Meanwhile, I must thank Saiyanhobbit, faithless beta; Dawnatello, for being ever interested; and Teshi, for being my no. 1 fan. Thank you, and enjoy Chapter XII.
Chapter XII: Par Un Doux Mystere
Sunrise happened differently in Rhondda from anywhere else. It came up slow, and far from secret, a proud and showy exhibit. It was as if, somehow, the sun knew that all the men and women of Rhondda were already up, and waiting for the gray skies of dawn to be banished with the golden reaches of the sunshine. It was as if, somehow, the sun shone brighter in Rhondda for that, brighter than it did anywhere else in all the world.
Despite it all, Hector Karnaugh loved it. He was the sort of man to love things "despite it all," and this was no exception. When he was awake to see the sunrise splaying across his lover's face and bathing their bed golden, he had no complaints and he had no qualms, simply a feeling of warmth and peace.
These were feelings he did not bask in all that often, and when he had the chance to, he made the absolute most of it.
It was on a pleasant October morning that Hector rose early enough to watch the sun rise, sliding in through the windows and curling up with feline grace on the wrinkles in the bedsheets. Once the sun was shining brightly, full force, and he found himself growing strangely restless, he turned and brushed his lips over his lover's forehead - still sleeping, lazy thing that he was on the weekends - and slipped himself out of bed for a cold shower. Sometimes, he needed to bring himself back to himself, to remind himself of the earth beneath his feet and the way the world was real, all around him, and not just the glory of a sunrise.
On mornings such as these he always paused to glance himself over in the mirror, hardly because he was vain, but because he needed to reassure himself of who he was, the solid bits, the parts that other people saw, first. What they saw, was someone so very simple, he realized: a man made of shaggy sun-blonde hair, complete with a few premature gray streaks; a man with gray-green eyes that had once been described, to the amusement and the hidden pleasure of his heart, as the color of a stormy sea; a man with a slightly crooked nose, once proud and almost aquiline, until the day it had been broken, and now, appearing only as the memory of something regal; a man with a slight build and almost carelessly carved features, not tall and not short either, with graceful hands and an amused smile and a sigh ever-present in his expression. Hector Karnaugh was aware of the fact that he should have been absolutely nothing special to look at, but when he found that he was watching himself through Damon Aeneid's eyes, he saw himself differently.
They met in New York, oddly enough, as neither of them were Americans, and neither of them had planned to stay in New York for more than a few days. Damon had been saving up for the trip for at least a year, which made Hector feel slightly guilty and slightly protective at once. While Hector had come from a stagnant town in Germany, taking a three month-long trip, called 'Sights of the World 'or something silly like that, Damon had come from Wales two years after graduating some unknown college, barely managing to pay his round-trip airfare and his two nights in a no-star hotel.
For some reason they had both decided to go to an art film showing, and when Damon arrived - halfway through the opening credits of Kurosawa's Seven Samurai - the only remaining seat had been the one at Hector's side.
The sound of the shower always woke Hector fully, better than bright sunlight did, and the feel of cool water hitting his bare flesh was both a relief and a comfort to him. He let the spray run over his face and his hair, first, and then turned, to let it hit his back full force, letting out a puffing sigh. Saturday mornings were always hard because they were so easy. On Saturdays, there was nothing to do but eat a late breakfast, early lunch, and tend to the garden, and remember in patched thatching or crooked fencing or differently shaded whitewashing just where you were, and how many people hated you there.
Hector could survive it, Hector could survive most anything life threw to him, but there was again that guilt and that protective nature, all focused around his vivid flash of a lover. Damon could, he knew, take care of himself. Damon could, after all, survive.
But sometimes, survival simply wasn't enough.
"Hullo," said a voice behind Hector, as he was stretching his sore muscles outside of the theater, after the movie. Hector turned, slowly, to find the young man who'd sat next to him earlier, simply standing there. As soon as Hector acknowledged his presence, he was grinning, rust colored red hair falling into sparkling gray eyes. "I'm Damon, and I can't exactly say 'it's very nice to meet you,' seeing as we haven't met yet, but I'd like it to be. Very nice to meet you, that is."
Hector blinked, twice, startled by the way the younger man's face was so honest and radiant, and then felt himself smiling, unable not to.
