I wrote this a while back. Due to JK's insufferable slowness in releasing
the fifth book (don't get at me for that, I only say what is true, and it's
too her credit), I'm unable to write anything set after the fourth book in
anymore security than my own speculation. I'm incredibly unsure of what
might be happening beyond that the book will be called The Order of
Phoenix, or something similar, and so this is set in one of the first
meetings held for the Phoenixes, probably fairly soon after the fourth book
ends. The facts will therefore be incredibly shaky, but I'm more concerned
with Remus and Sirius' friendship, and of course, my own original character
I've inserted. Oh, and if anyone wants to call her a mary sue, feel free -
it's no loss to me.
Remus There were several people there that he didn't recognise. In addition to the original Phoenix members, now also present were three or four others - selected specifically by Dumbledore for their expertise, so Sirius had told him. They had barely had the time to speak before the urgency of the meeting had called them all into this one room, and Remus was finding occasional difficulty in concentrating on what was being said - he was too anxious to speak to Sirius alone, too impatient to catch up on twelve ageing years, to listen to the details. He tried to focus, but his mind was in turmoil. Sirius didn't seem to suffer these problems; he was listening attentively to Arabella Figg, eyes never straying with either curiosity or restlessness, brow dipped in a serious frown. The dark expressionless eyes were static, still hollowed by those horrific years in Azkaban. As ever, he remained comfortably where he had placed himself, fitting in with the surroundings so naturally as to have been there all his life. All those years spent in that prison though - surely that had been different? No one could adjust to life there; a living hell was the only way to describe it. But the phrase fell dull on the horror Remus could only imagine his friend to have endured. How could he, an observer, even begin to describe how it might feel? The prisoner himself would have a thousand reminisces, each one ten times worse than any cliché expression an outsider could dream up. It must have been unbearable, he thought; but he could only know how unbearable if the man actually told him. He hadn't spoken directly about it yet, the close terror still too stark in his memory. What appalling conditions had he really suffered? How intolerable had twelve years of false justice proved? Remus caught himself staring at the door. He felt very aware suddenly: the only one in the room not wholly focussed. How could he have let his thoughts run off when such terrible things were at stake? Self-consciously he flicked his eyes to Arabella, and resolved not to look away again until she had finished. But shamefully, he thought the effort must show - nobody else took such pains to focus straight ahead and look alert. To everyone else it came naturally. To him - to sensible, logical, focussed Remus - this had always come naturally. What was different now from all the years before? His best friend was in the room, he supposed, that was what. The best friend he not been allowed to think of for twelve years, whose experiences he couldn't bear himself contemplate, whose innocence he had condemned along with every other deceived person - he, whose loyalty alone should have denounced that jury's decision - his friend, that school companion from whom he had been apart from longer than together: that friend was in the room now, practically opposite him, not more than two metres apart. His friend was here, his friend. To whom he owed so much and gave so little, took so much and repaid so poorly - there he was, just across the room. There he was listening, listening immovably to everything being said, the one person that still, after all these years of torment, they could undoubtedly trust. That man was there at that moment, silent like the rest of them; his friend, independent and attentive now only to what had to be done; only two metres apart and yet so very far away, both his best friend and most distant acquaintance; and Remus sat three yards opposite him and felt less than half the man. Less than quarter. He wasn't needed to confide in, he wasn't needed to be reliable. He couldn't even concentrate when times were so desperate and peoples' lives could be held on the outcome of this one meeting. He was looking absently round the room without hearing a word, dwelling on events he had no right to intrude on. Sirius had his own business now, that was clear. Twelve years, and loss of faith - that was not remedy for a broken friendship, but the ending of a meaningless one. It was sad, so terribly sad. In Azkaban, in misjudgement, in faithlessness: in all of this he had lost his friend.
Sirius Apart from those he had not known before, he remembered every one of these people. When he last seen them they had been younger, of course, and very, very different - but he remembered them. Of course he did; they were part of the one connection he had with reality in that hell-forsaken pit. His memory, that had always been part of him: that was where the real world had lain, still breathing in his consciousness, still finding space in a mind which contracted smaller with every filthy year. Every second that passed brought with it even greater despair, and the sickening feeling that those precious cubic inches of sanity were compressing all the while. When he closed his eyes: that was worst. When he knew he would succumb to his subconscious, knowing any madness could prevail. His innocence - yes, that unchanging innocence, that had dragged him through the years. Knowing he was not guilty, knowing they had never proved it on trial, that was his salvation. And maybe the innocence too was as of yet unproven, but it was innocence nonetheless, and it was sanctifying. He was listening to Arabella, but not absorbing anything. Everyone sat round, quiet and sincere, and amidst all the feelings in his head he couldn't find it in himself to listen to this and nothing more. Remus leaned against a table opposite, the picture of attentive composure. One leg folded neatly over the other, right hand fitting neatly above the left; this man would look calm in the clutches of a manticore. His head inclined a little to one side, suspended with such precision that the air could have been its invisible cushion. The expression in his face was so intensely placid (if such a thing was possible) so unexaggerated in its concentration, Sirius wondered if he could ever prove so capable as this man to whom he had been a sudden stranger for twelve years. His service could never be as valuable as Remus' would inevitably be, could not even hope to promise such worthwhile dedication to the cause. Remus would do everything that had to be done, and more. He would be both the priceless individual and selfless group member, whilst he, Sirius, would try after all these years, to help in some way, with little final significance. Jokes and smiles, laughter and a good time - that had always carried him through before. But now that throwaway joviality had disintegrated, and what was needed now was brains, not a clown. He was clever; he had always been clever. But cleverness was not required any longer. What was essential to the focus of this operation was the type of casual intensity that Remus carried all the time; the silent expression, mild regard, vague intrigue - whilst behind, all the while, was that unprecedented mental interrogation that no one could guess at till he chose to disclose it. Sirius had always respected Remus, but how to say so? As a boy it had no sincerity, as a young man no lasting worth - and of course Sirius