Written for Spring Funfair, April Writing Club and Spring Seasonal Challenges among other challenges of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry forum.

Disclaimer: Refer to chapter one, please.

Chapter warnings: depression, referenced suicide ideation (not prominent—I'm simply tagging this in case this is how someone chooses to interpret it)

Word count: 9131 words

Hold on to those tissues, guys, this one's an angst-fest.

Somewhere down the line we went and lost it

2.3 In Cessation

Tonight is the night.

He's been agonising over this moment for months now, turning each line of the long speech he has prepared over and over in his head. He isn't ready, and he might never likely be, but he's put this off long enough.

He needs to talk to Sirius.

He probably should think over this more before he jumps in and ruins things for good.

Truth be told, he hasn't had much time to think lately. Things are heating up, and war is still a silently brewing enemy watching them from its shadows. The Order is far from stable, and they haven't yet garnered as much support as they'd like. In fact, they've barely acquired enough support to keep their operations covert.

He's had so much to do these past few months, and Dumbledore's tasks keep getting more and more demanding. They've been down one member ever since Christmas—with the attack on Arthur, Dumbledore felt it highly dangerous for Arthur to continue his missions, especially at the Department of Mysteries. He, along with most of the Order, shares the sentiment, but Arthur's absence has left him as the one scrambling to pick up the slack.

He hasn't truly had time to himself for quite a while, and even cold nights spent alone, sleeping on snow-wet ground hasn't left him to the company of his thoughts. Everyday, it gets colder. He's been functioning with one eye and one ear open at all times, and the constant stress is starting to wear on him.

If he's honest with himself, he prefers things this way. He'd rather work the graveyard shifts every damn day rather than let solitude consume him. His thoughts are always brutal, merciless, and they spare him nothing.

If he lets himself think of anything but the next mission, his thoughts might stray to Sirius.

He sighs, looking around at the silent house. If Sirius isn't around to greet him, today must be a bad day for the man. He sighs again. The house feels cold and unwelcoming without the feel of human presence, and in his pain-weary mood, he doesn't find it the least bit comforting.

His last mission had been far too draining, and being back in Grimmauld after three gruelling weeks in the mountains has made him miss everything about this dark house, from the hideous brass serpents to the peeling wallpaper.

He's pretty sure he stumbled through the front door like an inebriated lummox, and even now, he feels like he's walking on two left feet. He's drunk on exhaustion, leaning against the balustrade as he climbs up the steps. The carved wooden railings creak under his weight, but they don't give way under him, which, after the weeks he's had, he figures is as good as it gets.

He's so tired. He's hungry and cold and miserable, and the idea of a warm shower, a warm meal and an even warmer bed is beyond inviting. It takes everything he has to shake off the temptation to abandon the task he has set for himself and faceplant headfirst into their big bed.

He has to talk to Sirius first.

He doesn't know what he's doing. He's never found it easy to be honest with himself, but he can candidly admit that right now, he really doesn't know what he's doing. The messy state of things has been wearing on his mind lately, and that one niggling idea planted in the very back of his head, that fateful evening before Christmas, has expanded and consumed him to the point where now, it's all he thinks about.

They had been friends. Best friends.

He knows he's been getting more irrational lately. He knows, but he can't help himself. There is just so much on his mind, and contrary to what people think of him, he has never been good at compartmentalising. That's Sirius' forte, not his. Sirius is the one who can brush things away like it is nothing, focusing on what's important. He, on the other hand, is the one who lets the first sign of crisis break him.

Sirius used to say that he's stronger than he gives himself credit for, but he honestly doesn't know if Sirius would look at him now and say the same thing. Merlin, half the time, Sirius can't even bring himself to look at him.

His legs protest at the strain of the constant climbing, and he feels breathless at the landing of the second floor. He's pretty sure he's sprained his left ankle—the swelling is a telltale sign, if anything—and there's a constant shooting pain in his right calf. His head is pounding insistently from skull to base, and the entire left side of his face is worryingly numb where he had twice tripped and fallen on the deserted road, face meeting unforgiving concrete. He hopes he doesn't have a concussion again—that would be highly inconvenient, and completely unwelcome.

He aches all over, and his bones rattle with every step. There are bruises in places bruises should never be, and bloody scrapes which still haven't clotted properly, lazily staining his tattered clothes. This, he thinks, peeved, had definitely been one of his lousier missions.

He can't complain, though. Despite what his current state says, he did succeed. He's single-handedly stopped a massive raid, one planned large enough to wipe out three towns in the Welsh mountains. Yes, he's the one to take the brunt of the repercussions, unwittingly as it may have been, but it is still leagues better than irreversible bloodshed.

He can heal within the week; the innocent people who would have otherwise been laying dead at the Death Eaters' filthy feet wouldn't have the chance to come back.

And, most importantly, he managed to get the book.

Reaching the fourth floor of the house, he turns to the left of the two wooden doors. He spares a glance for the door on the right, as he always does, taking in the stained wood with its ornate old-fashionedness, and the sign still boldly hanging in prominence with its faltering Sticking Charm, thick parchment with silver scrolls.

Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black.

