LENTEN MOON
March 13th 1979
THE BOX
#176
The werewolf rattled around in the little box.
Spine-chilling shrieks turning into howls echoed through the village, where the muggles shivered and told themselves there were no wolves in England.
To Remus, the night was a series of things:
The moon-induced craze that made his eyes roll and his tongue loll and these walls seem like enemies.
Blood—the whitewashed walls stained with it, his paws slipping in it, his muzzle coated in it.
Tortured screams turning into tortured howls.
An itch at the back of his leg (scratching at it; biting at it).
The stench of humans everywhere—all over the room, and the thin bed, and out the window, on himself.
Pain. Painpainpainpainpain.
Painting the walls with blood.
Sculpting his own body with teeth and claws.
Narrating epics in a code of screams.
The Moon was his muse and this room was his canvas and he was an artist and who was there to stop him?
What was there to distract him?
No-one and nothing.
No-one and nothing.
No-one and nothing.
Blood and howls and screams and pain (painpainpainpainpain) and the Moon laughing above.
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March 14th 1979
Sirius watched as he woke, as his eyes shot open, arms flailing for a nonexistent enemy to fight.
"It's me," he said gently. "It's just me, Remus. It's Sirius."
At his name, Remus stilled, letting out his breath in a single hopeless puff.
"Fuck off," he groaned, but the effect was lost to his frail voice.
Sirius laughed before sitting beside Remus on the bed. "How are you feeling?"
The werewolf, as if only just realising he had been healed, looked down his body in confusion. He moved one arm, then the other. One leg, then the other. "Fine," he whispered. "I'm fine."
There was a tension between them that hadn't been present for weeks, a lingering memory (Remus unsure whether it had been real at all in his pre-moon daze) of an electric touch of lips. The phantom of it brushed against his face.
He pushed the phantom away.
"Poppy Pomfrey came over to heal you. She's the Hogwarts nurse. Always sorted me and James out after failed pranks and rough quidditch matches."
"She … healed me?" Remus asked. "With magic?"
"Yes."
Now he looked a little sick, his eyes blown wide and his skin paling dramatically. "What will it do?"
Sirius frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The magic. Will it…" He rubbed at the hem of his shirt. "I dunno. Will it do anything?"
"It healed you. It closed the wounds. It reduced the swelling and bruising. I don't know what you mean, Remus."
"He used to tell us that magic would … mess us up, or something." He looked down at his toes. "I dunno," he said again.
"Well, it won't. Not unless it's a nasty curse. What else did he tell you?"
Remus looked towards the window. "He told us a lot of things."
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March 17th 1979
THE KITCHEN
Three mornings later, when the full moon was nothing but a stuttering ache in his shoulders, Sirius took him downstairs for breakfast. They shared wan smiles on the way down, and Sirius asked how he was feeling, and Remus answered that he was okay.
Remus was led carefully down the most impressive staircase he'd ever seen (not that he'd seen many), and into the kitchen, where Mrs Potter, James, and who he presumed to be Mr Potter were sitting.
He blinked. "Hello."
James grinned broadly, not a trace of mistrust in his hazel eyes. "Remus," he greeted, standing up and gesturing to the seat across from him. "Take a seat. Bacon and eggs this morning. Do you mind scrambled?"
"What?"
His smile didn't waver. "Scrambled eggs?"
"Oh ….. okay. Yeah, that's fine."
As Remus sat, Sirius doing the same beside him, James rose and filled a plate from a series of pans on the stove.
"The house elf's ill," Sirius muttered bitterly. "They're making us cook." Then he gave a proud smile as the plate landed in front of Remus. "I did the bacon."
"You mean you overdid the bacon?" Asked James, poking at a charred piece of meat on his plate. Look at it! Practically charcoal!"
"It is not! It's not burned, it's burnt! All the chefs are doing it nowadays."
Mr Potter sighed and turned to Remus. "You've been inhabiting my house for a month, yet I don't believe we've met. I'm Fleamont Potter."
"Remus."
.