himself had been deprived of most of that youth. And now? How did he tell him now? How did he convey the deep respect that had ingrained in him since those school years, consistent despite its insincerity and worthlessness? He was scared to an extent: scared of being shunned. Doubtless Remus would not accept it in any case. His modesty, that had always been one intolerable flaw. And of course there was always that small chance that he had not entirely forgiven Sirius for those longs years of deprivation, sparked from each one's mistrust. They had both believed the other to be an agent of Voldemort, and twelve unjust years can be time enough for either forgiveness or irredeemable resentment. Sirius admired, above all other things, Remus' ability to conceal his feelings - but he could never access them if they were hidden, and if it was never clear what separated motivation of the face from motivation of the mind. His friend was looking aged now, worn by innumerable transformations and everything else derived from them; the lack of employment, the constant weak health, the apprehension from others, or else, (if he kept from them the truth) the impossibility of any intimacy: these all contributed to the lines now etched in his face, surrounding mouth, eyes, forehead. He's looking years older than me, thought Sirius, and we're only months apart. He himself had managed to scrub up by now - a few baths, a decent shave, a long-awaited haircut and a respectable set of clothes had raised him from looking so destitute, but on Remus it ran deeper than hair length and physical appearance. Fatigue was under his skin, untouchable by any material aid. It was more than just physical weariness: it was tiredness at life itself. Sirius could see each line had worn itself there with a separate worry, the pallor of his skin paled with each added problem. Really, he thought sadly, he looks terrible, but he puts on such a brave face with that indifferent approach that no one notices like they should. He forced himself back into reality and out of sympathy. If needed he help, he would come, considered Sirius. But would he, after so many years? It now been so long since their friendship, Remus' facades were even working on the one person who thought himself able to see through them. Yet as he stood across the room, so capable, he was unavoidably wearying, and still the closed teenage boy that he had been all those years ago.
Remus The discussion had moved on now; various people were participating and Remus had even put forward his opinion sometimes, usually backed by Sirius. It reminded him how close their thoughts had once been, and to avoid such melancholy remembrances he quickly found another preoccupation. There could only be ten or twelve of them in the room. Dumbledore's presence was domineering as always, ever the voice of reason, the unelected chair of the debate. The other original members were confident just the same, and Remus' attention switched unknowingly to the strangers amongst them. They were taking an active part just as much as their colleagues, but there was something very reserved about one of them, her seat set discreetly to one side. The other unknowns comprised of two men and one other woman, but this last woman was much less outspoken. She didn't seem shy; she seemed locked in concentration certainly, and taking careful note of all arguments as though installing them in her mind, but nothing in her nature joined itself with coyness - rather, controlled intrigue. Her chair was not set so far back as to be rude, but it was easy to exclude her unknowingly. There was parchment on her lap, though empty of words as far as Remus could see. But looking at the integrity in her face, he knew that everything of relevance being said now would be transcribed in perfect detail onto the parchment in hindsight. He didn't know how he knew it: he just knew. She had a strange face, nothing unremarkable in composition, nothing overtly strange in features. A rather predominant nose fell down between two pale, studious eyes. High cheekbones gave her a very pronounced jawbone, which ran perhaps too long on the flat of her chin; but the face was still long and rounded, not square. Tinted skin along with noticeably dark eyebrows suggested foreign nationality, but the clues were so scarce Remus could guess no more than that. The heaviness of the eyebrows was only noted next to the thick blonde hair, which ran in grains of lights and darks. The complexion was a lived one, marked with small scars and imperfections, used as skin is meant to be used on a person, not pampered and plastered in makeup. The thin trails of lines mapping mouth and eyes only fortified this impression. Evidently this woman had experienced things worth noting. But the term of experience was indefinite - how old was she? It was impossible to say. The lines could indicate slow ageing of a woman forty or more, but could equally justify a well-worn thirty-year-old. But she didn't look thirty, she looked older. Remus couldn't tell why he thought this, but again, he just knew. By the grooves beginning to pull back on the curve of her mouth, it seemed that her features preserved themselves, failed only by the effects gained by too much expression. Smiling had caused those two half-moons either side of her mouth, nothing else could have done. Scowling would have only reacted against her forehead - although looking closely, Remus could notice the little frown of concentration bunch two growing indents where each eyebrow sprouted. But smiling was ultimately the cause of that weathering, and it complimented her, when you thought what it had sprung from. Lines induced by happiness and not by worry, they were an asset, not a flaw. Too much smiling, thought Remus wistfully, what a beautiful thing on which to lay blame for too swift an ageing. She was not smiling now. In fact, looking at the concentration embedded in her expression, Remus found it impossible to imagine her smiling. The concentrating eyes, the natural integral slope of her forehead, her mouth, lips suspended millimetres apart in rapt concentration - these all forbade that ghost smile to take form. She looked slightly perplexed, he thought, focussed as she was, and in that moment seemed as though she would remain serious forever. The concrete solidity of expression, matched with the static intensity of her eyes, seemed as immovable as if it had been sculpted; and surely nothing could alter the steadiness of her countenance, such as she was staring now. She had never smiled, he was sure, and would never do so. The two slips of laughter lines were false evidence planted by age, not by happiness. Her eyes, focussed ahead, would never move without purpose. But suddenly they did just that. Dumbledore was speaking - talking of the necessity of identifying all those involved in the Dark Arts - and instantly, as though reading his thoughts, the woman's gaze was on Remus. In one blink it was transferred back to Dumbledore, but for fleeting second it had been upon him, and he was intrigued more than ever by this indecipherable creature. She might have been smiling now - the two grooves were certainly stretching themselves hopefully - but immediately she was discussing something closely with the wizard at her side, and the expression, along with the brief glance, had vanished. Remus pulled himself back to real times and allowed himself to be drawn into debate with Mundungus Fletcher. Sirius was nearer the woman, now involved in the conversation between her and her companions. Faces were grave all around. Remus strove to look focussed. But he couldn't quite master his thoughts, and felt that if only he could speak to the woman at some point, everything might begin to make sense.