Every time he comes up here, he feels the urge to walk into Regulus' old room and tear the place up in search for proof that in spite of all that happened, the kid had still loved Sirius. Old pictures, snuck-in prank items, anything. He hates to see Sirius' face fall when he sees his little brother's neat handwriting on the door and remembers his death.

And every time, he pushes aside that urge and looks away. He can still picture Regulus Black's face—the twitchy, worried looking boy with his quiet bluster, so like Sirius and yet so vastly different. He remembers how hard the boy at Hogwarts had tried to be noticed and taken seriously, so similar to what he himself could have been, had it not been for Sirius and James and the Marauders. He may have not liked Regulus very much for hurting Sirius, but the kid had fought the good fight, and he wouldn't undo all the young man's hard work just because he has these sudden bouts of curiosity.

So he stays away, just like he always does. He spares the door a glance, but that's all he can allow himself to do. The man isn't around to grant him access, and he will not force his way in like some brute. He could respect Regulus' wishes, he could.

Do Not Enter Without the Express Permission of Regulus Arcturus Black.

He sighs, turning open the handle to Sirius' room. He sets his precious rucksack carefully down by their bed, toeing off his patched up, worn-soft shoes near the nightstand and grabbing a quick change of clothes from his drawer. He heads off to the ensuite shower, relieved that he's so close to being clean again. The muddy little stream he had camped by in the Welsh mountains hadn't quite cut it for him.

He doesn't bother looking around; he knows everything that's there. Same velvet curtains, same king-size bed, same Slytherin green carpet, marred with deliberate ink stains and cigarette burns. Posters upon posters plastered to the walls, with pictures of motorbikes and half-clothed girls posing in exaggerated seductiveness; Gryffindor banners draped over every drape-able nook in the room; the red and yellow scarf his mum had knitted for Sirius in their fifth year as thanks for their Animagus efforts, tied and stuck securely to the central notch in the carved headboard like a Gryffindor-themed flag marker.

A single framed picture on the nightstand, the photograph behind the glass replaced hastily and off-centre—the four of them in their Gryffindor robes, arms around each other and grinning happily; James, then Sirius and then him, with Peter's face on the far right scratched out by furious claws.

Everything in this room is untouched from it's haunted past, left just as it is—Sirius had cleaned the thick layer of dust covering the surface when he had first moved back in, but that was the extent of it.

He pads over to the door off to the side, clothes in hand. He can barely feel the roughness of the old carpet under the mask of hardened grime and sweat clinging to the soles of his bare feet. Merlin, he needs a shower.

He goes about rhythmically setting his clothes near the counter, hanging his towel on the closest hook, turning on the taps and adjusting the temperature. Magic can be good for a lot of things, but it can only do so much against old, rattling pipes, and he has to wait precious minutes for the water to properly heat up before he fully steps in.

He doesn't let up until the stream is steaming hot, and its pressure is at its fullest.

The water sluices off his back, beating down on his shoulders and wetting the back of his neck, and he allows himself to bask in its searing heat and unforgiving pressure. The water is hot, too hot, burning his flesh and reddening his skin, but he appreciates its punishing rhythm in the best way.

When he opens his eyes, he sees the tinted flow of reddish-brown slithering towards the drain, a single, motionless puddle of water highlighted with swirling dark red pooled at the corner's edge, and he lets the terror of the few weeks past ebb and flow away with the dirt.

He gives his mind time to process his last assignment, a last ditch effort to keep the nerves away. He's irrational and, quite frankly, more scared than he should be, and he cannot let his own emotional failings hinder his conversation with Sirius. Merlin knows Sirius is far too capable of making him lose his mind, and he'll have to fight to keep his wits about him.

So, the assignment. He thinks over the last three weeks, how a task seemingly so simple had spiralled so out of control. As he rubs soap over his swelling bruises and cleans his cuts, he breathes through the sting and remembers how he came to collect each and every one.

He wonders how Albus will react to his tale. Will the man be proud? Disappointed? He had not only unreasonably endangered his life, but he had also nearly jeopardised the security of the book with his cobbled-together plan. If the Death Eaters had even once thought to search his person…

It had been the purpose of his original mission. Find the book by all means necessary, Albus had said. Whatever it takes. He had found it too, kept in safekeeping by a wrinkled old barman in an out-of-the-way pub, in a little falling-apart Welsh village whose name he still can't pronounce quite right. Quiet little place, wholly Muggle, boxed in all around by four massive towns like a little fish swimming around in a shark's kingdom.

He doesn't know why the 50's traveller whose documented movements he had traced to find the book had left it in the hands of that particular barman in that particular town, but once he caught wind of the raid, he had been too caught up planning bigger things to bother about those particulars.

If he hadn't stuck around to orchestrate the Death Eaters' failure all by himself, he could have been home two weeks ago.

The townsfolk needed help, though. There was no time to call in back-up, or organise an Order meeting and work out a strategy. Those innocent Muggles weren't even aware of the threat to their life, and he couldn't in good conscience leave them to fend for themselves when he had the resources to help.

So he confronted the core group in charge of the raid—the cream of You-Know-Who's Outer Circle—and, letting himself be captured, got himself into their warded territory unhindered before taking them all out and wiping their minds.