He had lunch with the Potters, and supper, and breakfast the next morning. He was welcome to eat with them every day, they said. Call me Fleamont, call me Euphemia, they said. You're remarkably quiet, Remus, don't be afraid to join in.
He couldn't look at Sirius without noticing that those grey eyes seem to drift back to him far too regularly.
You're not here to make friends, Remus, he told himself.
He didn't go down for lunch.
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THE LIBRARY
March 22nd 1979
He went downstairs for food only when the smell of Mrs Potter's cooking became too irresistible. He worried they wouldn't serve him that exquisite curry if he didn't go down. No matter his stance on making friends, there was only one rule in the Pack about food and that was to devour it.
"Here are some books," said Sirius, coming into his room one day (they didn't lock the door any more). "I thought you might be bored."
The books were stacked high in Sirius's arms, and he put them down on the floor in a heap. "I wasn't sure what you'd like so I just brought my favourites. Try the Hobbit."
He chucked a book at Remus, who caught it on instinct, frowning down at the cover and taking a moment to discover that The Hobbit was its title. "Thanks," he said.
Sirius left with a fond smile, and Remus sat down to read.
.
"Are you alright?"
A head of vibrant red hair poked in the door. "Hello. I don't think I ever introduced myself. I'm Lily. You're Remus, I know." The woman walked into the room, looking around, speaking without taking a breath. "It's a bit drab in here, isn't it? I can ask them to paint the walls if you'd like. We could get some furniture in too, maybe."
He wished the red hair had been black, and the name had been Sirius, and they could talk like they had been doing recently. Lily was different and new, and it was uncomfortable.
"It's fine as it is."
"Aren't you bored?"
"I'm not staying long."
Lily frowned. "Oh. You do realise we can't let you go, don't you?"
He shrugged.
"What're you reading?"
He held up the book for her to see.
"Oh! Brilliant. Can I sit and read my own book here?"
He shrugged again. "If you want."
A minute later she returned; Remus didn't look up as she seated herself in the chair in the corner.
Each word took a long moment to process. He finished another sentence when she said, very suddenly, in a rush as if she was embarrassed, "Can you … are you struggling with that?"
"No," he snapped.
"Honestly. I can help. Do you … can you read?"
"Yes," he gritted out, feeling red flush his cheeks.
"Okay, but … you seem…"
He threw the book onto the floor. "I'm fine," he growled. "Now fuck off, will you? I won't sit here and be insulted. I'm not … I'm not a child. I can read. Just because I'm a werewolf doesn't mean I'm uneducated." His voice, he knew, was threatening.
Lily narrowed her eyes, but marked her page with a folded corner and left.
.
He dreamt of books that come alive. They grinned and narrowed their papery eyes, snapping at him and taunting him. Can you read? Can you read?
"Yes!" he yelled.
Can you read? Can you read?
He woke with tears drying on his cheeks.
The next dream pursued him through his own mind. He stood in a courtroom, in a black throne, with chains wound around his wrists.
(They burn. They're silver. They are alight with the fires of hell. Oh, they burn.)
Chairs rose around him on every side like the pictures of an ancient Roman Colosseum Doc had shown them once.
(Does that make me a Gladiator? Where is my armour? Where is my sword?)
In the chairs were seated hundreds upon hundreds of rabbits, with pointed hats perching between their two velvet ears, a spark of human intelligence on their wide brown eyes.
He was a wolf tried by rabbits. Even in his state of fear, with the pain of the silver cords wrapping around his wrists, he laughed, the sound bubbling from deep in his throat, echoing through the courtroom.
The rabbits were silent, then:
"I do declare that you have no rights, werewolf." The rabbit-in-command said.
"No rights!" the others mimicked, the phrase repeating and repeating until a wall of "No rights!" trapped he and him in was stuck to his seat, pressed in by the gargantuan ringing of the "No rights! No rights!" The cacophony rose and rose and rose.
He woke again.
A wolf tried by rabbits. No rights, his mind whispered to him. No rights.
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March 25th 1979
DUMBLEDORE'S OFFICE
"I want to speak to Dumbledore," he had said. And here he was.
He wasn't certain why he hesitated before the little door. The knocker was in the shape of a gargoyle. It raised an eyebrow in impatience or pity; he wasn't sure.