Sirius He hadn't much to add to the conversation really. They were deliberately abstaining from asking too many probing questions of him, for which he was glad; but at the same time he felt this was the only worthwhile insight he could offer. They covered the possible movements of Voldemort now that his power was reinstated, but it was vague speculation, and nothing concrete. The woman sitting to the side wasn't adding much. She would say some response to an idea or question, but somehow each answer only resulted in another question, and she was never the one to reply to that second one. She flicked occasionally through thin parchment on her lap, but the movement was very discreet, and not one to be asked after. Just at the moment when her silence might be noticed, she seemed to reappear in the discussion, only to fall quiet as soon as her participation was no longer needed. The others she seemed to know already, although she treated Sirius no differently. They were variously aged; the two wizards, one younger than Sirius and one distinctly older, were well informed and helpful; the witch was middle-aged and small. The younger wizard looked as though some foreign influence may run in his blood, but never so much as his female colleague, whose dark eyebrows and pronounced features were undoubtedly European. She looked very much like she was caught between the Muggle society and the wizarding one; she had on a dark green witch's robe, but underneath that her clothes were unashamedly Muggle. Sirius was cautious of appearing both unhelpful and ignorant. He daren't ask too many details of what he didn't know, and he had less and less to offer on the issues raised. His feelings were strong, passionately strong: but his knowledge did nothing to rival that, and was - as he increasingly realised - embarrassingly limited. Remus looked in his element, if it was conceivable that his expression could show any such delight, and he was deeply endorsed in the conversations surrounding him. He would have plenty to offer, no doubt, and all of it valid. How Sirius envied him. But envy was the wrong word; he felt no such thing. He had such immovable respect for the man that no desire to have something he owned would ever alter. He would never feel so badly because of such trivial reasons. After twelve years of lost contact, he would let nothing jeopardise the years they had left. In such perilous times as these no future was guaranteed, and the friendship had to be secured today, not put off until tomorrow. With the tasks they were undertaking, there might not be a tomorrow. Time was not to be wasted away with resentful feelings. The discussions and debates at length simmered down, and soon the question of when the meeting to a close was broached. The decision to leave it now and reunite in one week's time was unanimous. People said their necessary partings, some exchanging relative documents to be examined over the course of the week. Sirius himself asked for nothing; he gave a friendly smile to the woman and her colleagues as they passed by, and waited for everyone to leave. Ever observant, Dumbledore moved over to him as the rest moved out of the room. He smiled wanly. "Speculating, Sirius?" Sirius smiled distractedly and shook his head. "No. Merely waiting for the crowd to thin a little." "A larger turn-out than was once involved," said Dumbledore. "Yes, where have they all come from?" Dumbledore sighed. "Various departments - most involved at some point with foreign ministries. We need them Sirius; this is a crisis to the entire wizarding world. They've all got skills of some sort, and experience, as far as I can gather - though I know you wouldn't think it, to look at some of them. They're jeopardising quite a good deal by consenting to be here today; most ministries are reluctant as Fudge at the moment, and will not take kindly to their members being involved with this operation." "So some are currently employed overseas?" "One or two. Miss Mikultsin, whom you met just now, and Mr Asnikov are both heavily involved with their native ministries, certainly, but the rest have all had connections in the past. Previous rifts must now be cast aside. This battle against the Dark Lord may well become a war, and we can't afford to have quarrelling allies." Sirius closed his eyes tiredly. "You don't have to tell me." Dumbledore's face became concerned. "How are you coping Sirius? I trust you have taken my advice and given yourself a little shred of time to yourself?" Sirius tried to dodge an answer. "Well.you know how it is." "When did you last sleep?" Sirius reluctantly answered truthfully. "About two days ago. I'm fine." "Have you seen Harry?" "Not recently. He needs to concentrate on his schoolwork." "I can always arrange for you to see him, Sirius - he would appreciate a visit." Sirius' head snapped up, eyes open in sudden concern. "Has something happened?" Dumbledore gave a wry smile. "Not as of yet; though given the boy in question, I'm sure some adventure will present itself in the not too distant future. But no, nothing has happened; he would just like to see his godfather, I know." Sirius stood up uneasily and picked up his cloak from the chair's back. "I'll see him shortly, when I can. This is no adventure. I only hope he realises that." Dumbledore stood back, sensing the conversation was drawing to a close. "He realises it very well Sirius, he will not do anything rash. I can keep an eye on him, you needn't worry; what should could concern you is your own health. Are you still at Remus's?" "From time to time." Dumbledore sighed. "Well just make sure your self-awareness doesn't slip. Be conscious of your capabilities Sirius, no one is expecting miracles of you. Your experience in Azkaban was appalling, but no one thinks any less of you for it. Please don't strive to prove yourself. Every person here has unfailing confidence in you already." Sirius nodded gratefully and - cloak bundled under his arm - held the door ajar. "I just hope that confidence isn't misplaced," he said quietly, and walked out. He was sincerely thankful to Dumbledore for raising the issue of his godson, and being sympathetic to his position. He was still a convicted criminal in the eyes of the Law, if you could be called that after being given no trial. He was still largely relying on the charity of others, a most humiliating thing if perfectly competent at caring for yourself. Dumbledore was right though. He mustn't push himself to far, wanting to prove himself. There was always a danger that he might not achieve all he set out to. Better to excel in people's hopes, than to crush them and fall short.
