March
It was days before they spoke of it again—days spent fully earning the reputation Rita Skeeter cast over them—disappearing down every inky corridor they could find, every unused classroom, only to resurface with telltale swollen lips, mussed hair, flushed skin.
There were even moments that emerged within the confines of his bed, curtains drawn. It suited him—he'd become rather withdrawn, the whole of him focused on her, on what she'd discovered, on the world outside the castle walls.
In one of these particular moments, he lay with his head against her hip, his fingers tracing patterns over her belly. The evening sun peaked, golden, through the folds of his bed curtains, and his skin flickered red and bold and bright in each instant. His roommates were down at Quidditch practice—another temporary suspension he'd earned from the fight—and a comfortable quiet filled the room.
"I didn't intend to make you angry," she said into the din.
His fingers ceased their pattern making and splayed out wide across her torso. She'd felt terribly shy when they found each other outside of McGonagall's office, when he'd reached out for her. Not ashamed—no, not at all, but- "I never meant for us to row."
Even now, her pulse sped. (But perhaps this had more to do with how his hand shifted, the nerves it woke—one by one—as it slid higher across her waist.) She didn't mind the fighting, she was never one to be opposed to what she considered a honed skill... it was what emerged in the row.
It was messy.
It was boundless.
It was the full force of her.
In that moment, she was beyond herself.
She'd felt it before—in his arms behind Madame Puddifoot's, in his bed in London at Christmas—but he had anchored her, given her room, made way for her in this is the way I want you.
But she was beyond that too, she had found this is the way I love you.
The enormity of it, made bare in the core of their row, left her vulnerable. She wavered each moment she thought of it.
"I know," he said, softly kissing the skin he found beneath the tips of his fingers.
But it was a barbed vulnerability. "I wasn't wrong, though."
He laughed, and the full sound resounded from deep in his belly, vibrated against her where she faded into him.
"No, you weren't," he said, and then, slowly, "It's a heady thing, to be reminded what it means to be loved by you."
He looked up at her, his chin against her navel.
Do you know what it is to be loved by you? I feel you in my bones.
"When can I see it all?" he asked, nearly reverent. He'd been anxious, she new, almost desperate to know.
"Tomorrow," she said. "I've just finished the spell."
"Tonight?" he countered quickly.
She wondered, not for the first time, if he was ready—his father's life had not been an easy one, and was more often marked by pain than triumph—but this crumpled instantly. He ought to know, he had the right to know, whatever the outcome may be.
"Alright." Her fingers broached his hair, the first wave of blue spilled over the back of her hand, and he leaned into her palm. His eyes closed, and warmth rose to the skin that met hers. "In the Common Room."
He nodded, and her belly swooped at the look in him. We're flammable, you and I.
They had spent much of the afternoon in his bed, and she reveled in this new privacy—the chance to look at him. He took the soft skin of her side between his teeth and she shivered at the promise of it. Incendiary.
He carried himself with such an easy grace, it was easy to forget the angularity of him, the muscles that looked caught at the point of movement. Catherine wheels, canon fire, can't hold a torch to us. He was thin, but there was no softness to him. Her hand tightened in his hair, drawing him up to her. Oh, and they burned when he rose to her, when her mouth met his. I knew, I knew, I always knew, but stubborn you—cautious until... She sunk her teeth into his bottom lip and brought her legs tight around him.
His breath caught in his throat, and when she breathed "Teddy" along his neck, his fingers traced along her collarbone, her sternum, up the underside of her breast. She grinned into his mouth as they moved slowly, narrowing, teasing her with their intention until, in reply, she shifted her hips into his, ran her nail over his spine as he groaned. You're wildfire under my skin.
Realization sparked, seared her nerves, matched the gasping breath that rose in her as his thumb and forefinger tightened over her breast.
"I love you," she whispered, wondering, curious, and was met with a resounding fervor—his hand found its way to her bum, picked her up as he leaned back and she slip into his lap. A moan, a low, wild rumble parted her lips. Oh my love, my love, we're the bright flame.
"I suppose we should go down for dinner," she said when the sun had sunk into the Forbidden Forest.
"Do we really?" Teddy asked, playing at her hair. She lay with her head against his chest, his arms around her; she'd long abandoned her jumper, and he could think of nothing he'd prefer less at the moment than to see her find it again.
He kissed, gently, along the back of her neck, and grinned at the goose bumps that rose to her skin. "Doesn't seem like you want to."
"I don't," she said, slowly disentangling her limbs from his. "But your roommates will be back soon, and I am hungry."
"I think I've got some Cauldron Cakes in my trunk," he said, catching her hand.
"From when? Christmas?" she asked, pulling him up with her. "How tempting."
There was nothing so vivid, so vibrant as her. He hardly noticed the other students as they emerged from the Gryffindor portrait hole, entered the Great Hall. She was sharper than the rest of them, warmer.
He watched her as she talked animatedly with Adelaide, singularly aware of every minute movement—how her arm brushed him when she reached for the pudding, how she leaned into him when she spoke.