He wasn't certain why he didn't just walk back down the spiral staircase. He could run now. He could be gone forever, could find his way to the Pack again, could live as he had done.
But he knocked —eventually —and went in.
The office was chaotic. A thousand whirring instruments on every surface, cluttering up the little desks that were spread about the room. The walls could scarcely be seen for the portraits, looking down and Remus with raised noses, whispering werewolf, werewolf. A window was in the opposite wall, a grand gothic arch with unstained glass, with dream-catchers and other trinkets hanging from the curtain rail above. There was an assortment of carpets of varying texture and colour and pattern covering the floor, some of them garish and others impractical shapes. From the ceiling hung lights of all sorts —a chandelier dangled in pride of place in the centre of the room, but fanning out from it were bare bulbs and lumpy lampshades and swinging light fixtures that bathed the room in a mellow light. In a trophy cabinet sat shining awards, from tiny goblets to chest-sized shields. Dumbledore's desk sat across from the door. Beside it was a golden stand upon which sat a bird with plumage like a forest fire. On the desk were three jars of sweets, a stack of papers, a collection of paperweights and the most recent edition of The Times.
"I thought that was a muggle newspaper?" Remus asked first, still lingering in the doorway.
"Under no circumstances is it a bad thing to have more knowledge than necessary," the old man said with a smile. "Do come in, Remus."
He stepped in awkwardly, overwhelmed by the moving objects surrounding him with their whirrs and clicks and buzzes.
"I apologise for the mess. I would say it's normally like this, but that would be a lie."
Remus didn't laugh.
"Take a seat."
He did, eyeing the silver machines by his elbow warily.
"You'd best not touch that, Mr Lupin. Pure silver." Dumbledore held out a far of humbugs in offering, but Remus shook his head. "What is it that you are here for, Remus?"
He looked down with a frown, remembering the lingering echoes of his dream. "What rights does a werewolf have, Dumbledore?"
"Please call me Albus."
"Alright." Remus sighed, locking his fingers together and putting his hands on the desk. "But … what rights do I have compared to a wizard?"
"Not many, I'm afraid."
"Ah. Such as?"
"A werewolf is classified, currently, as a beast rather than as a being. Hence, you haven't the right to call yourself human or ask to be treated as one. A potential employer has the right to know if they are interviewing or hiring a lycanthrope. A werewolf must register with the ministry and report every month for a check-up. A werewolf must bear a registration number branded into their skin with silver. Any establishment has the right not to accept the entrance of a werewolf." A sigh from behind the beard. "Must I go on?"
"No. I … had guessed that." He looked up, meeting those twinkling blue eyes. "It's wrong. It's so, so wrong. No wonder we break the laws. We can hardly live within them. What do they expect us to do?"
Dumbledore didn't answer.
"Die? Do they just want us to hurry up and die already? The bloody hospital has every right to reject us, for fuck's sake!"
No scolding on language. No correction on the facts.
"Without a job, we'll get no money. Without money, how can we afford to find somewhere to transform? If we all tried to follow the bloody rules, there'd be werewolves transformed on the streets and hundreds dead and Turned every month! And what happens to a werewolf if they kill someone?"
Barely a blink from the old man. "Shot through the heart with a silver bullet."
Remus laughed bitterly. "Can't they just curse us? Why do they need to follow the fucking fairytales and use silver bullets? It's a joke! A werewolf's end is to die for the sake of a joke!"
He laughed some more, aware (and not caring) that Dumbledore was sitting and watching his every move. He laughed and laughed and laughed and wondered if he was just a little bit mad.
"I should go now, shouldn't I, Albus? I'm doing it again. I'll just go."
A bitter giggle escaped his throat as he slipped out the door and was apparated by whoever-it-was back to the Potters'.
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March 27th 1979
THE STUDY
Sirius shepherded him into the study where Dumbledore sat in one of two office chairs.
The headmaster smiled. "Take a seat, Remus."
Sirius left.
Remus took a seat and peered down at the paperwork that littered the grand mahogany desk.
