-chastisement. Collapsing in a cloud of dirt, he coughed into the ragged sleeve of his prison garments, hands shaking and stomach tight not simply with hunger, but anger and sorrow, and something else intangible at the edge of his mind. His head had been reeling for days and he put it down to a poor diet and the stress of being close, yet never close enough, to his prey, locked away safely in that castle; but there was another feeling, long downtrodden that was now creeping again through his veins, that thrilled him and scared him at the same time, but as yet was horribly nameless.
He had to get out of the Shack, it was driving him crazy…well, even more crazy than he already felt. It reminded him too much of the past, wild, happy times with nothing to worry about beyond homework, detention and that exhilarating, terrifying creature that was more than his best friend, his lover at every full moon; a dark, passionate, feral beast; power, danger, intensity forced upon the strange, quiet, unassuming young boy they had all taken for granted so many years before discovering his secret. Sirius realised with a jolt why this place was torturing him so much and felt ridiculous for not having known what coming back here would do to him, this place that had Remus Lupin imbedded in every wall, floorboard, shred of curtain, every mote of dust that seemed to scream out his presence now that Sirius knew what he was looking for. Shrugging off his clothes and his human skin quickly after that, Sirius ran to the door, kicking it open and Padfoot squirmed through the trapdoor, racing along the low, earthy corridor and out into the sharp, icy air of a wintry midnight. Panting, Padfoot shook his head, trying to dislodge the human thoughts and feelings that overwhelmed his basic animal instincts, then stretched out his muscles, bounding away into the forest, careful to keep far enough away from the tree-line to be hidden, but staying as close as he dared to watch the school with pained, eager eyes. Padfoot halted suddenly, the mud skidding beneath his paws, a dangerously familiar scent drifting on the wind; dark and mellow, a waver of chocolate mixed with smoky wool and the thick, heady scent of fellow canine.
Moony was here.
The night had been hurried, tangled, confused, whole swathes of time fleeting by and the smallest moments standing out in sharp, distinct detail; the bitter tang of rodent scurrying through the wet grass; the copper musk of blood in his mouth as he dragged the tall, red-haired boy through the cold, earthy tunnels into the Shack, hating his sharp teeth in innocent flesh, but so desperate to keep that filthy traitor from escaping his reach; the wild tug at his heart as a slender, panicked, desperate young man burst through the door, black hair wild about his hardening features, so like it used to be, those frightening, blissful mornings after the full moon – but this wasn't his childhood; Sirius scolded himself tearing his mind away from the past and staring into the hurt, angry, bewildered eyes of his godson.
The mouldering door burst from its hinges, stale air pouring into the room and flowing with it, groping tantalisingly at his nostrils, sending his head reeling and his heart hammering so that it might burst, that achingly familiar and horribly distant scent that he had caught ever so briefly those few days ago. Sirius squeezed his eyes shut, hating to not look, but hating to look upon a once treasured face and see the loathing that he knew must be there, loathing at the memory of what everyone believed he had done. If he could just hold onto his own memory of that face, the soft brown eyes, the teasing, crooked smile, a slow blush creeping along rounded cheeks as Sirius dipped his head close for another quick, stolen kiss – no! He couldn't think about that, not now, not as he wavered on the precipice of losing the last person dear to him in the world. Ragged breaths tearing in his chest, Sirius forced his eyes open, heart skipping painfully as he took in tangled grey hair, weary, stooped shoulders, musty, faded robes, traces of worry lines and fear and grief scarring once gentle features. Then Remus turned to face him, mouth forming words he was deaf to, as those calm brown eyes met his own and, beneath more than a decade of anger and despair, shone a hidden longing, raw, feral, hurriedly pushed away as a twist of confusion and something else - pity? - clouded over them. His subconscious must have heard words, because he heard himself forming answers, surprised at the amount of hate that seemed to linger in his voice, even when directed towards the children, even towards his calm, gentle, broken lover – not lover, not anymore, not ever again. Sirius wondered at how he kept from collapsing at these thoughts, kept the tears locked away inside him, and barely registered the passing of events, though he blearily registered how his years of strict, proper upbringing held his voice steady, made the words flow and his arms move and his feet walk along, beside Harry, yes Harry was there and they talked. He later searched his memory and found every word, every action of the evening imprinted exactly on his mind, but at the time it felt like a blurred, surreal waking dream, nothing quite within his grasp. And always, that scent, filling every fibre of his being, fogging his senses and sending flickers of lightning through his stomach and fingertips, that longed to just reach out and touch him, so close, but too far away now, too far away to ever reach again.