He wouldn't lie, there was a certain sick pleasure to be had, seeing those arrogant arses' masterplan being turned on itself and knowing that in the end, he was the one to hold the wand to their heads.

But then the Death Eaters' cavalry of recruits had arrived, finding their superiors twitching and drooling on the mud floor of their hastily set up camp; and him, a lone traveller suspiciously new to the vicinity—and so began the nightmarish week of him running and dodging them all like a game, round and about the mountainside. It was torture to maintain the illusion of his disguise the whole time, a constant drain sapping his energy, but it kept his identity safe and his mind alert, which was more than he could ask for.

He remembers that heavy breath of relief when he found the perfect time and spot to jump off the cliff in full view of the remaining Death Eaters, but now, looking back, he finds it supremely concerning how accustomed he is to faking his own death—sporting different names and hair colours each time. What is even more worrisome, is that he's starting to find it therapeutic.

He snorts to himself as he dries himself off with his towel. This is why he needs to talk to Sirius.

The disguises had started off as a fail-safe—a simple, yet effective tool to conceal his identity and offer him the illusion of protection. The very first time he'd pretended to get himself killed, when he'd had the hare-brained idea to jump under a moving train and Disapparate under its belly, he was a mess for weeks. He remembers Sirius squeezing his arms tightly in comfort, the first he'd felt of Sirius' touch ever since the night before the broken man had escaped out of Europe to hide from the Ministry.

Things had been so much simpler back then, he thinks to himself with a wry smile. He may have been a mess, but he'd had something to live for. He'd had Sirius to live for, because back then, he still had hope. For himself, for them, for their future. Now—now, he has nothing.

He dances with death the way he breathes now, constant and unflinching. Adrenaline is all he has to keep himself alive. How many more depths does he have to sink to before he gives up and gives in? How long till he alienates everyone who cares about him until he has nothing but himself and his failures to keep company?

He pads gingerly into the bedroom on damp feet, towelling his wet hair as he walks by the bed. He has his clean new clothes on, soft button down and loose trousers. The carpet is rough under his blistered feet, but he'd rather bear the uncomfortable friction, choosing to savour the feel of cool air on clean skin.

It takes but a minute to put the wet towel away, and he crouches down to unzip his rucksack, rummaging around inside for the items he needs. He finds the rolled up map he'd palmed from the Death-Eaters' camp, the used Portkey he'd snatched from a recruit amidst their first scuffle, and the little rust coloured pocket-sized book he'd stuffed within a ratty brown sock while he was on the run, the cause of all his recent drama.

He fists the map in his hand, lets the chain of the cheap necklace Portkey dangle from his finger, but the book he carefully settles in the locked and warded drawer by his side of the bed, safely hidden and out of the way till Dumbledore's next visit to Headquarters.

He doesn't know what Albus wants with a tiny rust-red handbook on soul magic, but he sincerely hopes that the man doesn't plan on using it over himself. He has faith in Albus' strength of character, but isn't quite sure that the man isn't half-senile with the many games he plays. Nothing good can ever come from fooling around with magicks as old and powerful as the one explained down to the details in the unassuming little book he has, clasped within his cautious fingers.

He doesn't know what Albus wants with this tiny rust-red handbook on soul magic, but he knows, inherently, worryingly so, that Albus plans to use it as much more than an eventual paperweight.

He could refuse to hand it over, now that he knows what it is, but at the end of the day, he simply has to trust that Albus knows what he is doing. Albus has made mistakes, many, many of them, and he still hasn't forgiven the man for a single one. But for all the times Albus has faltered, his kindness has balanced them out, and he knows that no matter the harshness of Albus' decisions, the weary, silvered man has never taken a single one of them lightly.

Once he re-locks and re-wards his drawer, he makes his way silently out the room. He needs to get downstairs and add his two other finds to the Order's collection—the map and the necklace look just as unassuming and inconsequential as the book, but he knows first-hand how much knowledge the little items can gain them, once they analyse them enough to know where to look.

And once he's done dropping his two treasures at their collection point downstairs, he has no more distractions left to dawdle with. This is the last one, and then all that's left is Sirius.

Sirius.

Whatever happens tonight, he cannot let himself be reasoned out of having this conversation. Whatever happens with Sirius tonight will make or break them, and it is up to him to secure their survival. No matter what happens, he cannot lose Sirius.

He's thought long and hard about this. His thoughts have been disjointed and blurry, often distracted and sceptical, but he has no other choice. He has to nip this in the bud before it ruins them beyond redemption.

His relationship with Sirius has been growing more and more strained. They hardly have time to themselves as it is, and what time they do spend together is but an endless, vicious cycle of pain tinged with happiness.

One step forward, two steps back. He's never found the saying more fitting, and the vindictive thought leaves a sour taste on his tongue.

His heart is constantly being tugged in two directions—being pulled closer and pushed away, pulling Sirius closer and then pushing him away. His heart has weathered so much pain, but it can take only so much sustained distress from this unending oscillation.

Sirius and him, they're falling apart at the seams, and there's no one but themselves to build them back up. And if Sirius refuses to see reason and take that step, it has to be him.

Merlin, he's terrified.