"Laws," he muttered.
"Yes," Dumbledore said. "Lycanthrope laws and rights."
"...Why?"
"You seemed keen."
"I am."
"Then why not?"
Remus frowned. "That's not a reason. You want me to do something."
"I'm offering you a chance to do something. How would you like to speak to the Ministry?"
An eyebrow raised in question (Lisa had always complimented his expressive eyebrow movements, though he tried now not to think of her, and of that expression on her face as he was dragged into the river.).
"You can say whatever you want. I know you're passionate. Perhaps you can get through to them. Talk to them about your life. You'd have to lie a bit about who you are, but a lie like that won't hurt anyone. Just tell them your opinions. Tell them they're wrong. Tell them we need a reform."
"What do you get out of this?"
"You're bored, Remus. Bored and passionate and the Ministry is wrong. Only you can get to them. They're only going to listen to a werewolf."
"But they won't listen to a werewolf! That's the point. They think I'm not worth it."
"You are, though, Remus. You are worth it. You just have to tell them that."
.
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He spent hours into that day and the next, poring through book after book and paper after paper, stumbling through technical vocabulary until he understood it, memorising the most trivial of legislation and law until he could proudly declare himself somewhat of an expert of werewolf rights. Moody popped in once, glaring at the paperwork before swiftly leaving again. Dumbledore was in every day with (completely unnecessary) kind words and news from the ministry. Mrs Potter was constantly in and out to prompt him to eat. Lily even stopped in once to read in the corner with him (he still wasn't sure about the redhead.). But it was Sirius, really, who pushed Remus to get to the point where he was ready.
He slumped back in his chair, closing his eyes against the barrage of noisy ideas in his head, feeling a million papercuts on his hands, the ink stains on his nose, the stiffness in his legs from doing so little for so long.
He needed to run. He needed to move.
The door, to his disappointment, only led him into the house, and any door to the outside was locked shut.
He wondered, spinning in the office chair, whether he'd ever been completely free. Free of parents trying to protect you from things you don't know exist, free from Greyback and his rough hands and rougher sex, free from the Order of the Phoenix, who would keep him locked up here for the sake of … what? Information? They surely knew he wouldn't give much more.
Freedom is always just around the corner. Unreachable. Futile.
A knock on the door. He wondered if he had the power to say 'no'. Probably not.
"Come in."
The door opened, but the entrant stayed out of sight. Remus spun to see a head of silky black hair and eyes like the slate of the Peak District.
"Hey," he said.
"Hello," Sirius murmured. "You look awfully bored."
"I am."
"And a little lost."
"Just a little."
"I'll help then. What are you struggling with?"
And the papers came out again, lay across the wood like carcasses for picking at. Remus wondered if that made them vultures. Then he wondered when he had begun to do so much bloody thinking.
He looked over at Sirius and wished they could stay like this all day —just the two of them, trying to sort one legislation from another. The thought of it was strangely comforting
God, he needed to get out of here.
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April 1st 1979
THE HAIR SALON
The snip snip snip of the scissors and Mrs Potter's tuneful humming were the only sounds in the kitchen. Remus sat on a chair, curls a little damp, looking uncomfortable as Mrs Potter bustled around him, trimming what needed to be trimmed and hacking off what needed to be hacked off.
The hair drifted to the floor like feathers from a shot pheasant as it plummeted. Mrs Potter's fluffy slippers shuffled through the piles of shawn-off curls, kicking them to the sides, letting them scatter. Remus fixed his eyes to the floor, wondering whether letting Mrs Potter do this—cut off a part of himself—was letting her mould him, letting the Order change him. His neat haircut, his clean face, his new clothing … was it all an attempt to turn him into one of theirs? A tame werewolf, desperately trying to fit in?
It felt like every snip of the scissors tore away another part of his life with the Pack.
He brushed away the thought. Surely a tame werewolf could never be so outspoken as to be seen at the Ministry? Could be so dangerous as to need a guard and a prison and an entire organisation watching over him?
I am not tame, he vowed to himself. I will not be here forever. Finally, he looked at Mrs Potter, who had shuffled back to survey her work. I belong to no wizard. I belong to no witch.