Remus He had deliberately left before the new arrivals to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He waited round a nearby corridor and watched them then go past, but they didn't see him, and he said nothing. He supposed he had better wait for Sirius; no sure plans had been finalised tonight, and Remus would rather know before the event whether his friend would need a bed for the night. Dumbledore had not come past, and guessing that the two had lingered to discuss private matters, Remus had respectfully waited at a corner and not by the door. At length his friend emerged alone. Something reminiscent of the long- forgotten grin played on his face as he took up fast pace next to Remus. "I saw you looking at her." Remus tried to look aloof. "I'm sorry?" "Don't act all innocent; I saw you looking." "At who exactly?" Remus was still feigning ignorance rather disastrously: deceit had never been his forte. Sirius drew a deep breath. "At her - the new Phoenix." "I'm not sure they're official phoenixes -" "Don't change the subject, I saw you looking." Remus didn't reply for a little while. Eventually he said, "And?" "Ha! I knew I was right." "You always believed you were." Sirius looked indignant. "I usually was." Remus looked typically patronising and twice as mature. "My point exactly." The walk then had to be continued in silence, each suffering too nostalgic a recollection of their schooldays, when arguments such as that had been frequent and carefree. There had been two others then: one a traitor, the other dead by that treachery; and they themselves had nearly been torn apart by it, thinking the other to be the faithless one. Now their number was half what it once was, and the memory of their friends, both lost, deadened the old joviality as it sounded on their lips. The manner became business-like once more. "Are you staying at mine tonight?" "I have some things to sort out - I'll be in touch in a few days time. Until then I shan't need anything." "Please let me know before you go in the house. Last time I thought it was a burglar, maybe even a Death Eater." "You're overreacting." "You can't overreact in these times." "Always with one final sensible word, Remus?" "Nothing you couldn't understand yourself. I'm only concerned.if the worst happened.Have you spoken to Harry yet?" "No. I'll owl him tomorrow." "Tonight would be quicker." "I have business to deal with." "Very well." They parted, with brief handshakes and warnings to the other to take care of themselves. Sirius disapparated on the spot, the danger of his venturing outside in a public place and in daylight only too apparent. Remus waited awhile, musing over the last few hours with no particular conclusion coming of his thoughts. He sighed momentarily, threw his shoddy cloak over his shoulders and stepped outside. He halted at the crest of the steps. She was there, standing at the bottom. She had her back to him, her cloak falling about the ankles. The sun was glinting over the crest of the skyline of distant buildings. She raised a hand to shield her eyes. She appeared to be looking around as though waiting for something. Remus descended quietly down the steps, and feeling he had nothing to say which would be excused as anything but over- eagerness, resolved to walk straight past. He chose the moment she was glancing left, then hastened off to the right, walking shamefully fast, head down as though in concentration. "And goodbye to you too." Her voice sounded clearly across the sparsely occupied courtyard; there was no way he could appear not to have heard. He turned guiltily. "No, I merely.I had some other business to -" He was quite disconcerted to find her smiling. She didn't seem about to say anything else. He asked stupidly - "Are you alright?" She nodded curtly. "I'm waiting for someone." "Will I be seeing you next week?" "Yes, as far as I can tell at the moment. And I shall see you there, Mr.?" He stretched out a hand. "Lupin, Remus Lupin." She nodded again with a further smile. The sun blinked in her eyes, an aura- like glow settling on left side of her features. She accepted his hand and shook, returning with her own introduction. "Katia Mikultsin. Pleased to meet you." Remus smiled formally. "And you." He dropped her hand and wrapped his cloak around him once more, walking briskly aside; the September chill had come early this year, failing yet to banish the yellow sun, and was biting up in irritation. There was no question the conversation was ended: had he lingered anymore it would have been imposing and needless. He had neglected to take much exercise recently and felt he needed a walk, so he continued right across the cobbled square and down a side-street, and the down a tributary to that - on to the bridge, untroubled by the formless faces which passed him by: no more than a meaningless glimpse in the lives of the hundreds who strode past. He was a stranger here, unimportant and passionless. He was no longer Remus Lupin - a werewolf, rejected in the eyes of society - but a nobody, whose comings and goings were nothing, his thoughts and fears wasted. Here he had no emotion, no function: except to watch every person walking by, and himself as an unidentified nobody, wonder what hopes and fears they felt, and what matters they were absorbed in: their comings of no great significance to his own, and their goings even less. What they would return home to and what was happening inside of every head would never trouble him, and for the short while of his walking - along three streets, across the bridge, up the hill and on to a church - he had no duty or responsibility, no problems or worries; he was just plain Mr. Somebody, another common man, perhaps a little strained under close attention and never quite flattered, even in the soft light of waning day. But the attention would not come, no scrutiny or anything other - just a brief glance in passing, which he would soon drop, and as though it had never happened, continue on his way. He might have thought of her on his long way back home, but it was equally as likely as not; his thoughts - had anyone cared to look - were now lost from the world in the deep contours of his face. Anything he did not choose to disclose was now locked inside his mind, inaccessible to those people who rushed past, unobserved by them in any case, and causing no concern. He walked up the steep ascent of the hill and in through the gate of the churchyard; any person, had they happened to look, might have caught the brief glimmer of a cloaked man turning weary eye to look about him, before he vanished without trace. But no one looked, and the presence of Remus Lupin came and went with as much notice as to have never been there in the first place.