"'lo, back," Hector said, holding out a hand. "I'm Hector, and now, I believe, I can at least say it's very nice, to meet you."
The sound of the shower was comforting to him, as always, rhythmic and soft but enough to keep his mind occupied by the pattern of sound it made. His wet hair hung around his face and brushed coolly against his neck. He kept his hair long as he did simply because he liked the feel of his wet hair against his neck, especially in the summer. Water ran over the bridge of his nose and he kept still for a while, concentrating on the sound of his own breathing mixed with the sound of the shower.
Knowing Damon would join him soon, he turned the knob from warm to hot, because that was the way his lover liked a shower, even when the days were far from cold.
They had dinner at a cheap diner, a meal which Damon paid for, and they bought expensive champagne, which Hector purchased, and they shared it in Hector's hotel room because it was levels beyond Damon's own. They spoke of Rhondda, the town where Damon had grown up, and Hector loved the look in those sincere eyes as the other remembered aloud. For most of his life, Hector had tried to escape the place of his childhood, while Damon wanted only to go back.
During the course of the evening they learned trivial yet vastly important things; favorite colors and favorite foods and most embarrassing moments; favorite movies and favorite songs and most amusing family stories. There were certain things about himself and about his past that Hector could not hope to bring up while making supposed small talk, but he told Damon more than anyone else knew and Damon told him everything. The champagne was good, very good, and conducive to the easiness with which they spoke, but they remembered all that was said the next morning because it was that important to them, to remember.
Once they'd finished the bottle of champagne, they stopped talking in favor of starting to kiss, and with the kissing came the touching, and it was awkward as could be expected, but more amazing than any sex had ever been before, for either of them. They said things there that were wordless and loud, careless and gentle, little words that ended up being only "yes" and "yes" and "oh" until they simply started to cry out, having no hold left on language.
On his back on his king size hotel bed, Hector lifted his eyes to Damon's face above him and they watched each other until they both orgasmed for the last time and fell asleep together in a tangle of sweaty limbs.
Hector's lips curled up into a softened smile, remembering, as he lathered up a washcloth with soap. It was Damon's soap, and it reminded Hector of the way he'd smelled, coming close for their first kiss.
"You notice the littlest things," Damon told him after they showered together, and were eating breakfast in bed. ( The excellent room service Hector had thrilled the younger man to no end. )
"D'you want another pancake?" Was all Hector had said in return, and Damon had said yes, he would. ( Hector found the younger man could eat twice his weight at breakfast alone, and watched him, oddly fascinated by the sight. )
Later that afternoon Hector cancelled the rest of his 'Sights of the World' trip because he'd found the one sight he actually wished to be seeing. The next day found Hector taking a propeller plane to Wales with Damon in the seat beside him, leaving all but the Muggle world behind him, as mere memories of the past.
Such times had already grown dust as legends in the back of his mind, unimportant and no longer necessary. The only time Hector thought of them were on the occasional Saturday morning, and so he would take cold showers to wash himself free of such things. He had never told Damon of magic and Muggles, of wizarding schools and wands, of past folly and failure. It was never needed, and it was easier to put such times behind you when there was no one there to remind you of them.
When Damon pushed the shower curtain open and joined Hector beneath the spray, Hector leaned into the hold of his arms gratefully. Sometimes, he needed only to be held up, and Damon was strong enough and willing enough to do just that for as long as Hector should need it.
"Morning," Damon murmured, voice still sleepy, his accent heightened.
"Morning," Hector returned, enjoying the feel of wet skin against wet skin.
"I've told you what's coming, but I don't want to stay around to see it come," Hector murmured, but his voice was firm, and it was obvious there would be no dissuading him.
"If you've made up your mind to it," Albus said, with some degree of disappointment, "and you have obviously done just that, then none of us can hope to persuade you to do otherwise."
"No." Hector sounded somber, guilty, but no less determined than he had a moment ago. His things were packed; he had a down jacket on, not a cloak, for travelling with Muggles in the cold weather. "This is my decision. You can't."
With Dumbledore's grave eyes still fixed on him, Hector turned and left and did not look behind him, determining then and there never to go back. He hadn't seen Albus Dumbledore, or any of the others, since he last spoke with Minerva, two minutes before he truly departed.
"What are we to have for breakfast, then?" Damon asked, nuzzling against Hector's ear.