"It looks lovely, Remus," she said, a smile creasing the skin near her eyes. "Awfully smart."
"Thank you," was the brusque reply before he stood, brushed the hair off his lap, and walked back to his cell.
.
His hair gleamed like spun gold where the light struck him. It was out of his eyes now, and the golden irises glittered, bare and visible. Remus bit his lip and frowned in concentration at the paper before him.
Sirius tore his eyes away and continued down the corridor.
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INTERLUDE
Sirius had been convinced all through school that he was broken. Not that he'd admit it, of course—not even to James—because it was brought on by a fact that ashamed him.
He first had sex in fifth year, fumbling in a disused classroom with Marianne Greenwoden. James had told him the day before she had the best tits in the school, and Sirius had nodded along, not really knowing or caring what made them so great compared to any other. He told James afterwards that he had been wrong; Marianne Greenwoden's breasts had disgusted him, as had everything about her body.
He tried again, and again and again, and even the long-legged, olive-skinned beauty that was Marlene McKinnon (in the year above them, no less!) could fit his preferences.
Preferences which he didn't discover until after they'd left school. Early 1988 had brought the revelation.
"Bloody hell, Jamesie, I've worked it out—I'm gay!"
James had laughed. "I know."
Sirius, eyes wide, had gaped. "What?!"
Hazel eyes glittered behind thick glasses. "It's rather obvious, mate. Seventh year, you were obsessed with that Ravenclaw bloke, and I tried to tell you, but … you honestly didn't realise?"
"Why didn't you bloody tell me, you utter prat?!" And Sirius had punched him in the arm, and James had tackled him to the ground, and soon enough they were panting on the floor, laughing, and their eyes had met, and James said:
"I still love you, you know. As a mate. As a brother. I don't care who you shag, just don't do it in my bed and you're fine."
Naturally, Sirius's first proper shagging was on James's bed.
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April 3rd 1979
THE MINISTRY
The bricks were bottle green and the floor shone like a mirror. The shoes of a million wizards and witches made no blemish on the unnatural sheen. Remus found himself looking down, watching the contact of his borrowed shoes on the tiles, examining the distant shape of his head, his curls neatened and face scrubbed, looking more respectful than he ever would've thought possible.
He looked like a different man. He felt like a different man. Dress robes swung around his ankles, and he thought of the posh wizards they had so often thrown stones at when he was a child with the Pack. A briefcase full of paperwork sat heavy in his hand, and he thought of someone smart, someone who can fight a battle with words, someone eloquent and intelligent and educated. Mr Potter had given him a sparkling watch for the day which hung off his bony wrist like a shackle. As if he knew how to tell the time.
Remus was hiding in the clothes of a wizard. A wolf in sheep's clothing, he supposed.
They reached the lift —he was with Moody and Lily, and they had never felt more like strangers —and he could feel the strumming of his heart in his head, quivering through his body, fluttering at his wrists and neck. A single bead of sweat was building below his collar. Were those nerves? Was nervousness possible with no noise, no tangy smell of blood, no Greyback leering from behind his shoulder?
They were going down, he thought, down deep into the belly of the beast. The lift was dark and slow. It shuddered unsteadily. The mirror behind him was, yet again, too clear. The buttons on the side lit up when pressed, rings like little glowing eyes.
Walking out, through labyrinthine corridors. Stopping far too soon at a little black door.
"Go on," Moody growled, then lowered his voice. "And remember: they don't know who you are. We've forged some paperwork to say you're a registered werewolf."
Remus took a breath, brushed his fingers against his lapel, and went in.
It was nothing like he had expected. Just a little room, with a couple of rows of seats at one side and a single desk at the other. It looked as if it had been put together hastily by someone who had forgotten the job had to be done.
A few not-very-important-looking Ministry workers sat in the seats. The front row was vacant.
"Mr Lupin?" Queried a man close to the door.
"Yes," he said.
"Take a seat at that desk. The others will be through presently."
'Presently' was twenty minutes. Shuffled papers. Twiddled thumbs. Tapped feet.