What if Sirius refuses to see reason? What if Sirius disagrees? Can they get past this?

For years, he has wanted to know what it would be like to have Sirius hold him again. All those years he had been alone, he had wished for them to have their chance again someday. Now he knows.

He's had Sirius hold him now—awkward hugs filled with discomfort and pain, hurt and distress. He had his chances, tens and hundreds of them, and they've all led to disappointment. With each hug, each conversation, each look into murky grey eyes, his mind and heart is filled with echoes of a single rending line.

It's not the same.

His mind says each time, it's not the same, and once again, his broken heart finds more shards to shatter.

Together, they had been perfection. He remembers the times he used to look at Sirius' strong jaw and smiling eyes and think, it can't get better than this.

He had been right. As always, he'd been right.

Those glorious days he's lived with Sirius had been the highlight of their symphony. Their shining crescendo. And he—he should have known it could only go down from there. Stupid, stupid Remus. So young, so stupid, so stupidly in love.

He should have known that this would be how it ended.

They had been complete together, slotting within each other to form a perfect wooden puzzle. The perfect fit. And now, they are two broken strangers, trying to sand their edges to fit the pieces together. They are a ruin to themselves.

If this is how it ends, he needs to be the one to end it. It needs to be done now—cut their losses, lick their wounds. If he does it before they're in too deep, maybe the scars won't be permanent.

Merlin knows that if Sirius were the one to do it, they'd be dragging on and on in this farce of a relationship till the inevitable end makes them push on to end themselves.

He walks in a daze, his feet taking him where he needs to go. He goes down the four flights of steps and heads towards the narrow entryway of the house, avoiding the creaks in the floorboards and the rustle of carpets through sheer muscle memory.

The sounds and groans of this old house have been drummed into his head, haunting the nights he floats by the halls like a ghost when sleep becomes too heavy a burden on his fragile psyche. Sirius is there with him, most nights—keeping away the fear, the living nightmares with his solid presence.

Most nights, their conversations end in accusations and frustration, and on one memorable occasion, him dissolving into furious, helpless tears. Those conversations are the most dysfunctional they've ever been—little, inconsequential things about Sirius' behaviour inevitably setting him off; whispered, blink-and-you-miss-it mutters on his part driving Sirius to hoarse yelling. Fights, silences, longing, glares—not blame, never blame—and still, Sirius is right there beside him the next night he decides to wander.

He wishes Sirius were beside him now. Maybe this walk would have been different; maybe he wouldn't feel so wrong, walking to confront Sirius all alone.

It feels like the end.

Should it, though? Isn't this supposed to be a new beginning for them?

A change in their tune, he tells himself. A difference in chords and rhythm, but they're still playing the same symphony.

Yes, that's what he tells himself.

They began as Sirius and Remus. If this is how they end, surely they will end the same way? Surely they won't have to scramble back to a time before Sirius and Remus, to a time when they were strangers?

Surely they can't sink lower than this?

Thud.

He startles, his left hand fumbling for the wand in his right pocket. His wand is up before he's ready to fire, but it's only Tonks.

Another thud, and the front door bangs shut with a sharp, high-pitched creak. She's a blur of movements, messy hair a darkened, irritated salmon pink as she goes about unwinding her scarf, removing her coat, adjusting her heavy boots. The rustle of clothes is punctuated by frustrated huffs and grumbles he can vaguely pick out—"shouldn't be so bloody cold… March, for Merlin's sake,"—and she raises a dark brow at his continued staring.

Belatedly, he realises that he's been standing still like a fool before the umbrella stand for Godric knows how long, the rolled up map creased flat in his right hand, and the thin silver chain of the dangling necklace cutting into his flesh where fingers meet palm.

"Don't you look fresh," she sasses him, but he can't muster the wit for his usual droll reply.

"You alright?" he asks her instead.

She smiles wryly, and her single raised eyebrow is joined by its twin. "Yeah, I am, Remus. I'm doing just fine. Now you, on the other hand—not so much."

He smiles despite himself. Tonks—no, Dora, that's what she had asked him to call her—never did shy away from calling him out and speaking her mind. There are a lot of differences, but in some twisted way, she reminds him of Sirius.

He pockets his wand, then drops the items in his other hand into the umbrella stand—the Order's collection point. First the necklace, hearing the soft clink of metal as it hits the bottom, then the map, which causes an even softer snick as it thumps off the side of the stand's dark cavern.

His now empty hands move instantly to his pockets, twiddling unconsciously with the seam as he turns back to face Dora.

She's busy adjusting her coat on its hook, but her sharp eyes snap to his the second she feels his gaze on her.

"What?" she asks, amused.

"Do I honestly look that bad?" His left hand moves to touch his face before he shoves it back in his pocket. His cheek doesn't feel that swollen, but he couldn't bring himself to look in the mirror and assess the damage. Tonight, he doesn't quite feel like looking at himself.

Dora's dark eyes follow his movements, and her features twitch in confusion before they smooth out into a grin.

"Oh no, no," she says, her smile wicked and knowing, "I wasn't talking about the way you look like you've been through the wringer and had your face stomped on after. No, I meant the look on your face that says you're about to do something colossally stupid."