End Chapter 1
Remus There were several people there that he didn't recognise. In addition to the original Phoenix members, now also present were three or four others - selected specifically by Dumbledore for their expertise, so Sirius had told him. They had barely had the time to speak before the urgency of the meeting had called them all into this one room, and Remus was finding occasional difficulty in concentrating on what was being said - he was too anxious to speak to Sirius alone, too impatient to catch up on twelve ageing years, to listen to the details. He tried to focus, but his mind was in turmoil. Sirius didn't seem to suffer these problems; he was listening attentively to Arabella Figg, eyes never straying with either curiosity or restlessness, brow dipped in a serious frown. The dark expressionless eyes were static, still hollowed by those horrific years in Azkaban. As ever, he remained comfortably where he had placed himself, fitting in with the surroundings so naturally as to have been there all his life. All those years spent in that prison though - surely that had been different? No one could adjust to life there; a living hell was the only way to describe it. But the phrase fell dull on the horror Remus could only imagine his friend to have endured. How could he, an observer, even begin to describe how it might feel? The prisoner himself would have a thousand reminisces, each one ten times worse than any cliché expression an outsider could dream up. It must have been unbearable, he thought; but he could only know how unbearable if the man actually told him. He hadn't spoken directly about it yet, the close terror still too stark in his memory. What appalling conditions had he really suffered? How intolerable had twelve years of false justice proved? Remus caught himself staring at the door. He felt very aware suddenly: the only one in the room not wholly focussed. How could he have let his thoughts run off when such terrible things were at stake? Self-consciously he flicked his eyes to Arabella, and resolved not to look away again until she had finished. But shamefully, he thought the effort must show - nobody else took such pains to focus straight ahead and look alert. To everyone else it came naturally. To him - to sensible, logical, focussed Remus - this had always come naturally. What was different now from all the years before? His best friend was in the room, he supposed, that was what. The best friend he not been allowed to think of for twelve years, whose experiences he couldn't bear himself contemplate, whose innocence he had condemned along with every other deceived person - he, whose loyalty alone should have denounced that jury's decision - his friend, that school companion from whom he had been apart from longer than together: that friend was in the room now, practically opposite him, not more than two metres apart. His friend was here, his friend. To whom he owed so much and gave so little, took so much and repaid so poorly - there he was, just across the room. There he was listening, listening immovably to everything being said, the one person that still, after all these years of torment, they could undoubtedly trust. That man was there at that moment, silent like the rest of them; his friend, independent and attentive now only to what had to be done; only two metres apart and yet so very far away, both his best friend and most distant acquaintance; and Remus sat three yards opposite him and felt less than half the man. Less than quarter. He wasn't needed to confide in, he wasn't needed to be reliable. He couldn't even concentrate when times were so desperate and peoples' lives could be held on the outcome of this one meeting. He was looking absently round the room without hearing a word, dwelling on events he had no right to intrude on. Sirius had his own business now, that was clear. Twelve years, and loss of faith - that was not remedy for a broken friendship, but the ending of a meaningless one. It was sad, so terribly sad. In Azkaban, in misjudgement, in faithlessness: in all of this he had lost his friend.
Sirius Apart from those he had not known before, he remembered every one of these people. When he last seen them they had been younger, of course, and very, very different - but he remembered them. Of course he did; they were part of the one connection he had with reality in that hell-forsaken pit. His memory, that had always been part of him: that was where the real world had lain, still breathing in his consciousness, still finding space in a mind which contracted smaller with every filthy year. Every second that passed brought with it even greater despair, and the sickening feeling that those precious cubic inches of sanity were compressing all the while. When he closed his eyes: that was worst. When he knew he would succumb to his subconscious, knowing any madness could prevail. His innocence - yes, that unchanging innocence, that had dragged him through the years. Knowing he was not guilty, knowing they had never proved it on trial, that was his salvation. And maybe the innocence too was as of yet unproven, but it was innocence nonetheless, and it was sanctifying. He was listening to Arabella, but not absorbing anything. Everyone sat round, quiet and sincere, and amidst all the feelings in his head he couldn't find it in himself to listen to this and nothing more. Remus leaned against a table opposite, the picture of attentive composure. One leg folded neatly over the other, right hand fitting neatly above the left; this man would look calm in the clutches of a manticore. His head inclined a little to one side, suspended with such precision that the air could have been its invisible cushion. The expression in his face was so intensely placid (if such a thing was possible) so unexaggerated in its concentration, Sirius wondered if he could ever prove so capable as this man to whom he had been a sudden stranger for twelve years. His service could never be as valuable as Remus' would inevitably be, could not even hope to promise such worthwhile dedication to the cause. Remus would do everything that had to be done, and more. He would be both the priceless individual and selfless group member, whilst he, Sirius, would try after all these years, to help in some way, with little final significance. Jokes and smiles, laughter and a good time - that had always carried him through before. But now that throwaway joviality had disintegrated, and what was needed now was brains, not a clown. He was clever; he had always been clever. But cleverness was not required any longer. What was essential to the focus of this operation was the type of casual intensity that Remus carried all the time; the silent expression, mild regard, vague intrigue - whilst behind, all the while, was that unprecedented mental interrogation that no one could guess at till he chose to disclose it. Sirius had always respected Remus, but how to say so? As a boy it had no sincerity, as a young man no lasting worth - and of course Sirius himself had been deprived of most of that youth. And now? How did he tell him now? How did he convey the deep respect that had ingrained in him since those school years, consistent despite its insincerity and worthlessness? He was scared to an extent: scared of being shunned. Doubtless Remus would not accept it in any case. His modesty, that had always been one