It turned out that the others were the important ones because when they came in, the present officials fell silent and sat still. One particular woman wore a great big pair of robes lined in fur, with a gold piece around her neck and a pointed hat on her head.
"Mr Lupin," she said once seated, her voice sounding dry and lacklustre. "I am Ormaline Tanning of the Beasts Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. You, Remus Lupin, have requested to present your views on several laws regarding werewolves today. You have half an hour. Please begin."
So he started to speak.
"First of all, there are reasons why werewolves don't register, and there are reasons why half of your laws simply won't work."
The ministry workers —even Ormaline Tanning —were leaning 'round to see each other, chatting amongst themselves, even sharing a bag of crisps between them.
Remus cleared his throat. "There's … where was I? … there's a reason that…"
Still, they fidgeted and talked to each other. Not one of them was watching. Not one of them cared.
Raising his voice, he started again. "The laws are…" he sighed. "They're…"
Talking and talking and eating, the crunch of the crisps carrying all across the room, the smell of the salt, the smell of alcohol on the breath of the diminutive woman at the back, the book hidden in that man's lap, the conversation about yesterday's lunch between the young couple in the corner.
"Can you please…"
Crunch. Those crisps again. The Latina looking at her watch. The redhead with her hand sliding up her partner's thigh. The man with the beard, leaning all the way around to listen to others speaking.
"What I'm trying to say is…"
He couldn't get the words out. Not when no-one was listening. Not when Ormaline Tanning of the Beasts Division of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was laughing at a joke from the woman behind her.
"Will you…can you just..." he took a breath. "JUST TAKE YOUR BIGOTED HEADS OUT OF YOUR BIGOTED ARSES AND BLOODY WELL LISTEN TO ME!"
Silence. They looked to him, eyes wide, brows arched, looking like rabbits in the headlights.
"Thank you," he said. "You've just proved to me what the main issue with the Ministry's view on werewolves is." They were listening now, embarrassed. "You think, because we are beasts, because we turn into a wolf for a few hours a month, that we are not worth listening to. Because I am a werewolf, I cannot be educated. I cannot have anything to think about but simple animalistic desires. But the truth is, we are people too. You never think to ask the werewolves themselves about the new regulations. Because, of course, they'll have nothing to say. They won't care because they're animals. They're beasts. But you're wrong! We have feelings. And we realise how ineffective your regulations and laws are."
He looked around. Eyes fixed on him. "Do I not look human to you?
"All employers are to be notified about lycanthropy in all possible new employees. Because of the stigma around our kind, do you think those employers will hire a werewolf over a regular witch or wizard? No, that's the answer. A lycanthrope has no chance of getting hired under that legislation. Therefore no chance of earning money. Therefore no chance of being able to earn food, no chance of being able to earn a house or a place to spend the full moon in. Another law states that all werewolves must transform in a secure location of Ministry-approved standards. If the werewolf has no money, how can they hope to afford somewhere up to those standards? Do you see? Following one law makes it impossible to follow another. Following all of these laws is suicide, because if the werewolf has spent all of their money on a place to transform, where is the money for healing potions? Wounds from a captive werewolf on a full moon can be fatal if not treated."
Was that dawning understanding he could see on their faces? Or was he just absurdly optimistic?
He went on. By the end, walking out with adrenaline making his hands shake and his legs feel like springs, he couldn't quite remember what he had said, only that it made him feel strong and powerful and like he was doing something. Actually doing something.
.
.
Moody smiled at him when he left him at the Potter Manor. It was a nasty expression on the man's face, like another scar across his beaten skin, but it was a smile all the same, and Remus took it with one of his own.
For the first time, he walked into his prison with a grin on his face. He couldn't wait to tell Sirius all about it.
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April 6th 1979
THE PARTY
Another pureblood do. Diamonds encrusted in the hems of dresses and opals weaved into hair. Onyx hanging off ears and emeralds on the tops of shoes. A jewellery shop for a thief, Sirius thought. But what I'm stealing isn't anything so material.