He grasped her knee beneath the table, without thinking, only realizing when she uncrossed her leg and brought it closer to his. She was remarkably hot under his fingers, and they drifted to the underside of her knee, the softer skin there.
If he wasn't thinking of her, he was thinking of what she'd found. It was like a tooth lodged several layers under his skin. He picked at it regularly, grew restless constantly. He understood now why she'd ran at this with no thought to consequence.
Distantly, he heard Michael ask, "Are you lot going anywhere for Spring holiday? Longbottom's posted the sign up list in the Common Room."
But it only skimmed over the surface of his mind, fell flat and disappeared amongst the wondering of what he'd find tonight—the memory of the curve of her hip—how fiercely she'd fought with him, fought for him—1971—the feel of her beneath his mouth—there is more of you in this world.
It was half past midnight before the Common Room cleared out, and Victoire descended the stairs to the girl's dormitory laden with books, parchment scrolls and old copies of the Daily Prophet.
She laid them out across one of the old warn tables, and sank into the soft, overstuffed couch.
"Your father," she began quietly. "Entered Hogwarts in the autumn of 1971. He was the first child werewolf to ever attend Hogwarts. The school was not prepared for him, or the... unique accommodations he'd require. No headmaster or headmistress would've gone to such lengths before Albus Dumbledore."
Teddy sat, mirroring her on the opposite end of the couch, rapt with attention. He hadn't fully realized the lengths to which she'd gone until he saw the many-layered mountain of research on the table before him. It poured out of her, each word. He wanted to memorize every one that formed on her lips.
"In June of that year, the Shrieking Shack appeared inconspicously," she continued, and he followed the pattern of her, each breath, felt hypnotized by the rhythm. "It was simply there one morning, sitting as if it'd always belonged atop that hill. There are records of Dumbledore ordering a four-poster bed, an armchair, rugs, a full set of furniture that summer. It was assumed to be for his study and private quarters, but it never entered the castle. It was outfitted for your father's use."
She unrolled a large sheet of parchment and laid it flat across the couch between them.
"That was the plan, you see," she nearly whispered as she carefully traced her finger across a blueprint, the blueprint, he realized with a start, for the Shrieking Shack. "Damocles Belby had not yet invented the Wolfsbane potion, there was nothing at all to stop your father from transforming every full moon. The most that could be done was allow your father a place to transform safely, away from humans. And that is precisely what Dumbledore did."
From the table she retrieved an aging copy of the Daily Prophet. It's pages had yellowed and its corners were crumpled, but its pictures flashed quickly, moved with the same clarity as they had at first printing. She leafed through it carefully and withdrew for Teddy the horticultural pages. There, clear across the page, was a picture of the Whomping Willow, and above it the headline read, "Rare Gyrosperious Tree Planted at Hogwarts for Sanctuary."
"A tunnel was built underneath the Hogwarts grounds and through Hogsmeade, directly into the Shrieking Shack. The Whomping Willow was planted over the entrance to protect your father, it's safe to assume, and others from him. It was a rather effective plan," she said, and through the dizzying enormity of her words he detected a mild admiration in her voice. "There are no recorded incidents of injury, save for a few students who thought to play with the Whomping Willow and got a poke in the eye for it. But your father, we know, is Messier Moony of the Marauders. His story does not end there."
Gingerly, she placed a worn, black leather bound book atop the pile on the table, and opened it precisely down the middle. Her fingers moved carefully to part the binding of the spine with the practiced sensitivity. "Unfortunately, the only first hand account we have of their time at Hogwarts is the Deposition of Sirius Black on the night Pettigrew escaped."
"Why is that unfortunate?" Teddy asked with wonder.
An expression Teddy could not place crossed quickly over her eyes.
"It's not a very pleasant memory," she said, hardly more than a whisper.
She tapped her wand in a meter that sounded rather like a waltz over the open pages, and, to Teddy's astonishment, two wispy figures made of ink rose above the surface.
"How–" Teddy began when a gossamer environment began to fill in around the two.
"It's long been theorized," she said. "That memories recorded in ink can be nearly as effective as a Penseive at conveying recollections."
"Theorized?" Teddy asked.
"Yes, it's a rather complicated spell." She peered carefully over his face. "Are you ready?"
"Yes," Teddy said breathlessly.
"Alright then," she said, mostly to herself, and tapped into the spine three times.
Teddy jumped minutely when the miniature Dumbledore began to move.
"Where" he said calmly, drawing his hands up beneath his chin, "would you like to begin?"
Sirius's eyes glittered as he watched Dumbledore warily beneath a matted row of hair. "Would it be too damning to say I didn't kill him?"
"Much as I imagine any man in your position would say the same, I admit, I find myself inclined to believe you."
"You do?" Sirius asked, visibly startled.
Dumbledore nodded slowly.
"Why?"
"That," said Dumbledore "requires no simple answer, and as we don't have much time, I believe the more pressing question is how."
A hesitant calm seemed to settle over Sirius at his words.