He knew; before the clouds even parted he knew. He could sense in the air the wide, round glow of the silvery orb hanging over their heads; could hear, almost feel the tightening of sinews, the cracking of bones and muscle; he could taste on the air the subtle shift from mostly human to all canine, all wolf; dark, dangerous, thrilling even as a part of his mind screamed out for the children, who he quickly pushed aside, then crouched, leaping towards the shaking beast even as it turned towards the sound of a slight cry from the youngsters. Sirius desperately cleared his mind, loosing all emotion and poured his body into Padfoot's, the heavy, intoxicating smell of wolf overtaking his fresh dog-senses, as a solid wall of muscle and fur slammed into him, sending him whirling across the long, damp grass. A long, low growl shuddered through the wolf's body as it turned from his limp form, stalking towards the children and Padfoot twisted violently, dazed momentarily at the excess of limbs he seemed to have, then orientated himself onto the frightened calls of the youngsters, flinging his body with all his strength. He thudded dully against the wolf again, digging his sharp claws deep into taut muscle, wrapping his strong jaws against what he vaguely knew was a far stronger, much fiercer muzzle, but the surprise of his attack confused the wolf for a moment and all thoughts of the children abandoned. The two beasts thrashed, rolling down the sloped grass to the edge of the forest, landing panting under the trees, before the wolf launched into another attack, frenzied, wild, still horribly exhilarating beneath it all. Sirius tried, but failed, to push away the last of these too human thoughts and struck back with teeth and claws and desperate fury, not against the dark creature, but at against everything else and craving this long waited chance to lash out and hurt back. He would hate himself for it later, but there was no way to turn back now and he dug in teeth, tasting the sweet, copper flow of blood and lost himself to the fight.
N.B. This is where it changes totally from the real storyline, not that it has been particularly well followed up until now.
Remus awoke, head pounding, limbs dull and heavy from the transformation and, wincing at the memory, from the fight: wild, reckless, beyond any that he had ever had with Sirius. That memory brought another wince, within him, tugging at his heart that he thought he had stilled years ago, but was crying out with fresh wants, needs as the image of his old lover's face arose in his mind, tainted with the years in Azkaban, with sorrow, hurt, regret, despair, so many painful feelings that he longed to wipe away with touches and kisses. Another hazy memory drifted into view and he lurched from his bed, unheeding of the objecting grate of his joints, and tugged on a robe, hands trembling so much it took him three tried to get the buttons fastened. Swinging the door wide, he hurried for the hospital wing, head pounding and muscles tight in protest, but mind clear on the conversation yesterday, no this morning; the early hours after the full moon and sunk from view and his wolfsbane potion had been administered, while he lay half asleep letting words flow around him. Snape, Cornelius Fudge, the Dementors: this had brought him shakily to consciousness as he listened in horror to the plans to send Sirius back to Azkaban until they figured out the truth of what had really happened that fateful day twelve years ago. Remus had struggled to speak, to object, surely the fact that Peter Pettigrew still lived, that he had spent all those long years hiding out as a rat, that he ran from Sirius now, afraid of the truth that would be found out, that was proof enough. Surely.
Sirius' heart trembled as footsteps drew closer to the room; soft, tentative footsteps accompanied by a low voice that quavered with every muttered syllable; the familiar, friendly, wanted, dreaded scent filling his nostrils, clouding his mind with anticipation, eagerness, sorrow – a multitude of emotions to great to bear that he felt his heart would snap.
McGonagall opened the door, still whispering to the person accompanying her, and then he walked in.