"The choice is, as always, yours to make." Hector hardly ever ate breakfast, at least not with the zeal Damon did, but then, Hector rarely ever did anything with the zeal Damon did, and after being together for as long as they had been, they'd both of them grown used to it.
"I suppose it's got to be pancakes." Damon sighed, but he was smiling. "Saturday morning pancakes." He touched Hector's cheek delicately, one arm wrapping around his waist and pulling him close. "And they always make you smile like nothing else can, after all." Damon was right about most things, about where to touch Hector and where to kiss him, mostly. And he was always right about what should be done to make Hector smile, as if it came absolutely naturally to him. No doubt it did. It was one of those very pleasant things about life. Hector felt, rather than asked himself to, smile.
"I never thought you'd be the sort to run away, Hector," Minerva said to him, moving easily from cat to woman, from the shadows into the sunlight, looking the same amount of disapproving in both forms, though behind her spectacles she seemed distinctly more helpless, and equally pained as Hector himself.
"Well, I suppose everyone was wrong about me." Hector clutched his suitcase tighter, tight enough for his knuckles to turn white, so that he could steady himself. "I was asked to look into the future for you, and I did that. But I'm a coward, and I refuse to meet it face to face. That's my choice to make, after all."
"The others will miss you, Hector," Minerva murmured. "For heaven's sake, I'll miss you!" Hector shrugged once, letting his shoulders drop, and droop.
"I'll miss you, too."
"Have you evenare you just leaving, I mean? How many people have you seen fit to say goodbye to?" Minerva sounded too distraught, now, to be obstinate, or even admonishing. It did hurt, to hear her that way, but he couldn't stay.
"I've told Albus I'm leaving, and now, you. You can tell the others what you will, whatever you wish, but I can't-I can't. I am sorry. For all I'll be leaving behind. I'll miss it, but it's better to lose things, this way." The explanation was weak, Hector knew it was, but it was all he had left of himself to offer.
"Is it?" Minerva asked. How very like her, Hector had the audacity to think.
"For me, yes," Hector replied simply.
The year was nineteen fifty nine. Hector Karnaugh -- age nineteen, the most promising young wizard to come from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry since Albus Dumbledore himself had graduated many years ago - squared his shoulders and left the Hogwarts grounds a complete coward and even more of a failure. He didn't want to see his friends hurt. That was all. It was a selfish desire but he had made up his mind to harbor it, and hold tight to it.
It was eleven-thirty in the morning and he took a Muggle plane back home to Germany. At twelve-twenty-one, he ate his last Chocolate Frog and broke his wand in half, and was done with it all.
They had sex in the shower because Damon lived these days to see Hector's hazel eyes alight with pleasure only orgasm could bring. Damon was younger but he had a bigger builder, and could easily hold Hector up against the shower wall, if the older man wrapped his legs around his waist. It was nice, that way, because they liked to watch each other and whatever foolish expressions they made while this close, while this filled with pleasure. It was fast and good and over quickly, done to wake the both of them up properly and set the mood for the rest of the day, and when they had both found climax they cleaned themselves off and dried themselves off and wrapped towels around their waists and trotted down the stairs together, into the kitchen. They needed no words and no 'I love you's, touching and staying as close as possible, when they could. They pulled apart when Hector went to make the pancake batter and Damon went to make the tea, but they continued to move companionable around the empty spaces in the kitchen, knowing each other well enough to understand the air that moved between them.
"Do you want bananas in your pancakes?" Hector broke the silence first. Damon nodded.
"English or Irish Breakfast?" Damon asked, after a few more minutes of silence had passed, two different tea boxes in his hands. Hector nodded towards the English Breakfast, on the left, and Damon grinned and went to it.
All in all and despite it all, Hector loved Saturday mornings, Damon kissing pancake batter from his fingers, his body lazy and content and, occasionally, rumbling with laughter. As it was, Hector was the sort of man who loved things despite themselves, despite himself, and what he loved he loved with all his heart and all his body and all his soul. There were many things about Hector Karnaugh that had changed over the years but he was still, fundamentally, the same man as he ever was. He was truly irrepressible, but in a soft-spoken, unnoticed way.
Halfway through Damon's second helpings of banana pancakes the doorbell rang, tinkling surreally through their consciousness before they realized what it was.