He blinks back, surprised.

"I have a… look?"

Her smile grows impish. "Mm hmm, I recognise that look. I should know; I've seen it in the mirror for about twenty years now."

Another unbidden smile forms on his face, fonder, this time.

"Yes," he says, huffing on a little laugh, "You would know. You were always the little brat, Dora."

She shoots him an unrepentant grin. "That I was, Remus. But with me, you see, that look could go either way. I would end up anywhere from saving a lost kitten up a tree to setting fire to someone else'skitchen. Merlin knows I've had the look so many times that if a bad thing happened every time I was planning something stupid, I'd have gotten myself killed roughly about ten years ago."

She turned to him fully then, her eyes pinning him with her gaze as she stepped forward. "Now you, on the other hand," she poked him in the chest with a single, sharp fingernail, "get that look so rarely, and it spells disaster every time. So tell me, Remus, what dumb thing are you planning to 'fix' this time?"

She uses air quotes to emphasise her point, and the hard crook of her fingers mocks him.

"I—I'm not—"

She narrows her eyes in warning, and all of a sudden, the lies freeze on his tongue.

He sighs heavily, and feels his shoulders slump. "Don't try to talk me out of this, Dora. Please. This needs to be done."

Her hand pulls up to rest on the curve of his shoulder. She grips him firm and strong, and for a single heartbeat, there's nothing weighing on his mind but her quiet confidence and the steady assurance of their friendship.

He closes his eyes, shutting them tight. It feels like he's about to go into battle, and he wants to savour this last taste of the calm before the storm.

When his lids flutter open again, the first thing he registers is the longing in her brown eyes.

It hasn't escaped his notice, her interest in him. He's seen the silent glances, and he's felt the ghost of those feather-light touches. The smiles now tinged with sadness, the way she covers up her emotions. It's gone on far too long for him to dismiss it as a whim of impulse. Merlin only knows why she wants him—he's far from the perfect catch.

He would hardly believe it to be true, anything more than a figment of his treacherous imagination—but he recognises the signs in himself. How long ago was it that he felt the same way around Sirius? Twenty years? Two weeks? This hadn't been the way he wanted to relive his past, and yet, here he is.

And here he is, about to end it once and for all. Godric, this is the second time he's about to lose Sirius now, and he doubts that it will hurt any less. He knows that it will be worth it eventually if he wants to save their friendship in the long run—but will he be able to go through the motions yet again when he's barely recovered from the first loss?

He hopes he's strong enough. He rarely is, but he hopes that desperation is enough to let him brave the ache better this time.

He hopes that at the end of this inescapable mess, he still has Dora's friendship to lean on.

A sudden squeeze to his shoulder has him focusing his gaze on her again. She exhales on a breath, licks her lips once, then opens her mouth to speak softly.

"You know how Sirius used to visit about twice every month when I was little?" she says, and he nods, blinking in confusion. "Well, when Mum and Dad went out and left him to babysit me—" Her mouth turns down at the thought of being babysat, but she maintains her serious expression, and he knows that she's about to say something she feels is significant.

"Sirius used to teach me all kinds of tricks. He showed me all these pranks with my practice wand, you know—and there was this once when he let me try a spell with his own. It was a complete disaster; Mum yelled at him for about an hour before she let him go."

"I remember," he nods again with a reluctant laugh. "Sirius came home soaked through with red paint, and I panicked for ten whole minutes while he stood there and laughed at me. I figured out that it wasn't blood soon enough once I stopped. The, uh, sparkles gave it away."

"Yeah, he mentioned that," she added with a small grin. "He told me that you fussed over him all evening, and that you didn't even ban him to the couch for the night like you normally would have done. And then he went on to talk about the worry in your eyes, and the crinkle in your forehead when you frowned, and how much he loved you."

He blinks. "What?"

She raises a brow at him in amusement, but her smile turns sad. "He always talked about you, Remus. Every time he'd pull out a new prank book or something from Zonko's for me, or taught me a new spell, he would tell me all about how you'd have reacted to it. You should've seen it, Dora—when James and I tried this at Hogwarts, he chased us with his Potions book all around the dorm. It was so much fun!"

He opens his mouth to speak, but he has nothing to say.

"He smiled when he talked about you," Dora goes on, her smile growing steadily more wistful. "I could see it all the way to his eyes. He never did call you by your full name either; it was always Moony, or Rem or Remmy or one of his endless pet names. Mum had to weasel your name out of him with strawberry pie when she got too curious—he always said that the people who treated you badly wore your name out a long time back, and it was up to him to keep giving you new names which no one else would think to spoil."

He feels his eyes prickle and dampen. He blinks the moisture away.

Her hand drops from his shoulder to his wrist, and she squeezes again, the pads of her fingertips warming his pulse.

"He's so different now," Dora says in a bare whisper. "I can barely recognise him. And the way he acts around me—he talks to me like I'm nine nowadays, when before… before, he was the only one to treat me like I was big and I mattered. And he almost never smiles now, and he never laughs, and he calls you Remus and never Moony like he used to. It's so hard to get him to talk about you, even about business matters, and when he does, he looks like he wants to do anything but. But, Remus—"

He feels a warm palm on his cheek, and when his lashes flutter open, he belatedly realises that his eyes had screwed themselves tightly shut to ward away the insistent tears. Merlin, it hurt, it hurt to hear Dora point out everything different about Sirius.