Last night Sirius had been too dazed, overwhelmed by everything that had happened to truly appreciate meeting his friend, his lover, his ex-lover once again, like it really was just a maddening dream, like so many he had had over the years. But here, now, the late morning light streaming through the wide windows and illuminating the lines etched across his face, the thin, greying hair tumbling over his forehead and curling around his ears, worn-out robes trailing out behind him as he strode purposefully across the room, almost entirely concealing the knots of pain in his limbs, thin lines of newly-scarred skin stretching over the curve of neck from – last night – Sirius felt truly awake for the first time in twelve long years. His hands clenched at his sides, crumpling the starched sheets with a soft rustling that seemed to him to echo through the oppressive silence as Sirius watched the man nearing him with a battle of a hundred emotions fighting in his eyes. He reached the foot of Sirius' bed and hovered, uncertainty staining the air around him; raising his tired eyes he managed a whispered Sirius before the door of the hospital wing opened once more with a harsh crash and three men strode into the room: one shorter, rounded, hands toying nervously with his much-favoured lime green bowler hat, one tall, gaunt, robed in jet black, venomous eyes piercing from beneath a curtain of dark greasy hair and the last, curly white beard tucked into his belt, purple cloak fluttering behind him, clever eyes benevolent behind half-moon glasses.
The hope that rose unexpectedly in Sirius' chest was immediately choked as a terribly familiar sensation swept into the room; cold, dank, oppressive, draining the light and warmth from the room, sending unchecked shivers down the spines of all there. Two Dementors glided into the room, their breaths rattling unseen teeth, dragging between them a struggling figure clothed in dusty, ragged garments, long unkempt hair flapping as he shook, folds of skin hanging over his loose collar, dirty fingernails clenched into equally dirty palms. Peter Pettigrew glared around the room, his gaze weak from the presence of his guards, but filled with loathing still as he took in his companions. His gaze landed last on Sirius, who returned the look with equal loathing, and a lot more presence and strength in his eyes; he had formed as close to immunity to the Dementors as was possible and the knowledge of his innocence helped shield him from a lot of their potency, especially as most of it was now aimed at the pathetic, squirming rodent in their 'care'. Dumbledore waved a hand delicately, indicating them all to sit, and a host of chairs were pulled up around the bed where Sirius still lay under strict instructions from Madam Pomfrey to remain there until she deigned he was well enough to leave. Sirius was deaf to the speech Dumbledore was now making, his gaze fixed on the man sitting at the foot of his bed, who had not made eye-contact with him since what Sirius now thought to be the imagined whisper of his name. His concentration was broken as he realised Dumbledore was addressing him directly and five pairs of expectant eyes stared at him, only one person still avoiding looking his way.
"Would you care to tell us everything that happened? Tonight, and that night twelve years ago." Blue eyes sparkled at him, a ghost of a smile playing on pale lips and Sirius knew then that Dumbledore trusted him, believed in him like no one had done for so long. Drawing a deep breath, steadying his nerves, he spoke. And they listened, the six of them, the Dementors no more than a chill in the air watching over the rat, who sat manacled and terrified between Severus and Cornelius. He spoke for what felt like hours, low, monotonous, avoiding the urge to embellish with emotion, knowing the truth was what they needed.
The wooden chair was hard and uncomfortable beneath him, metals bands hanging loosely at the arms that sent slight shivers through his body, though they remained loose throughout the questioning. Sirius felt a hundred pairs of eyes boring into him, faces indistinct in the sea of people that surrounded him, listening, waiting, judging. His gaze swept the room again as he coughed, trying to clear his throat, answer the sharp, rapid questions being fired at him and for a third time he felt a jolt in his stomach as something familiar called out to him from the crowds of nameless witches and wizards. Coughing again, Sirius managed to croak out an answer and at a nod from one of the assembled Wizengamot, a junior witch ran up to him with a goblet of water, flashed him a bright, reassuring smile, before scurrying back to the benches rising in front of him. The wizard seated in the centre of the front row, Sirius had been told his name but immediately forgot it, raised an eyebrow at the answer and turned to whisper with the two wizards either side of him. Standing, he announced in a loud clear voice to the assembly: "The Wizengamot will adjourn to discuss this case further. We will reconvene in fifteen minutes to announce our verdict." At these last few words, the aged wizard looked directly at Sirius, an unfathomable look in his dark eyes, then shot his gaze across the room to where Pettigrew stood, chained and caged at one side of the courtroom, seemingly already a prisoner, despite the muttered doubts that trickled through the room. So many witches and wizards still held firm to the belief that it was Sirius who had handed his best friends over to the Dark Lord, that he had murdered – well, that was impossible to believe now, with Pettigrew standing in the very same room as them, but excuses were formulated involving heroic escapes and twelve years of self-imposed exile for fear that Sirius would return to finish Peter off, as he so nearly had done just last week. Sensing motion to one side, Sirius turned to see Harry, Hermione and Ron walking towards him, looking pale but smiling confidently, speaking words of comfort and hope that he registered as simply a soothing presence. That was all that mattered to him, that they were here, supporting him, believing him.