"How did I escape?" A faint flicker of a smile passed over his gaunt face. "I'd have thought you'd sorted that out already, even if Remus didn't tell you."
"In the time since you left this castle I've puzzled out many of your methods of mischief, but there remain a few mysteries, even to me."
Without warning, he transformed—where Sirius had been mere moments before sat a giant black dog. It emitted a large, bellowing bark that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and then, as suddenly as it was there, it was gone, Sirius before them once more.
"We had sorted out Remus's condition in our second year," he said, voice croaking from lack of use. "It took James and I the better part of three years to work out the spell.
"Little Peter," he said, more and more a snarl as he spoke. "Would never have been able to do it on his own—his only true talent is hiding under the skirts of those more powerful than him. But in our fifth year, we began to transform monthly with Remus. Peter, rather fittingly, as a rat, James as a stag, and myself as a dog. We spent every full moon with him, every chance we could. At first in the Shrieking Shack, and then in the forest, exploring the grounds, in Hogsmeade... We even created a map—" A brief smile parted his face, jarringly handsome amidst the rags and tangled hair. "—which I believe my godson has now... He was harmless to us as animals, he could be docile, even. The wolves of the forest came to recognize him, the centaurs accepted us. There was nothing we didn't explore."
"Were you ever concerned with running across a human in this state?" Dumbledore asked quietly.
"Remus was," Sirius said easily. "But we never did. And if he ever grew restless or violent, James and I could fight him down."
"As you did tonight?"
"It was easier then," he said, before adding bitterly. "I hadn't been wrongly imprisoned for twelve years. I was stronger...
"That's how I escaped," his voice ground to a near halt, weak as it was. "I was thin, very thin. The Dementors struggled to sense me as a dog, and so, I spent more and more time as one. One night, when they brought me food, I slipped past them and through the bars. Swam back to the mainland, and traveled north to Hogwarts... They don't make for very good guards, you know. They couldn't sense me then either."
Dumbledore watched Sirius. He was quiet for so long a time, Teddy nearly believed it was over. But then—
"You were James and Lily's secret keeper," he said, his voice thick with lingering memory.
It was neither a judgment nor an accusation.
But the hackles of Sirius's neck raised, the air prickled around him, and his voice was little more than a growl when he said, "I thought I was clever. I assumed Voldemort would expect me instantly. I convinced them, at the last moment, to change it to Peter. Who would ever believe they'd choose little, cowardly—" Teddy shivered, he didn't think he'd ever heard such loathing, such tactile contempt packed into a word—"Peter? I'm to blame, I know it... I'd arranged to check on him that night… But he was gone. And there was no sign of a struggle, no sign of him at all. It didn't feel right. I set off for Godric's Hollow straight away... I realized, when I saw their house..."
"A whole street full of muggles testified that you killed him," said Dumbledore in the same quiet, ponderous tone.
"And did they tell you he killed just as many?" Sirius shouted. "Blew up the whole bloody street just before he pleaded with me not to kill him for all to hear? He cut off his finger, and turned into a rat like I'd seen him do countless times! He skittered away into the sewers, and found a wizarding family to look after him, waiting for news. Bloody coward! Bloody, murderous coward! He pleaded tonight with Harry! Groveled on his knees, and dared to tell him there was no refusing Voldemort—"
Dumbledore visibly stiffened.
"No surviving he means! I would have died rather than betray my friends! Remus would have died rather—"
"Remus," Dumbledore said. "I have always wondered why he didn't come to your defense when you were arrested."
"We believed each other to be the spy," he said simply, with a peculiar sort of calm. "Neither of us ever expected Peter to scuttle out of the shadow of the Order, not when there was so much to loose."
From somewhere beyond the boundaries of memory, the hands of the clock tower rumbled into place, and, inevitably, chimed eleven times.
"Why do you believe me?" Sirius asked with a morbid urgency.
"Miss Granger relayed to me as much of the night's events as she could muster," Dumbledore said. "But I knew, from the moment I saw you, that you never would've entered this castle if Harry did not believe you innocent."
He stood suddenly, looked about the small room, and a decision set in his eyes. "In a quarter of an hour, there will be a rapping at that window. Trust whomever is on the other side of it, and flee, as quickly as wings can carry you."
"You mean—I'm not going to die?" Sirius asked.
"I said we didn't have much time," said Dumbledore, and his eyes twinkled behind his half moon spectacles. "That hardly means it cannot be on our side."
At that, the figures flickered, grew blue like a dying flame, and returned to their pages once more.
Teddy sat stock still, barely aware of the rising light of the sun as it spilled onto the threadbare rugs of the Common Room. He was stunned, numb in the fingertips, but most importantly, a new energy pulsed through him, alive with potential.
"Are you alright?" Victoire asked softly.
She ran a hand gently through his hair and along his cheek.
"Yes," he said, reaching for it, for her—grounded by the sincere warmth of her. "Yes."
Thank you guys so much for reading! I really love your reviews-big thanks you for writing them! And Happy Halloween!