She noticed, his mind calls out to him. Even Dora noticed just how much he doesn't want you.

"Remus, look at me," Dora says in her soft voice, and he does. Her hand slips off his cheek, but the other one on his wrist stays right where it is. He takes a breath, adjusting to the sudden coolness across his skin where the heat of her palm had covered him.

"The way he looks at you, when he thinks no one is around to notice," she whispers to him, "it's—he looks just like the old Sirius. That same adoration I used to see when he talked about you. He's changed, Remus, I know. But those eyes… for all that hauntedness, they're still the same eyes. And those eyes look at you the same way they always have, Remus. They still show the same emotions, and they still smile just the same, and they still love you just the same. Those eyes have always revealed his secrets; it looks like they still do."

He fights down a hysterical laugh at Dora's words. A breathless little chuckle slips out.

"Dora…" he starts, but he doesn't know what to say. Could she be right? Why would she mislead him? Was she even reading the signs right? She had only been nine years old when Sirius was thrown into Azkaban; would she even remember all those little things about him? How does she see this in Sirius, something he himself cannot see?

He's seen the way Sirius looks at him. He sees guilt and longing, terror and resignation. He sees desperation. Most times, the strength of Sirius' puzzling gaze makes him wonder if Sirius wants to erase all their history as lovers altogether. It certainly would make this situation less complicated.

Of all things he has seen in Sirius' grey eyes, adoration has certainly never been one of them.

"Please, Remus," Dora says, her voice pained, "I can't—I won't—stop you from doing what you're about to do. I know better than to try and change your mind. But if this is because you think that it's unreciprocated, please, think again. This is affecting him as much as it's affecting you."

He swallows, setting his teeth.

"Why are you doing this?" he whispers hoarsely. He hopes that she understands the meaning behind his cryptic question—he cannot bring himself to voice those words aloud.

Why are you trying to save our relationship? I can see how it hurts you to do this.

He sees the shock in her eyes at how he addresses her own feelings. Then comes the pain, raw and unfiltered and devastating, and the guilt eating away at his conscience magnifies tenfold.

"Because," she replies, looking him in the eyes even as he voice breaks slightly, "You are—you're my friend too, and I hate to see you like this. And Sirius isn't just a friend, he's also family. He helped raise me. And I can't stand to watch him wither away like this. I don't like seeing you both in pain."

"You're too good a friend to me, Dora," he answers when he gets his emotions under control.

"Nonsense," she replies, continuing with a wry little chuckle. "Sometimes, we just have to make sacrifices."

He looks away.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

"What for?" she asks him gently. When he looks back at her, he doesn't meet her gaze.

"I—I still have to do this."

"Oh," she says. She swallows. "There's no better way?" Her voice is small, tentative.

He shakes his head.

She nods, pursing her lips in resignation. "Sometimes then, I guess," she whispers, "sacrifices come in different sizes."

He smiles softly, feeling his eyes prick again. What else can he say?

"I should go," she continues in that soft voice. "I just came in to search for one of our Order files. Alastor expects me back with the information soon."

He nods quickly, stepping back. "Yeah—yes, okay. You're right, you should go. Uh, I'll… see you soon?"

"Sure you will," she says, affecting a brighter smile. "I'll be around to annoy you before you know it." She moves past him, pulling out her wand as she walks the few steps to the basement stairs. He watches her walk away.

"Hey, Remus?" she calls tenderly as she turns around. "Good luck."

"Thanks," he replies, just as soft. "Stay safe out there."

"I will," she answers with a final, sad smile, and he watches her climb down the stairs till she's out of sight.

He runs a hand through his greying hair, closing his eyes, and behind his eyelids, he sees the image of Dora's devastated eyes.

Merlin, he's a monster—leaving her feelings unacknowledged is such a cruel thing to do. There's always that nagging sense of shame when he's around her, but he can't bring himself to take the step and talk about it. He's selfish and he knows it, but he simply wouldn't be able to deal with her absence after their inevitable fallout. Not Dora, not now.

He knows that it will take a long time for him to get over Sirius. But after the period of grief, the acceptance of his losses—when the memory of a kiss behind closed eyes doesn't remind him of stormy grey irises and star-struck smiles—maybe…. Maybe.

He knows that he could never love Dora the way he loves Sirius, but maybe, in time, he could learn to be enough. He already loves her, after all—just not the way she might want.

Maybe all he needs is time. He grew to love Sirius while they were friends, and maybe that wasn't a trick of circumstance. Maybe it could happen again. With her.

He'd never be enough to deserve her, but for some reason, she wanted him anyway. Maybe he could try to be that for her.

Maybe.

.oOo.

He finds Sirius in the formal dining room on the first floor. Sirius stands with his back to him, tracing a finger over the still-dusty glass of the grand towered showcase opposite the door. He wonders why Sirius is here—they usually avoid this room like the plague because of how depressing the air here is. No matter how much they clean and disinfect, change draperies and carpets, add mirrors and cheap wall decals, the oppressive heaviness exuded by these walls stays the very same.