Hermione let out a strangled shriek and Harry launched himself at his godfather, hugging him as if his life depended on it, determined not to let go of the last member of his family, craving the love and attention that had been so lacking in his upbringing with the Dursleys. Sirius wrapped his arms around the young man's shoulders, his stunned expression slowly breaking into a wide grin as the news settled in: he was free. A free man. For the first time in twelve years he laughed, a genuine, carefree impassioned laugh that rang around the courtroom, echoing from the vaulted ceiling and infecting all the people seated on the raised wooden benches around them. One by one the witches and wizards began to laugh themselves, softer, more surprised laughter than Sirius', that quickly died away as they filed out of the room and back to their business; but the black-haired man's laughter filled the corridors, floating out after them, joined by that of his godson. Sirius let go of Harry and stepped back to gaze at all three of the youngsters who had helped save his life, beaming up at him.
"Thank you…oh god, thank you all so much!" He shook their hands, one by one, stuttering thanks over and again, until Hermione gave a discrete cough and gestured to the far corner of the room. Sirius turned in surprise, thinking that the courtroom had emptied, but sat quietly in the corner, blending into the background as he had always done, sat the reason Sirius had felt a faint memory tugging at his senses all the while through the trial. Hermione took Harry and Ron's hands and led them quietly out of the room, leaving Sirius alone with his greatest fear, his greatest hope, the one thing that had kept him sane all those years in Azkaban.
"Sirius I…"
"Don't talk." Sirius paused, unsure for the first time in his life of how to talk to his gentle, good-mannered friend, then threw caution aside and leapt up the steps, pulling Remus to his feet and embracing him desperately.
"God I missed you." Sirius laughed at their unison statements, feeling Remus' warm breath on his neck, drinking in the solidity of his presence, so longed for all the years. He shivered at the familiar touch of Remus' hands on the small of his back, pressing their bodies close together. Suddenly, with an odd sensation of utter loss, Remus pulled away from him and glared up into his silver eyes with more anger than Sirius had seen in his life.
"Why…why the fuck didn't you tell me!"
Sirius gaped astonished at his friend, his lover, stunned at not only the question, but the breakdown of the polite, well spoken manners that had never before left Remus. Even more amazing, and worrying, were the silent tears that streamed down Remus' face.
"I spent all those years hating myself for ever loving you, because I thought you had killed our best friends! No don't be stupid," Remus seemed to be talking to himself, struggling with some inner argument. "You never believed that, but everyone else did, and what was I supposed to think? Hell, Sirius, I was so scared that it was true, even though I knew it couldn't be; heaven's sake, I was so confused…I still am Sirius."
"You thought…you thought that I killed them?"
"Of course not!" Remus stepped back in shock, staring with wide eyes at Sirius' frowning face. "I don't know…Sirius…" With a frustrated groan, Remus threw himself down on the wooden bench, burying his head in his hands, his shoulders trembling with restrained annoyance and worry. He breathed in deeply, a long shaky breath that calmed him, then looked back up at the tall man beside him. "I never stopped believing in you, no matter what people said, not in my heart…"
"Remus." He whispered this, savouring the sound of the name in his mouth, eyelids fluttering shut as he walled up a million unbidden thoughts and memories that threatened to flood his mind to incomprehensibility. "Remus," he repeated with more force, opening his eyes, extending a hand to the man seated before him, who took it immediately with his own soft, warm hand, long fingers caressing the palm, a worried, hesitant smile offered up. Sirius drew Remus to his feet, gazing up, with the slight shock he always felt at the realisation that Remus was taller when he always seemed so small and contained, and placed his hands lightly on the man's firm chest, tracing lazy patterns with his fingertips. "So much has changed-" he began a pre-planned speech, knowing there was a lot that had to be said, had to be sorted out between them; twelve years of doubt, confusion, mistrust could not vanish overnight. But he never got further than those four words, as Remus leaned down and silently captured his mouth with his own moist, inviting lips, questioning at first but then eager and insistent as Sirius melted into the touch. These feelings didn't vanish overnight: it took no more than a few seconds.