"Funny," Hector murmured, setting his napkin down on the table by his plate and moving almost immediately to the door. They rarely had visitors, and never were they unannounced, and they certainly never came late on Saturday mornings.
"Hector-- wait--" Damon swallowed a mouthful of pancake and stood quickly, hurrying after the older man, "it could be-- just, don't open the door until--" The warning came too late, for Hector had already undone both locks and was opening the door to the late morning sunshine that bathed all of Rhondda in its warmth. Damon wasn't the sort of man who worried often but something had made his throat go dry and his chest go tight. Still holding on to the doorknob, Hector was frozen in place, body illumined by the bright sunlight.
Standing in the doorway was a woman, not young but with a strikingly interesting face -- the features were sharply cut, and strong, and her skin was creamy and pale, and while she was not conventionally beautiful, the sight of her took your breath way. Her long, wind-tousled auburn hair was pulled back in a loose braid that hung at least a few inches past her waist, and wisps of hair had been blown free to frame her face by the fierce Rhondda wind. Her eyes were a cutting gray-blue, the sort that would have been deadly alluring had her expression included a smile, and seemed now to be burning, intense and unrelenting. There was no makeup on her face. Her pale lips were pressed in a tight line, and she held her hands, clenched into fists, at her sides. A too-big white blouse and colorful skirts swished with her long braid in the zealous wind.
For a while, all three of them were silent, the only sound the rasping of the wind and the creaking of the door hinges.
Then, Hector spoke to that unforgiving, half-feminine face, and the sound of his voice was terribly unfamiliar to Damon's ears:
"'Bella?"
Are you going to Scarborough Fair?
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Remember me to one who lives there
For once she was a true love of mine.
Have her make me a cambric shirt
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Without a seam or fine needle work
And then she'll be a true love of mine.
Have her wash it in yonder dry well
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Where ne'er a drop of water e'er fell
And then she'll be a true love of mine.
Have her find me an acre of land
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Between the sea and over the sand
And then she'll be a true love of mine.
Plow the land with the horn of a lamb
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Then sow some seeds from north of the dam
And then she'll be a true love of mine.
If she tells me she can't, I'll reply
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Let me know that at least she will try
And then she'll be a true love of mine.
Love imposes impossible tasks
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Though not more than any heart asks
And I must know she's a true love of mine.
Dear, when thou has finished thy task
Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme
Come to me, my hand for to ask
For thou then art a true love of mine.
That year, in the halls of Hogwarts, it was either be Figg, Fletcher or Karnaugh, or want to be Figg, Fletcher or Karnaugh, but there was no in between to be found.
Arabella was a striking girl, one who commanded some strange sort of awe from girls and boys alike, and her challenging eyes terrified you and entranced you, all at once. She was a glowing creature, filled with vibrancy and passion, and she moved as if she owned the air she walked through, proud and unshakable.
Mundungus was charming, and there were no other words that could properly describe him. That smile, that laugh, that insouciant shrug to his shoulders, that familiar lounging posture, kept all female eyes on him, and other, more shadowed looks of longing from those who should not have worshipped him thus.
Hector had a smile that was different than the other boy's, thoughtful and softened and shining, more of a soft glow than a bright flash. And his hair, sandy-blond, would fall into his eyes when he flashed it, so that he was half made of shadow, and half made of this golden, untouchable spirit, and no one could look away from that expression.
Together, they were three visually complex friends seemingly joined at the hip, and their friendship ran thicker than blood. From the day they had met, they had come to an unspoken pact, an unforgotten agreement, to protect and to defend and to uphold each one's devoted loyalty until death did them part. There was no question in any of their minds as to whether this would remain the same of the ages, and their classmates could sense this devotion, and they were jealous, but the times were such that they respected rather than coveted.
The times were sweet, but Hector swore that Mundungus's eyes were sweeter.
"Doesn't make sense, does it," Mundungus said absently, biting hard into an apple, the sound of skin breaking and juice bursting too enticing to Hector's ears, "that we're going to be leaving in a month. I don't feel that old."
"No," Hector admitted softly, watching the sunlight fleck Mundungus's dark brown hair, stretching his arms above his head, "no, I don't think anyone ever does." Mundungus offered the apple over and Hector took a bite, teeth against the other half of the apple, unmarred.