His mother had told him, just two days ago at last count, to look out for women at parties such as this. He danced with no less than seven eligible girls, each blushing and mentioning their necklaces when all they wanted was for him to take a look at their cleavage. Not that they'd admit that and not that he would ever care. But they'd danced and he had flirted and they'd blushed and laughed some more, twirling across the polished floor with unnecessary flourishes at each turn. He'd told them secrets, whispered in their ears.
(Bellatrix is scared of the dark.)
(Rodolphus is scared of Bellatrix.)
(Someone's slipped firewhiskey in the leftmost bottle of wine.)
(The canapés here are delicious but don't touch the caviar. They bought it a whole three days ago.)
The girls would giggle as if they cared, and he'd say:
"What about you? Any secrets in that pretty little head of yours?"
And the girls would blush even more, and they'd lean forward, and they'd tell him things. Most of the time it was trivial, about fake sapphires on Cresilda's new shoes or muggle spray in Milly's hairdo, but once in a while, from girls like this at parties like this (after a few glasses of champagne, of course), they'd start talking about so-and-so and the whore he was seeing, or how that woman over there? she hadn't turned up to parties like these in months and why was she here today? because the baron's here and they're involved.
Gossip was an essential part of the job.
He was dancing with a girl in a saffron dress (not her colour at all) when he did the trick again.
He leaned into her with the smile that always worked. "Do you want to hear a secret?"
She blushed, leaned forwards. "Alright."
"I'll whisper it into your ear."
With a giggle, she leaned further, until they were practically hugging, her chin on his shoulder and his mouth to her ear. "You see the man with the scarlet robes?"
"Yes."
"His shoes were bought on sale from Malkin's."
"Madam Malkin's?" she gasped. "But that's where the commoners go."
Her skin was flawless, and for a moment, Sirius wished for some scars. He wished for her chest to be flat and her shoulders to be broad and her hair to be short amber curls.
He shook the thought away. "I know."
"And … a sale! That's disgraceful! Who is he?"
"A friend of the minister. Rabastan invited him. Trying to get chummy with the big faces." He paused. "What about you? What's the gossip? No-one tells us boys anything."
She giggled, then narrowed her eyes, as if she had to think to dig out some gossip. "Well, there was one thing…"
"Yes?"
"You know the Carrow's do in April? The one that was cancelled?"
"Mmmmhmmm."
"There are rumours that it's because there's something else going on."
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. It's all just gossip. You probably won't be interested anyway."
"Go on," he said, laughing. "What're the girls saying?"
"They say … there's some sort of another meeting. We reckon it's another party that they just want certain people going to. It's all very hush-hush, just the important ones invited."
"...Important?"
"The Inner Circle. You know."
"Ah. Well, I'm fascinated. What is this party? Where is it?"
She laughed. "Surely you don't want to go! It's all the stuffy ones who are going. All the older men, plus others … the positively beastly ones like…" she trailed off.
"Lestrange?"
"Yes," she whispered. "I didn't want to say. Because you're cousins and all."
"That's alright. She is a little scary."
The music trailed off, the waltz turning into something slower, and Sirius excused himself.
Snatching a glass of champagne from the drinks table, he settled himself in the corner and surveyed the guests.
The Inner Circle. Some sort of … well, another meeting. Certain people. Positively beastly. Older men, the stuffy ones. The Inner Circle. Certain people. The Inner Circle. Another party. Cancelled. Positively beastly. Meeting. The Inner Circle. Very hush-hush. The important ones.
Something was going on.
"Getting quite cosy with Himmeldine Grey, weren't you, cousin?"
He jumped, looking up into a pair of black eyes "Bella," he said with a smile. "Didn't see you earlier."
Bellatrix Lestrange smiled like a python as it squeezed the life out of it victim. "I was occupied. Extremely important business in Leeds. It's a long way to apparate, you know."
"Good time?"
"You'll see," she cackled, curls bouncing as she threw her head back. "In a couple of days, you'll see."
He didn't like the smile on her face. "I suppose I will. Enjoy the party."
"You too, little cousin. You too."
.
.
April 7th 1979
THE CONFESSIONAL
Sirius sat down beside Remus's bed with a huff.
"Y'alright?" asked the werewolf with a frown.