"Hey," Sirius murmurs to him, not even looking up. He sees his own distorted reflection outlined in the grimy glass.

"Hi."

"I heard you come in about an hour ago."

"Yeah?"

"Uh hmm."

He fidgets with his fingers. He hates their newfound awkwardness, but this is what they've been reduced to. Months of unresolved arguments—heated words in the middle of the night, silent accusation in their glares, lies slipping off their tongues—and this is how they end up.

He regrets a lot of things in his life, but none more than this stagnant fragility of their relationship. He has watched them fade away, watched their bond break and dissolve and shatter, filled with too much cowardice to change anything about the course their relationship has taken till it's too late.

Is he even remotely in time to glue their pieces back together? How many of those shattered remnants are now lost forever? How many fragments of themselves will they never get back?

He watches as Sirius stares at him through the reflection of the glass, loathe to even turn around to face him. Loathe to even look him in the eyes. He watches as Sirius bites a cracked lip and turns away again, letting his head hang down in resignation—in defeat, his mind screams at him, this is all your fault, you swine—and he makes his choice.

Months of faltering made him come to a decision. A minute in Sirius' depressive presence solidifies it.

And in the blink of an eye, the speech he spent months agonising over wipes itself from his memory like it never existed, and all he's left with is raw, terrifying, debilitating honesty.

Dora had nearly made him change his mind, but he had been right, hadn't he? There is no way out. No way but this.

This is inevitable.

"I can't do it anymore."

Sirius' eyes look up at him. Once, he'd be able to tell exactly what's written in the lines of Sirius' face. Now, those eyes are unreadable.

"Do what?" Sirius' voice is casual and indifferent, but he simply cannot back out now. He needs to do this.

He takes a step forward. "Do… do this." His hands wave around, searching for something, some steadying abstract concept to hold on to. They close around nothing.

His shoulders slump. "What are we doing, Sirius? We take one step forward and three steps behind. We're falling apart. We're… this isn't what we used to be."

At this, Sirius whirls around. "Used to be?" the man demands forcefully, "Remus, we're not the same people we were before. We will never be those people." For but a minute, there's a spark of life in those ever-grey eyes. It brings him hope, but the spark is gone before he knows it and again, he's left with nothing.

"Sirius—"

"No," Sirius spits with half-present venom, "Don't placate me. We're different people now, Remus, and we both knew this going in. We're trying, why can't that be enough? We'll get there when we get there."

He sighs, pained. "Don't you see? The way we're going, we're never going to get there. All we do is fight, Sirius. And that's just the rare times we actually talk. If we continue in this vein… Sirius, I can't lose you. You're all I have."

His voice breaks at the last line. Sirius doesn't even notice.

The spark in Sirius' eyes may have gone, but madness remains. He can see the insanity unleashed within.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, Remus?" Sirius hisses. It doesn't sound like a question.

"Sirius, come on—"

"Ripping away my last shred of stability… I survived Azkaban for you. I did it for you! Everything… all for you…"

Sirius' crazed eyes remind him of that fateful night at the Whomping Willow not long enough ago. He may have thought that there was nothing more terrifying than to see Sirius in that wrecked, tortured state that night; but he now realises that what's even worse is seeing a perfectly healthy, if somewhat emaciated man—an eclipse of his own Sirius—standing before him in quality clothes and groomed hair and eyes that remind him of a wild animal starved for sanity.

The fear he's felt before is incomparable to seeing the man he's known better than the rest of the world, his Sirius, as a mad man.

"Sirius, please."

The plea in his voice has nothing on the plea he knows is in his own eyes, but Sirius is not moved. His guilt does not let up.

"Give us another chance," Sirius says, his voice hoarse but steady. "We'll try… we do things differently. Better. We'll try again. I'll… I'll do more, be more—"

"Don't, Sirius," he stops the man before him before it turns to begging. He's the one who's supposed to beg. Not Sirius. "Please."

Sirius takes a staggering breath to calm himself. When those eyes open again, there's a blank emptiness within that unsettles him.

"Remus."

He swallows.

"I survived twelve years in that hell because I knew I'd eventually get to come to you. I'm sticking around in this house I hate for Harry and for you. No one else, Remus. Just the two of you. I escaped to protect Harry from Pettigrew, but I also came back for you. I've always wanted to come back to you. You were always worth everything."

The memory of Sirius' seventeen year old self comes to him. "We revolve around each other, Rem. I'll always find my way back to you. Always."

"I—"

"I promised you," Sirius interrupts him softly, voice finally wavering. "I promised you that I'd always fight for you. For us. I promised you we'd be together forever. What of those promises, Remus?"

"Together forever, remember?"

"Darling, you deserve the world."

"Keep my heart safe, Rem. Don't let go."

He lets go.

"We're not seventeen anymore, Siri. We've grown up." His heart is breaking, and he's fighting not to show it. It doesn't matter, because Sirius' expression tells it all.

Sirius is silent for a long minute, his head shaking no like he cannot control the reflexiveness of it.