"We'll have a good season for apples," Mundungus murmured thoughtlessly, running his fingers through his hair.
Beside the both of them, Arabella was silent, moving through her own world. She drifted in and out of conversations, speaking so passionately at times, and saying nothing at all at others. She always listened, of course, but only commented when she deemed it absolutely necessary. It made everything she said somehow all the more important, when she chose to say it. Now, she was watching Hector watch Mundungus, and watching Mundungus watch nothing at all, and feeling acutely protective.
This, she told herself then, would be the undoing of them all, of the easy apple times, of the strolls through Hogwarts grounds, of childhood and its innocence.
And for Hector, her heart ached.
For as long as Arabella could remember it had been this way, unspoken but always present, the foundation for the fierce strength of their friendship. Wholly and fully, she loved Hector, as a friend and as a brother and as something more, and wholly and fully she understood he would never love her as such. And, irrationally and terribly, Hector loved Mundungus, watched him with sorrowful puppy eyes and moved along beside him and watched him, and said nothing, for he knew that Mundungus was strong and powerful but would break if he knew of this love unrequited. Mundungus would, in a foolish and Mundungus sort of way, decide that it was his fault, and the fragile but blooming love betwixt the three would crumble.
They could only love as friends and protect as friends and spend the time as friends, in the cool, end-of-spring air.
For almost seven years now, it had been enough.
Hector carelessly passed the apple back to Mundungus, who offered it to Arabella. She shook her head; Mundungus adored apples, and she had never understood why. As a fruit they were rather plain, unless they were truly outstanding, and even then she would rather a good nectarine or peach, something more juicy and more yielding.
"Well," Mundungus said, offhandedly, "we certainly don't have anything to worry about, now do we."
The sunlight winked knowledgeably, yet impassively, through the lattice of leaves that fringed the edge of the forest, whispering somber, golden secrets that they were too young yet to comprehend.
Damon had, as always, been the first to speak, grasping hold of one of Hector's hands and pulling him out of the doorway.
"I don't know who you are," he had added, almost helplessly, speaking to Arabella, "but there's extra tea, and pancakes, if you're hungry." Hector had turned to stare at his lover, and the look would have been accusatory if it hadn't been so broken. After all, he told himself later as they all three sat around the kitchen table with cups of cooling tea, Damon had no way of knowing what he had invited into the house.
It was hardly Damon's fault, at all.
"It's been a long time, Hector," Arabella murmured, and took a light sip from her teacup. Her eyes were hooded, filled with shadows the color of tea.
"There was a reason for that," Hector replied, his voice dull and empty.
In his chair, Damon looked from the stranger to the man he had spent the past three years with, and thought that the woman seemed to him far more familiar, though he couldn't place why. Hector's face seemed gray and weary, and too numb to register any sort of anger.
In his chair, Damon shifted uncomfortably, and tried his best to hide behind his cup of tea.
"You didn't even say good-bye." Arabella poked at a pancake with her fork, and then sliced off a corner vehemently, and then poked at it once more. Her movements were as they always were, sharp and deliberate and pointed, used in such cases as weapons. Hector did not shy away as he once would from them. It seemed as if he was inured to the cut of them, now; inured to the cut of everything, for that matter.
"Because there was no point to it," Hector returned, "Minerva gave me hell and Albus gave me standard Albus and what was I supposed to think you would give me, if I tried to say good-bye?"
"It wasn't me you were worried about," Arabella snapped back, "it wasn't me you didn't have the courage for."
"You didn't see it with your own eyes." Hector felt his throat go dry, and took a deep swallow of the soothing tea. "You, you don't know anything at all about it."
Silence descended upon the room, the sound of teacup clinking against saucer or fork against plate as Arabella continued to poke at her banana pancake. It seemed oddly comical, the simplicity of her movements, the oddity of the bloody banana pancake. It wasn't comical enough to break the tension, though.
Agonizingly slow minutes passed, dragging themselves along on broken limbs. At last, Damon felt he would either have to break the silence, or the silence would break him. He coughed, once, and set his teacup down with a clatter of porcelain against porcelain.
