The night is dark, dark and empty, a black, gaping maw. A hole that takes in everything; hopes, dreams, ambitions, love. People. Even the moon has hidden away in shame, buried herself in some cloudy grave, never to appear again. Trees hang dead, loose and limp like old and forgotten washing. Owls cry, their shrieks amplified by the feverish silence.
An empty London street, quiet but for some faraway sounds of music, rows of houses with unlighted windows and dirty, wet pavement. Rain falls, beating against the glass with the incessant fury of an angered demon. People are hiding under their blankets this night, away from the lightning that tears at the sky, crazed and dagger-sharp. Away from the thunder. Those who can, sleep fitfully, those who cannot only pretend to do so, persuading themselves, coaxing fearful souls to calm, to forget the storm and the blackness outside.
One person is not trying to sleep, though. A man with golden hair touched by grey at the temples, with eyes of sadness and deep lines that mar his once handsome face. There is weariness in those eyes, in the thin line of his pale lips, in his very posture. Tired. Tired of life, of fighting, of being useless and weak. Weak. He is weak, always has been. Unlike James and Sirius, he never had that hunger for life, for excitement, for adventure. Quiet, rational Remus. It was them, Sirius more often than James, who would pull him out of his chair, toss his book aside and push him towards the portrait.
Now, neither James nor Sirius are here. There is no-one to make him do things, no-one to make him... live. He tried scolding himself for this grey lethargy, but failed every time. With Sirius' death, the last of his light had gone out of him, a light that had never burnt brightly, that was never more than the light of a dying candle. He had always been pale next to the loud James and Sirius. Hardly anyone noticed him next to them, and it had suited him just fine. They had put colour in his life, made it bright with jokes, laughter and adventures. Life was a fountain in those two, a stream in Remus. But during those years, they had lent some of that life to him. After the Potters' deaths and Sirius' disappearance, he tried, desperately, to cling onto that, but it all faded away, escaped his grasp like water. A year, and he barely spoke, spending his time burying himself in books, trying to escape the grim reality. Because if he did not, panic formed in his throat, stone-cold. He feared being alone, he was terrified of accepting that his best friends were gone.
He remembers how Sirius once pulled him close, just after a transformation, held him like a mother holds a child, watching him as he slept the red-hot pain off. Now, almost twenty years later, Remus wants to feel those arms around him once more, to be held and loved. Love. All his life he yearned for it, for a few caring words and a warm embrace. But all he had known was the clammy fear and putrid shame of his parents. Until Hogwarts, until his friends. James and Sirius gave him that love, a friends' love that was unconditional, whole and innocent. They laughed about his condition, made
it seem as if he was suffering from a minor cold. They comforted him when he needed it, without treating him like an invalid.
Cold. He feels cold. Years of meaningless work, of poverty, of jeers and humiliation. Years of memories, of blunt hatred aimed at no-one and everyone. At Sirius, for not being here, at James, for dying, at the god-damn curse that made him what he is. At himself, for being to weak to fight it, for not having Sirius' desire to live. For years, long, bleak years that blurred one into another, all he had was that vague hatred, as weak and pale as he himself is. Perhaps that was what had held him together then. Masochistically, he looked – he still does - at old photos, reminding himself of James, of Sirius, of Lily. Opening old wounds with a sharp knife.
James and Lily, lounging beneath an oak during a visit to Hogwarts, laughing at something. A picnic basket lies forgotten some feet away, cloaks are unbuttoned and creased. It is spring, bright and vivid, sunlight streaming through the emerald plumage of the tree like liquid gold. They are in love, and they are young. Full of hopes, dreams, or bright prospects. Lily's hand rests on her rounded stomach. They died a year later.
Another one of Sirius, this time during Christmas. He is sitting before a fireplace, legs curled beneath him, a fleece blanket pulled around his shoulders. He is drowsy, heavy and tired after Christmas dinner. His lovely face is serene for once, not mischievous. Long-fingered hands hug a fat, glossy cat that is sleeping on his knees. Glitter is still visible in his black hair, silver stars that cling to the unruly black fringe. He sees the camera, smiles a little, too sleepy to react.
The four of them next. It is Sirius' birthday party, just after all the guests have left. James is holding a bottle of ale, grinning as he watches Sirius open a present. Lily holds a glass of lemonade, bulging stomach obvious under the thin, green dress that contrasts beautifully to her red hair. She glows with that warm, ethereal light of maternity. Sirius, tousled and tired-looked and more than a little drunk, pulls the present out. It is painting of them all on the night of their graduation, in a thick, wooden frame. Remus had asked a Muggle acquaintance to paint it from a photograph he had found. Sirius looks up, eyes shining with a genuine gratitude, gestures at Peter to drop the camera and look at the present.