Sirius stared up at the door in front of him, murky grey light illuminating peeling paint and the surrounding mossy brickwork, thick, tangled weeds choking the short front path, the gate hanging from one hinge. He hated the place, had done for so many years, even before running away; it was too large, unfriendly and impersonal, a grand homage to the family's ancestry, but indifferent to the new, young generations. Even Regulus had disliked living there, spoiled and indulged though he had been. Remus placed a hand gently on his shoulder, smiling slightly, glancing up at the tall Georgian building.
"We don't have to do this. I'm sure we can find another house somewhere…" Sirius nearly flinched at this comment, but held his shoulders straight, following the gaze up to his childhood home, steadying his resolve.
"I'm too old to be scared of a house Remus. I want to do this, need to; so I know…" He trailed off here, but Remus knew what he meant and tightened his grip across the older man's shoulders, leaning his cheek softly against Sirius' thick hair. They stood for a while, staring up at the house and though Sirius pretended to be simply thinking, remembering, Remus realised he was steeling himself to enter this place that had caused him endless pain and grief as a boy.
A car door slammed somewhere down the street, breaking Sirius out of his reverie and he ducked his head from Remus gaze, blushing slightly and stepped forward, through the broken gate, crushing weeds and litter beneath his feet, then pushed open the heavy front door. With an almost imperceptible hesitation, that Remus only caught because he was looking for it, Sirius entered the house and turned, beckoning to his friend to follow. All this took less than ten seconds, yet somehow Sirius felt that inside he had aged decades, the small part of his mind that still dreaded his family, his past, having finally caught up with his middle-aged body.
It took several weeks for them to clear the house out enough for it be even liveable, there were centuries of horded 'treasures'; sinister magical trinkets, trophies and awards dull with grime, old silverware blackening from age. As well as Harry, Ron and Hermione who showed up as soon as school finished, old school-friends and members of the original Order took it in turns to stay for a few days and assist Sirius and Remus with the task; witches and wizards who had spent the last decade torn between their trust in friendship and what had seemed like irrefutable evidence. Sirius was glad for the gesture, glad they too seemed to believe his innocence, but it felt forced and shallow at times and he realised that, though Remus had never given up his hope, so many people had and it would take a lot more work to get them back on his side completely. Instead of dwelling on these thoughts, Sirius threw himself into the job of destroying every trace of his past that he could, gutting the rooms right down to bare floorboards and what he couldn't sell to reputable businesses for a fair price was unwillingly pawned in Knockturn Alley. Remus was hesitant about selling off every last piece of Sirius' childhood, sincerely believing there must be some part of his life that should be kept intact, but Sirius was close to ruthless with his attack on the house. At first their rampage was hindered by Kreacher, the squat, aging house-elf that belonged to Grimmauld Place, but at Hermione's almost desperate pleading Sirius tried his best to act at least civil towards the elf, who in turn kept a respectable distance for the first week. However, halfway through the second week Ron unearthed an ostentatious gold leaf goblet from a heavy mahogany wardrobe in an upstairs bedroom that Kreacher shrieked to have kept; Hermione, taking pity on the elf's distress, handed it to him with a friendly smile and a few calm words of comfort, and this simple action seemed to have a drastic effect on Kreacher's attitude towards the whole household. He was gentler, almost kind at moments, and far more agreeable to requests made of him, though he still treated Sirius with grudging respect and never let himself remain too long alone with the man.
Sirius awoke with a start, cold sweat trickling down his forehead and the back of his neck, hands trembling, his legs caught up in the cotton sheets that had been twisted down to his waist, leaving the cool summer air biting at his suddenly sensitive skin. His hands groped sideways, expecting to meet the reassuring warmth of another body next to his, but grasped only empty air, the other side of the bed already cold from a long absence.