"We're different people now," he tries to continue, trying to make Sirius understand. He's not sure if he'd succeed; he's finding that his own faith in his argument is already shaking. "We're… we're not the same, Siri, and this isn't working. We're breaking ourselves, we can't go on like this—"

"Shut up," Sirius hisses, and his mouth clicks shut in an instant, his eyes growing wider. "Don't give me that, Remus. Don't. Not when you're about to ruin everything we've built."

He feels his temper rising, an irrational edge he thought he'd long buried making itself sharply present. "I'm trying to save us, you incapable child. Where has this silence taken us so far? Huh? Tell me, Sirius. Has our relationship slotted perfectly into place like you always said it would?"

He wants to take his words back the second he sees the hurt reflected in Sirius' face, but the damage has already been done. You incapable child. You gullible fool. You stupid, optimistic fool.

Sirius' anger, however, has already been ignited, faster than the hurt dissipates. "My fault, is it, Remus? When you're the one so eager to run away? It's always been me running to you, me stopping you from leaving, me doing everything I can while you run hot and cold. And now, once again, you're walking away. You coward. You never gave us a chance, and now you're walking away."

Coward. He's a coward. But isn't that the truth? He's always been a coward.

He knows his eyes are blazing. "How can I not?" his voice rises, "How can I stay when you look at me like that? You haunt me, Sirius. Every minute of every day, you're haunting me. And it is driving me insane."

"You? I'm already insane!" Sirius counters, his expression manic. His hoarse voice is alarming. "Look at me! Look at me! Look into my eyes and tell me I'm not already insane."

He swallows. He can't.

"I might already be insane, Remus, but you're the one who's healing me," Sirius continues, his voice only a little softer. "You make me less crazy. You're the last… you're all I have left, Rem. And you make it hurt less. I can't lose you, dammit—"

There's a hand reaching out for him, hovering over his wrist. Waiting to touch.

And it hurts, it hurts to finally see Sirius' true emotions, to see his pain painted raw and unfiltered across his sharpened features, to hear himself being called Rem again. It feels like a knife twisted deeper in his chest, but he can do nothing but fight the pain. He's always been good at fighting pain.

He moves his hand away.

And when Sirius' face falls… he feels a part of him die inside.

"Don't you see?" he responds with a whisper, "we're already losing each other."

"But Rem," Sirius says and stops, like he doesn't know how to continue.

He shakes his head to ward off the tears. "Fifteen years ago," he says, "would you have hesitated to touch me? When have you ever thought twice about touching me, Sirius?"

He doesn't need to look at the other man's face; he knows in his heart what Sirius' answer would be. Never. Not until now. And sure enough, neither does Sirius respond—because the man knows that his expression gives away his answer better than words ever could.

He nods sadly to make his point. "Yeah."

Sirius' eyes are on the floor. "What does this mean for us?"

He takes a breath to respond. "I was thinking… we go back to being friends. There was a time when we were best friends, Siri, and just that. Plain and simple. I think… I think we need plain and simple right now more than anything else."

"That doesn't sound so easy to do, Remus," Sirius answers. "We have too much history."

"We'll just have to find some way of working around that." His words may be firm, but his voice is weary. Sirius picks up on it, his eyebrow flicking up in question. He sighs.

"I'm just… tired, Sirius. I'm tired of being so exhausted. Tired of not knowing how to act around you." Sirius flinches, but his face this time doesn't give away anything. "We've been walking on eggshells around each other for too long, and it's just wrong. You're the one person I never had to bother figuring myself out around. I want to go back to that."

Sirius's eyes feel like lasers as they bore into him, but he doesn't back down or look away. The man sighs, wiping his face of all emotion till even his eyes are blank and empty.

"I suppose this needs to be done," Sirius says with defeat, and the feeling he gets from the man's admittance is bittersweet. "I don't like it, Remus. You need to know that. But I promised myself a long time ago that I would always respect your wishes, and right now, you wish for space. So I'll give you this."

He nods, feeling empty inside himself. He turns to walk away, having nothing more to say.

"Wait, Remus."

He twists around to look over his shoulder. Sirius' eyes are on him again, and this time, his gaze holds more weight. Those empty eyes are starting to show cracks within their emptiness, and what comes through is a mad sort of determination.

"I might be letting you go," Sirius says, voice low and velvet-soft, "but don't for one second think I'm giving up on us. Because I'm not. I'm never going to give you up. I promised you forever, and one day we'll get there."

He swallows, taking in the icy stubbornness in the other man's gaze.

"Okay."

And then he walks out the door, and his job is done. Sirius' blank mask stays in place when he glances back—inscrutable.

He's no stranger to pain. Pain is the word traced upon his heart, etched into his bones, absorbed into the fabric of his thinking. He's learned to live with pain, because he doesn't have the option of living without it. He's adapted to his curse, breaking apart and mending himself and breaking apart again, over and over—he's an old hand at it, and he's intimately familiar with this vicious cycle the way he knows the sound of his own name.

He can heal from this. He'll be alright. He always is.

Why then, as he walks away, does he feel like he's made the single biggest mistake of his life?

And so ends the second arc. Part three will be up soon... when I get around to finishing it (oops?). Don't curse me, things will get better for our favourite boys. Eventually. They just have to work for it.