There are hundreds of photos in Remus' albums, hundreds of memories he treasures like jewels. From first year to the day before the Potters died, he has it all, methodically arranged and labelled. Except those that have Peter on them – those he threw away without a second thought, grateful that there were only a handful of those. Precious years, years he cannot let himself forget, despite the fact that every single one of those memories shatters his heart. Every time.
There is another memory, one he has no photos of. Seventh year, Griffindor tower, Christmas. James and Lily had gone to stay at the Potters', Peter was in the library. Their first kiss – Remus still cannot remember how it happened – Sirius' warm mouth pressed against his, all chocolate and mint and intoxicating softness. Remus' head spinning, mind as blank as a sheet of white paper, all thoughts fleeing for one never-ending moment. Sirius' hands cradling his face as he continues to kiss him, tongue caressing the inside of his mouth. Without thinking – that would come later – Remus kissed him back, with an ardour he had never shown before. They surface for air, gasping for breath, smiling drunkenly, noses touching as Remus tries to mutter some sort of explanation. Except the next moment all he is aware of is Sirius' mouth claiming his for its own.
They had never told the others, even though James probably knew everything. Remus simply did not want anyone else to know, for those rare moments of intimacy were too precious to share with anyone but Sirius. Sunlit mornings in Sirius' little, neat apartment, when they would bury themselves in the pillows and blankets, sometimes talking, sometimes lying in comfortable silence. Remus once woke up before sunrise, and spent hours watching Sirius sleep. He looked younger when asleep, innocent and calm, the weight of the past months, of the endless battles against Voldemort leaving his face for a while. Beautiful, Sirius always has been. Remus drank than beauty thirstily, etching each feature, each curl into his mind, afraid of forgetting that lovely face the way it was that particular morning, swathed in pale sunlight, a ghost of a smile tugging at those kiss-swollen lips.
Sirius was so different when he returned from Azkaban. His features were sharp and harsh, and his smiles became grimaces of pain and endless suffering. The grey in his eyes was no longer silver, but cold, hard iron. It had been painful to look at him, at first. It hurt Remus to see his friend and lover so changed, so tortured. But somewhere deep inside, the old Sirius still lived, somewhere, his haughty grins and bark-like daughter still held true.
They had had little time alone during those three or so years. Snatched kisses when they were alone in the headquarters, a few hours' time in Sirius' narrow bed. It was under Remus' care that Sirius started to recover his old self. He began to laugh again, to joke. A little warmth returned to his eyes, and he was no longer painfully thin. But he was still not the same Sirius – once in a while, that overwhelming look of despair would pass across his face. It was a dagger to Remus' heart, each and every time.
And then he was gone again, snatched away from Remus so suddenly. His days become lonely once more, his bed cold. At times, Remus wanted to howl in despair, to scream at the night until he lost his voice. And he did just that, the first night. Screamed until he was hoarse, until his throat felt raw. He fell asleep in tears, curled up in Sirius' bed, amongst the pillows that still smelled of Sirius' shampoo. He dreamt of Sirius, of the young, beautiful Sirius. The one full of laughter, full of life, not the broken, tortured creature Azkaban had turned him into.
The man in the armchair lowers the album. He does not cry – he has no tears left. But the pain, the raw, scorching pain has not diminished over the years. James, Lily, Sirius. He lost of all them, lost the only people he ever loved, the only people who ever loved him. More than that, however, with them he lost the will to live. All he has now are the memories, memories of James and Lily, of Sirius' kisses and caresses. Of days filled with pranks and stifled giggling, of nights filled with breathless moans and muffled gasps. He lives in the past, unable to face the future and -
'Remus?'
A man walks into the room. A man aged twenty, with startlingly green eyes. Lily's eyes. With jet-black hair, now wet from the rain. James' hair. And there is something of Sirius in him too, something about his mannerisms and haughty eyes, something about the curve of his mouth, the way he gestures when agitated. It is only now that Remus realises that his friends are not dead. They are alive, alive in this man who carried them all within himself.
Remus smiles for what must be the first time in years, and accepts a bundle Harry handles him.
'You seem better,' Harry said with a grin, running a hand through his hair just like James used to do.
'You know what,' Remus replies, 'I am.'