intolerable flaw. And of course there was always that small chance that he had not entirely forgiven Sirius for those longs years of deprivation, sparked from each one's mistrust. They had both believed the other to be an agent of Voldemort, and twelve unjust years can be time enough for either forgiveness or irredeemable resentment. Sirius admired, above all other things, Remus' ability to conceal his feelings - but he could never access them if they were hidden, and if it was never clear what separated motivation of the face from motivation of the mind. His friend was looking aged now, worn by innumerable transformations and everything else derived from them; the lack of employment, the constant weak health, the apprehension from others, or else, (if he kept from them the truth) the impossibility of any intimacy: these all contributed to the lines now etched in his face, surrounding mouth, eyes, forehead. He's looking years older than me, thought Sirius, and we're only months apart. He himself had managed to scrub up by now - a few baths, a decent shave, a long-awaited haircut and a respectable set of clothes had raised him from looking so destitute, but on Remus it ran deeper than hair length and physical appearance. Fatigue was under his skin, untouchable by any material aid. It was more than just physical weariness: it was tiredness at life itself. Sirius could see each line had worn itself there with a separate worry, the pallor of his skin paled with each added problem. Really, he thought sadly, he looks terrible, but he puts on such a brave face with that indifferent approach that no one notices like they should. He forced himself back into reality and out of sympathy. If needed he help, he would come, considered Sirius. But would he, after so many years? It now been so long since their friendship, Remus' facades were even working on the one person who thought himself able to see through them. Yet as he stood across the room, so capable, he was unavoidably wearying, and still the closed teenage boy that he had been all those years ago.
Remus The discussion had moved on now; various people were participating and Remus had even put forward his opinion sometimes, usually backed by Sirius. It reminded him how close their thoughts had once been, and to avoid such melancholy remembrances he quickly found another preoccupation. There could only be ten or twelve of them in the room. Dumbledore's presence was domineering as always, ever the voice of reason, the unelected chair of the debate. The other original members were confident just the same, and Remus' attention switched unknowingly to the strangers amongst them. They were taking an active part just as much as their colleagues, but there was something very reserved about one of them, her seat set discreetly to one side. The other unknowns comprised of two men and one other woman, but this last woman was much less outspoken. She didn't seem shy; she seemed locked in concentration certainly, and taking careful note of all arguments as though installing them in her mind, but nothing in her nature joined itself with coyness - rather, controlled intrigue. Her chair was not set so far back as to be rude, but it was easy to exclude her unknowingly. There was parchment on her lap, though empty of words as far as Remus could see. But looking at the integrity in her face, he knew that everything of relevance being said now would be transcribed in perfect detail onto the parchment in hindsight. He didn't know how he knew it: he just knew. She had a strange face, nothing unremarkable in composition, nothing overtly strange in features. A rather predominant nose fell down between two pale, studious eyes. High cheekbones gave her a very pronounced jawbone, which ran perhaps too long on the flat of her chin; but the face was still long and rounded, not square. Tinted skin along with noticeably dark eyebrows suggested foreign nationality, but the clues were so scarce Remus could guess no more than that. The heaviness of the eyebrows was only noted next to the thick blonde hair, which ran in grains of lights and darks. The complexion was a lived one, marked with small scars and imperfections, used as skin is meant to be used on a person, not pampered and plastered in makeup. The thin trails of lines mapping mouth and eyes only fortified this impression. Evidently this woman had experienced things worth noting. But the term of experience was indefinite - how old was she? It was impossible to say. The lines could indicate slow ageing of a woman forty or more, but could equally justify a well-worn thirty-year-old. But she didn't look thirty, she looked older. Remus couldn't tell why he thought this, but again, he just knew. By the grooves beginning to pull back on the curve of her mouth, it seemed that her features preserved themselves, failed only by the effects gained by too much expression. Smiling had caused those two half-moons either side of her mouth, nothing else could have done. Scowling would have only reacted against her forehead - although looking closely, Remus could notice the little frown of concentration bunch two growing indents where each eyebrow sprouted. But smiling was ultimately the cause of that weathering, and it complimented her, when you thought what it had sprung from. Lines induced by happiness and not by worry, they were an asset, not a flaw. Too much smiling, thought Remus wistfully, what a beautiful thing on which to lay blame for too swift an ageing. She was not smiling now. In fact, looking at the concentration embedded in her expression, Remus found it impossible to imagine her smiling. The concentrating eyes, the natural integral slope of her forehead, her mouth, lips suspended millimetres apart in rapt concentration - these all forbade that ghost smile to take form. She looked slightly perplexed, he thought, focussed as she was, and in that moment seemed as though she would remain serious forever. The concrete solidity of expression, matched with the static intensity of her eyes, seemed as immovable as if it had been sculpted; and surely nothing could alter the steadiness of her countenance, such as she was staring now. She had never smiled, he was sure, and would never do so. The two slips of laughter lines were false evidence planted by age, not by happiness. Her eyes, focussed ahead, would never move without purpose. But suddenly they did just that. Dumbledore was speaking - talking of the necessity of identifying all those involved in the Dark Arts - and instantly, as though reading his thoughts, the woman's gaze was on Remus. In one blink it was transferred back to Dumbledore, but for fleeting second it had been upon him, and he was intrigued more than ever by this indecipherable creature. She might have been smiling now - the two grooves were certainly stretching themselves hopefully - but immediately she was discussing something closely with the wizard at her side, and the expression, along with the brief glance, had vanished. Remus pulled himself back to real times and allowed himself to be drawn into debate with Mundungus Fletcher. Sirius was nearer the woman, now involved in the conversation between her and her companions. Faces were grave all around. Remus strove to look focussed. But he couldn't quite master his thoughts, and felt that if only he could speak to the woman at some point, everything might begin to make sense.