"Remus." Sirius barely managed to call out at first, throat tight, disturbing images still flashing behind his eyes every time he blinked, a dizzying churning in his stomach.
"Remus!" Louder this time, but not loud enough it seemed, the whole house felt quiet, empty, dead once more, sunk back into abandoned decay that –
These macabre thoughts were ripped from Sirius mind as the door swung open and a tall man staggered in, dressing gown tied loosely about his hips, leaving his chest bare, hair rumpled and a large tray held in his heads. This he deposited quickly on the bedside table, before reaching out for Sirius, eyes worried, mouth parted in sleepy surprise.
"What's wrong, what happened? Sirius? Pads, come one what's wrong?" Remus jumped slightly as a strong hand clenched tightly onto his own, but he griped it back, caressing the clammy skin with his thumb, seating himself on the edge of the bed and pulling Sirius closer.
"I…it was…" Sirius blinked and let out a stifled laugh, peering up at Remus from beneath long, dark lashes. "I had a nightmare." Sirius blushed at these words, feeling childish and useless, turning away, but Remus pulled him back into a warm embrace, hands pressing into the small of Sirius' back, head rested on his shoulders as he muttered into his ear.
"It's okay, hey, don't be embarrassed. It's fine. I'm surprised you don't have them every night, after what you've been throu-" Remus stopped his sentence short, hugging Sirius tighter, burying his nose into the long curls clustered at Sirius' neck, whispering I'm sorry into the base of his throat. Sirius twisted slightly, drawing a shuddering breath then pressing a kiss to Remus' neck before pulling away slightly and frowning at the tray on the bedside table. Remus looked across at it and laughed, drawing his legs up onto the bed to wrap his arms around his knees. "I made you breakfast in bed."
"I'm not that hungry." At these words Remus threw a confused look at Sirius who raised an eyebrow, a slow grin forming on mischievous lips. "At least, not for food…"
"You just had a nightmare."
"And I need you to cheer me up." Remus laughed again, sliding his hand around Sirius still too thin waist and pulling them together.
"That's the worst line I've ever heard." He dipped his head down, brushing his lips softly across Sirius' that curved into another teasing smile.
"But it's working. Right?" Another kiss, deeper, that lingered moments until Remus pulled away with a sigh and grinned down at Sirius.
"It's simply" a kiss "your charming" another kiss "personality." Sirius chuckled again, leaning back onto the bed and pulling Remus down after him, locking their lips again in a forceful, urgent kiss, his tongue grazing across Remus' teeth, their hot breathe mingling in their mouths. Their legs entwined, tugging the already dishevelled sheets thrown across the foot of the bed, their hips pressed comfortably together, tingles shooting through Sirius' thighs and chest, meeting in a pulsing heat in the centre. He trailed his hands down Remus sides, pausing briefly at a sensitive spot just below his lover's ribs, that coaxed a low moan in the younger man's throat, then moved further down, tugging at the knot in the dressing gown's ties. Long fingers curled around the collar of the velvet gown, sliding the fabric over warm, rough skin, exposing pale thin scars that traced random patterns across shoulders and chest. Sirius gazed at these in fascination, as he had done so many times before, wondering again at the fierce, hidden strength of his lover, tucked away beneath a façade of calm, polite propriety, that he now knew was nothing like the reality of this man. He felt his heart quicken, not simply from the heated touch of hands running down his back, but also from the flashing images of his nightmare that now danced in his mind at the sight of these old wounds: images of Remus hurt, broken, dead; cut down by Death Eaters as he fought to save Sirius' life…he drew in a sharp breath, pushing these pictures to the back of his thoughts, pulling Remus even tighter to him, desperate to feel their bodies slick and hot against each other, to have his pulse race at the caress of long fingers and a clever mouth, to remind himself that they were together again, whole and fulfilled by the other's body and love.