"Fine," Sirius said. "Tired."
"D'you want the bed? You're welcome to it."
"It's fine."
"Really, take it. I won't sleep for hours anyway. I want to finish this book."
He looked at Remus for a moment, before sighing in relief. "Thanks," Sirius breathed, climbing beneath the sheets as Remus rolled out. The bed was mercifully warm where Remus had lain.
Sirius, feeling his eyelids drop like weights, sunk into the comfort of the bed, the other man's remaining warmth wrapping around him like another blanket. He wondered, briefly, if it would be warmer if Remus had remained, then wondered if that was a strange thing to wonder about, and then wondered whether he should test it out. Before he could decide, however, he slipped, quietly, peacefully, softly, into sleep.
.
Remus, sitting at his bedside, resisted the temptation to brush a strand of black hair out of Sirius's eyes. The man was breathing deeply and evenly, quite clearly asleep. Would he wake from the movement of a single strand of hair? Would he wake from a brush of lips on his cheek? Would he wake if Remus lay beside him and bound an arm around his waist?
Remus shook himself. This was the guard of his prison, of his hell. This was the man keeping him locked up here, away from his home, from the pack, from Lisa, his best friend who he had barely thought about all month. For a moment he felt guilty. Then he just felt sad.
There is nothing so melancholy as forgetting your only friend.
It was stupid, he thought, to be so enamoured with his captor. Stupid. This man would have him tamed like any other wolf in wizarding society. This man would let him tear himself apart, would give him no prey, no hunt. This man, eventually, would kill him, whether he meant to or not.
Stupid, Remus repeated to himself. Stupid.
What am I doing?
He couldn't help but remember the night before the last full moon. Had he been delirious? Was that kiss from Sirius simply a hallucination?
Somehow, reaching a hand up to touch his lips now, he knew it hadn't been.
Still reminding himself it was stupid (so, so stupid, Lupin), he reached over, touched his lips to Sirius' cheekbone, and moved back warily.
Thinking, worrying, hating himself (stupid, Remus. It's stupid.), he stayed awake all night, barely tearing his eyes away from that spot on Sirius' cheek that he had kissed.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.
.
.
Sirius woke the next morning and seeing Remus's sleeping form on the chair beside him, left as soon as possible. He felt vaguely abashed for taking the werewolf's bed for the night, but even more was a sense of confusion, and one of embarrassment. What decent guard takes the inmate's bed and sleeps while the said inmate can do whatever he sees fit? Remus could've escaped. Remus could've killed him.
Walking down the corridors, he marveled how he had slept so well that night. For the last year or so, every night had brought dreams of what he had seen as a spy among the Death Eaters, dreams of what could happen to the Potters, dreams of darkness and death and slavering werewolves and the cackling laugh of Bellatrix Lestrange. Last night, in an unfamiliar bed, in the lingering warmth of where a werewolf had sat, he had slept soundly.
Perhaps he needed a change of scenery once in a while.
Perhaps, something whispered deep inside, you just need Remus once in a while.
Shut up, he told himself.
But he couldn't deny the pull that told him to go back, to speak to Remus, then to shag him silly Or be shagged silly.
Shut up, he told himself again. Just shut up. Please shut up.
.
Sirius spent the rest of the day in confusion. It had come to him in a rush the night before —the realisation —and now he was processing it, working through the barrage of thoughts and emotions one at a time.
In the evening, he was pacing the corridors, watching his reflection in the windows, watching the shapes the dust made on the sills, waving his fingers through the light of the waxing moon. He was thinking, still, and as he passed Remus's door …
Damn it. Damn it all.
He went straight in, closing the door behind him, and seeing Remus sitting on the edge of the bed, he darted forward and pressed himself into him.
They met in a collision of fire and light.
Lips against lips, biting and pulling, sweet against Sirius's tongue. Their bodies slotted together and crashed at the edges, and there was heat, heat, heat, and rushing blood through his head and rushing blood through his veins and hands on his chest, his hips, his thighs, tangled in his hair.
The night was sweet and rough and skin-on-skin while clothing lay like autumn leaves on the floor.