Sirius He hadn't much to add to the conversation really. They were deliberately abstaining from asking too many probing questions of him, for which he was glad; but at the same time he felt this was the only worthwhile insight he could offer. They covered the possible movements of Voldemort now that his power was reinstated, but it was vague speculation, and nothing concrete. The woman sitting to the side wasn't adding much. She would say some response to an idea or question, but somehow each answer only resulted in another question, and she was never the one to reply to that second one. She flicked occasionally through thin parchment on her lap, but the movement was very discreet, and not one to be asked after. Just at the moment when her silence might be noticed, she seemed to reappear in the discussion, only to fall quiet as soon as her participation was no longer needed. The others she seemed to know already, although she treated Sirius no differently. They were variously aged; the two wizards, one younger than Sirius and one distinctly older, were well informed and helpful; the witch was middle-aged and small. The younger wizard looked as though some foreign influence may run in his blood, but never so much as his female colleague, whose dark eyebrows and pronounced features were undoubtedly European. She looked very much like she was caught between the Muggle society and the wizarding one; she had on a dark green witch's robe, but underneath that her clothes were unashamedly Muggle. Sirius was cautious of appearing both unhelpful and ignorant. He daren't ask too many details of what he didn't know, and he had less and less to offer on the issues raised. His feelings were strong, passionately strong: but his knowledge did nothing to rival that, and was - as he increasingly realised - embarrassingly limited. Remus looked in his element, if it was conceivable that his expression could show any such delight, and he was deeply endorsed in the conversations surrounding him. He would have plenty to offer, no doubt, and all of it valid. How Sirius envied him. But envy was the wrong word; he felt no such thing. He had such immovable respect for the man that no desire to have something he owned would ever alter. He would never feel so badly because of such trivial reasons. After twelve years of lost contact, he would let nothing jeopardise the years they had left. In such perilous times as these no future was guaranteed, and the friendship had to be secured today, not put off until tomorrow. With the tasks they were undertaking, there might not be a tomorrow. Time was not to be wasted away with resentful feelings. The discussions and debates at length simmered down, and soon the question of when the meeting to a close was broached. The decision to leave it now and reunite in one week's time was unanimous. People said their necessary partings, some exchanging relative documents to be examined over the course of the week. Sirius himself asked for nothing; he gave a friendly smile to the woman and her colleagues as they passed by, and waited for everyone to leave. Ever observant, Dumbledore moved over to him as the rest moved out of the room. He smiled wanly. "Speculating, Sirius?" Sirius smiled distractedly and shook his head. "No. Merely waiting for the crowd to thin a little." "A larger turn-out than was once involved," said Dumbledore. "Yes, where have they all come from?" Dumbledore sighed. "Various departments - most involved at some point with foreign ministries. We need them Sirius; this is a crisis to the entire wizarding world. They've all got skills of some sort, and experience, as far as I can gather - though I know you wouldn't think it, to look at some of them. They're jeopardising quite a good deal by consenting to be here today; most ministries are reluctant as Fudge at the moment, and will not take kindly to their members being involved with this operation." "So some are currently employed overseas?" "One or two. Miss Mikultsin, whom you met just now, and Mr Asnikov are both heavily involved with their native ministries, certainly, but the rest have all had connections in the past. Previous rifts must now be cast aside. This battle against the Dark Lord may well become a war, and we can't afford to have quarrelling allies." Sirius closed his eyes tiredly. "You don't have to tell me." Dumbledore's face became concerned. "How are you coping Sirius? I trust you have taken my advice and given yourself a little shred of time to yourself?" Sirius tried to dodge an answer. "Well.you know how it is." "When did you last sleep?" Sirius reluctantly answered truthfully. "About two days ago. I'm fine." "Have you seen Harry?" "Not recently. He needs to concentrate on his schoolwork." "I can always arrange for you to see him, Sirius - he would appreciate a visit." Sirius' head snapped up, eyes open in sudden concern. "Has something happened?" Dumbledore gave a wry smile. "Not as of yet; though given the boy in question, I'm sure some adventure will present itself in the not too distant future. But no, nothing has happened; he would just like to see his godfather, I know." Sirius stood up uneasily and picked up his cloak from the chair's back. "I'll see him shortly, when I can. This is no adventure. I only hope he realises that." Dumbledore stood back, sensing the conversation was drawing to a close. "He realises it very well Sirius, he will not do anything rash. I can keep an eye on him, you needn't worry; what should could concern you is your own health. Are you still at Remus's?" "From time to time." Dumbledore sighed. "Well just make sure your self-awareness doesn't slip. Be conscious of your capabilities Sirius, no one is expecting miracles of you. Your experience in Azkaban was appalling, but no one thinks any less of you for it. Please don't strive to prove yourself. Every person here has unfailing confidence in you already." Sirius nodded gratefully and - cloak bundled under his arm - held the door ajar. "I just hope that confidence isn't misplaced," he said quietly, and walked out. He was sincerely thankful to Dumbledore for raising the issue of his godson, and being sympathetic to his position. He was still a convicted criminal in the eyes of the Law, if you could be called that after being given no trial. He was still largely relying on the charity of others, a most humiliating thing if perfectly competent at caring for yourself. Dumbledore was right though. He mustn't push himself to far, wanting to prove himself. There was always a danger that he might not achieve all he set out to. Better to excel in people's hopes, than to crush them and fall short.