"So," he said, hoping he sounded casual, "if nobody's going to introduce us," and he directed a pointed, but questioning look in Hector's direction, "we might as well introduce ourselves, right?" He reached a hand across the table, offering it out to the woman to shake. "Hallo, I'm Damon, and I'm not sure if it's going to be nice to meet you yet, but here's hoping it will be, right?"
Silence again.
Arabella moved slowly, lifting a graceful but by no means delicate hand to take Damon's own, shaking it firmly.
"Yes," she agreed softly, "here's hoping, I suppose." She turned immediately to Hector after that, pinning him, trapping him, with her gaze. "He has Mundungus's eyes."
"Oh," Hector muttered, helpless, "oh, do shut up."
"Give it a rest, Hector," Arabella hissed, teeth clenched, "I've shouted you down before and I will shout you down now if need be. I'm not here to visit, or to be polite."
"Obviously not," Hector began, but Arabella cut him off easily.
"I don't believe you understand me correctly." Arabella knit her brow together in a challenging frown. "You left us, you left us all, and we hated you for a while and then we remembered you only fondly, as something that betrayed us, as something we loved anyway. But we knew that you'd gone for a reason and we let you be because of it, respected you as you did not, in the end, respect us. If we had wished to find you, we could have. We let you alone. We let you be." Hector's fingers gripped his teacup tighter, almost tight enough to break it, but not quite. He knew better than to try to say anything, not when Arabella was like this. "But it's necessary, now. We need you, even if the others are too stupid or too honorable or too hurt to come and ask your help. I won't beg you; you don't deserve that. But I will ask you, and I will hope that some of who you once were remains, so that I don't have to hate you all over again."
"Leave me be, 'Bella."
"Don't call me that, Hector. The time for such nicknames are over!" Arabella slammed her teacup down upon the table, her eyes blazing. "If you're selfish enough that you can't see your cowardice will let innocent people die-"
"Leave me be, 'Bella!" Hector pushed himself away from the table, chair clattering across the floor, and both Damon and Arabella pulled back and away in astonishment and almost-fear, at the suddenness of the motion, the passion in his voice. Damon had never seen his lover behave this way, and he knew he never again wanted to, though there was something about his eyes that could make your blood race and your heart pound.
"Wouldn't Mundungus be proud," Arabella murmured helpless as Hector turned his back to her. She sounded suddenly old and tired, rather than vindictive and proud, but it seemed to simply be another tactic. Even the sag to her shoulders, the slump in her posture, might have been part of a plan.
"Is he waiting outside to start on me next?"
"He wouldn't have come even if I had told him I was going to see you. You hurt him more than you know, more than he'll admit to."
"That doesn't matter anymore," Hector murmured, but his voice was soft, and unsteady, "because I've left those years behind me."
"You idiot," Arabella muttered, "you can't ignore what is for what you think you want."
Again, silence reigned in the room. Damon looked once more between the two, and felt himself grow ill with how little he realized he did know about Hector's past. He didn't know who this was, who this 'Mundungus' they spoke of was, and what all three of them had been to each other, once. It was blatantly clear that he could not protect Hector if he didn't know what it was he was to be protecting Hector from.
"I suppose," Arabella said at last, "you deserve to know what's going on. Damon, was it?"
And she turned to him.
And she told him.
That was the year when they first knew each other, first learned how to know each other, and they loved the feeling of knowing so much, and so instinctively.
Arabella immediately found a way to sneak herself into the boys' dormitory each night, and they nestled in, all three together, in the very center of Hector's bed. In the middle was Hector, of course, as he was always in the middle of all things, with Mundungus on his left and Arabella on his right. They curled in around him, Mundungus with an arm tossed around Hector's waist, Arabella with her cheek pressed against Hector's shoulder. It was simple, this way, and so innocent.
In the mornings, Hector would wake to find both Arabella and Mundungus had gone, their presence dictated by the rising and setting of the sun. And Hector would long for the day to pass and the night to come, to feel that safe and that at home once again.
For the first few years, when they were still young, it seemed normal for such tenderness, for such open displays of affection.
As the years passed they remained innocent through that last remaining tradition, a tangle of each other's arms. Though they were aware as they grew older that they were so vulnerable yet, all curled together - as Adam and Eve Knew at last of their nakedness - to break that tradition would be to abandon the Eden they had cultivated, that so sheathed them in security.