The velvet gown dropped to the floor and Sirius kicked the edges of the sheet away, leaving their naked bodies pressed insistently together, lightning coursing through their veins at passionate kisses that were scattered across cheeks and necks. Sirius tipped his body slightly, urging the two of them to roll over, but Remus grinned into the base of his throat and pushed back, his strong arms and thighs pinning Sirius thoroughly to the bed; Sirius dug his blunt fingers sharply into Remus' broad back, gasping at the frisson of liquid heat that sparked between his legs, locking his ankles behind Remus' legs to keep them pressed against one another. He trailed a hand across Remus' back, down the sharp edge of his hip and slid his fingers between their bodies, feeling their hearts' pounding race simultaneously in their chests, but Remus gave a small gasp and caught Sirius' hand away, wrapping his long fingers around both his wrists and holding them fast above his head, pressed firmly into the downy pillow. With a low moan of objection, Sirius tugged his arms down, wriggling his hips enticingly at the same time, but Remus fastened his grip, slipping his own hand between their bodies and pushing the tip of a slender finger down onto a sensitive spot just below Sirius' navel, drawing another moan from his lover's throat, different; longer, deep and encouraging. Remus smiled, sliding his hand lower, fingers dancing lightly, teasingly across Sirius' pleading hardness that throbbed beneath the touch. Remus stifled his own moan, feeling his body react to the hot contact of Sirius' against his hand, loosening his grip and trembling as Sirius clenched his fists once more into his back. Remus stroked his fingers more urgently along Sirius' firm length, rocking his hips in time to the rhythm that Sirius matched with his own hungry motions, breath moist on his neck as he trailed desperate, passionate kisses over the younger man's throat. Sirius tipped his hips again, with no resistance from Remus this time as they rolled over, his knees braced against Remus' hips, their rhythm becoming faster, deeper. Feeling the pressure of fervour building up low in his stomach, Sirius raised his head, capturing Remus' mouth with his own, their tongues slick and hot, mirroring the tangle of their bodies further down. Their breaths hitched, almost simultaneously, a shiver sparking between their sweaty skins, their muscles tensing underneath, drawing them fiercely together. Remus let out a sharp cry, releasing in waves of pleasure, his nails scraping across the taut muscles beneath his hand, sending Sirius over the edge seconds later with a final thrust of his hand, their bodies arching against each other, before collapsing onto the damp, tangled sheets. Sirius clenched his fists still around Remus' now limp body, his head buried in the crook of his warm, sweaty neck, savouring the salty scent of his skin, the comforting rise and fall of the young man's chest in unison with his own. He felt Remus turn slightly, beneath him and raised his head weakly, looking questioningly at his lover.
"I think we missed breakfast," Remus muttered faintly, gesturing across to the tray on the bedside table, a plate of toast now lying cold and forlorn between jars of jam. Sirius simply smiled, resting his head on Remus' chest again and hugging him closer, listening and waiting until gentle snores filled the room, then letting himself succumb to slumber as well.
Harry watched as his godfather and ex-teacher drifted lazily around the kitchen preparing breakfast, frowning in slight confusion at the secretive smiles and brief, almost trembling contact they exchanged as they wove between each other's paths, a perfectly synchronised dance of porridge making. He glanced over at Ron, who seemed quietly oblivious to the fact that anything was different with the two older men and Harry suddenly thought that maybe he was just imagining the whole thing and that they were acting perfectly normally, until he caught the expression on Hermione's face as she too followed their movements: relief, happiness and just a trace of smugness, and he knew that something was definitely amiss.
He looked back at Sirius and Remus who had now seated themselves close together at the opposite end of the table to the three of them, watching carefully for any sign of what the hell was going on; as far as could tell, though, they were just sitting there eating breakfast and he turned quickly to Hermione, then back again to catch sight of something strange: Remus lifted the sugar bowl and passed it across the Sirius and, as he took it, their fingers touched for a split second: but in that split second, both men glanced up at each other, slow, sweet smiles creeping over their faces and Sirius purposefully shifted his hand so that their fingers brushed closer again, their breakfast all of forgotten in a moment that felt as if it had lasted for hours.
Frowning deeper still, Harry turned back then, catching Hermione's gaze, raised his eyebrows quizzically, but she just smiled smugly and shook her head, muttering under her breath something about 'boys', 'unobservant' and 'typical'. Harry shrugged and returned to his cereal, making a mental note to question the men about it later.