Remus He had deliberately left before the new arrivals to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He waited round a nearby corridor and watched them then go past, but they didn't see him, and he said nothing. He supposed he had better wait for Sirius; no sure plans had been finalised tonight, and Remus would rather know before the event whether his friend would need a bed for the night. Dumbledore had not come past, and guessing that the two had lingered to discuss private matters, Remus had respectfully waited at a corner and not by the door. At length his friend emerged alone. Something reminiscent of the long- forgotten grin played on his face as he took up fast pace next to Remus. "I saw you looking at her." Remus tried to look aloof. "I'm sorry?" "Don't act all innocent; I saw you looking." "At who exactly?" Remus was still feigning ignorance rather disastrously: deceit had never been his forte. Sirius drew a deep breath. "At her - the new Phoenix." "I'm not sure they're official phoenixes -" "Don't change the subject, I saw you looking." Remus didn't reply for a little while. Eventually he said, "And?" "Ha! I knew I was right." "You always believed you were." Sirius looked indignant. "I usually was." Remus looked typically patronising and twice as mature. "My point exactly." The walk then had to be continued in silence, each suffering too nostalgic a recollection of their schooldays, when arguments such as that had been frequent and carefree. There had been two others then: one a traitor, the other dead by that treachery; and they themselves had nearly been torn apart by it, thinking the other to be the faithless one. Now their number was half what it once was, and the memory of their friends, both lost, deadened the old joviality as it sounded on their lips. The manner became business-like once more. "Are you staying at mine tonight?" "I have some things to sort out - I'll be in touch in a few days time. Until then I shan't need anything." "Please let me know before you go in the house. Last time I thought it was a burglar, maybe even a Death Eater." "You're overreacting." "You can't overreact in these times." "Always with one final sensible word, Remus?" "Nothing you couldn't understand yourself. I'm only concerned.if the worst happened.Have you spoken to Harry yet?" "No. I'll owl him tomorrow." "Tonight would be quicker." "I have business to deal with." "Very well." They parted, with brief handshakes and warnings to the other to take care of themselves. Sirius disapparated on the spot, the danger of his venturing outside in a public place and in daylight only too apparent. Remus waited awhile, musing over the last few hours with no particular conclusion coming of his thoughts. He sighed momentarily, threw his shoddy cloak over his shoulders and stepped outside. He halted at the crest of the steps. She was there, standing at the bottom. She had her back to him, her cloak falling about the ankles. The sun was glinting over the crest of the skyline of distant buildings. She raised a hand to shield her eyes. She appeared to be looking around as though waiting for something. Remus descended quietly down the steps, and feeling he had nothing to say which would be excused as anything but over- eagerness, resolved to walk straight past. He chose the moment she was glancing left, then hastened off to the right, walking shamefully fast, head down as though in concentration. "And goodbye to you too." Her voice sounded clearly across the sparsely occupied courtyard; there was no way he could appear not to have heard. He turned guiltily. "No, I merely.I had some other business to -" He was quite disconcerted to find her smiling. She didn't seem about to say anything else. He asked stupidly - "Are you alright?" She nodded curtly. "I'm waiting for someone." "Will I be seeing you next week?" "Yes, as far as I can tell at the moment. And I shall see you there, Mr.?" He stretched out a hand. "Lupin, Remus Lupin." She nodded again with a further smile. The sun blinked in her eyes, an aura- like glow settling on left side of her features. She accepted his hand and shook, returning with her own introduction. "Katia Mikultsin. Pleased to meet you." Remus smiled formally. "And you." He dropped her hand and wrapped his cloak around him once more, walking briskly aside; the September chill had come early this year, failing yet to banish the yellow sun, and was biting up in irritation. There was no question the conversation was ended: had he lingered anymore it would have been imposing and needless. He had neglected to take much exercise recently and felt he needed a walk, so he continued right across the cobbled square and down a side-street, and the down a tributary to that - on to the bridge, untroubled by the formless faces which passed him by: no more than a meaningless glimpse in the lives of the hundreds who strode past. He was a stranger here, unimportant and passionless. He was no longer Remus Lupin - a werewolf, rejected in the eyes of society - but a nobody, whose comings and goings were nothing, his thoughts and fears wasted. Here he had no emotion, no function: except to watch every person walking by, and himself as an unidentified nobody, wonder what hopes and fears they felt, and what matters they were absorbed in: their comings of no great significance to his own, and their goings even less. What they would return home to and what was happening inside of every head would never trouble him, and for the short while of his walking - along three streets, across the bridge, up the hill and on to a church - he had no duty or responsibility, no problems or worries; he was just plain Mr. Somebody, another common man, perhaps a little strained under close attention and never quite flattered, even in the soft light of waning day. But the attention would not come, no scrutiny or anything other - just a brief glance in passing, which he would soon drop, and as though it had never happened, continue on his way. He might have thought of her on his long way back home, but it was equally as likely as not; his thoughts - had anyone cared to look - were now lost from the world in the deep contours of his face. Anything he did not choose to disclose was now locked inside his mind, inaccessible to those people who rushed past, unobserved by them in any case, and causing no concern. He walked up the steep ascent of the hill and in through the gate of the churchyard; any person, had they happened to look, might have caught the brief glimmer of a cloaked man turning weary eye to look about him, before he vanished without trace. But no one looked, and the presence of Remus Lupin came and went with as much notice as to have never been there in the first place.
End Chapter 1