Soon enough, they would grow up. For now, they were their brothers' keepers.
During their second year at Hogwarts, when they were young yet, it was part of the core curriculum to witness a trial for Magical History courses. 'Most wizards today,' their professor had told them, 'never know how it is to condemn their colleagues, and know even less what it is their colleagues are being condemned to.'
It had seemed, at first, to be the center of much excitement, a trip that excused them from two whole days of schoolwork and classes. Arabella spent the entirety of the trial paying close attention, in deep thought, and even deeper fascination. At times, Mundungus fidgeted, but for the most part he watched the goings-on as if it were a Muggle movie, displaced from the business, and enjoying it tremendously. Hector himself watched in unreadable silence, obviously as entranced as Arabella was, though there was less studiousness in his gaze, and more pain, more compassion.
The wizard on trial was young, no more than thirty, and he had the air of a beaten dog to him, in the slope of his shoulders and the despair of his eyes. He sat in silence during the proceedings, with his hands folded in his lap and his gaze fixed sightlessly ahead. From the moment Hector had stepped into the trial room - a large room, spectator seats circling around the center so that any who came to watch looked down upon the trial, an important member of the Ministry seated in the middle, the defendant before him - he had decided that this man was innocent. But the evidence was not in his favor, the evidence was without any loopholes, and as fact after fact was brought before the committee, who sat in a ring around the room beneath the spectator-level, all began to frown. It was quite obvious from the start what the outcome would be.
Hector found he could not bear it.
It wounded him in spirit and it wounded him in soul, and he kept his hands tightly clasped before him, almost as if in prayer. His chin rested upon his white knuckles, and he did not sleep the first night, the night before the sentencing.
"Germaine Blackroot," the member of the Ministry said, the afternoon of the second day, "you are sentenced to Azkaban, and there shall you spend the rest of your years, till your last day shutters, and draws to a close." The sentence was so rehearsed, Hector noticed, that it almost sounded dry, and bored, though it was the curse upon this man's -- this innocent man's -- life.
At least, Hector's muscles began to relax. At least, he felt himself calm and felt the tension fade from his bones. At least, the agony of waiting and the anxiety of hope were no longer to be harbored in his chest.
But that did not change the simple fact that it was not fair.
He walked behind Arabella and Mundungus as the class left the trial room, after Germaine Blackroot had been taken away by one dark, hollow souled creature, and it did not take Mundungus more than a handful of seconds to catch the blank expression on his friend's face. It always hurt, to see such an empty quality in Hector's eyes, because they were bright with softened laughter at most times, bright with the intensity of tenderness and youth.
Mundungus patted Arabella on the shoulder once and dropped back, falling into place at Hector's side. A moment later he slipped an arm around him, and held him up, and murmured soft things reminiscent of kindness and laughter against his ear. Arabella turned her head back over her shoulder and focused her eyes behind her curiously, to watch. She saw Mundungus at last coax Hector to speak, softly at first, and monosyllabic, and then a little louder, and a little more, until the specter of failed justice lifted from him, and he was no longer shrouded with its shadow.
That was the year when they grew into themselves, as who they were and what they would be. It was the year when Mundungus was best at talking to people and understanding them, the year when Arabella was best at seeing straight through any disguises, the year when Hector could light up a room simply by stepping into it. They loved each other for what they themselves weren't and for what the others were, loved each other for the completion they found, whole and infinitely powerful, when all of them combined to become one. Arabella was brilliant at Potions and Arithmancy, had a head for calculations and for figures and had a hand and a heart for distilling magic into something that would fit in a bottle. Mundungus had a knack for exceeding above all others in Care of Magical Creatures and there was no one that could excel more than he in Charms, as if personality was linked with the puissance of magic. And Hector was made for Divination, saw easily into the past and even more easily into the future, marked with the gift of power over time, a true Oracle as there had not been for hundreds of years.
And they were the brightest stars in the halls of Hogwarts for seven glorious, sheltered years.
And when Hector saw the shadow, in the year that ended their childhood, it only followed that Figg, Fletcher and Karnaugh were to be those designated for prevention and, should it indeed come to pass as Hector saw it, those designated to fight.
There was in the beginning no protest, for there was nowhere else to go, and greatness promised in the depths of Hector's crystal ball. The shadow was simply a shadow, no more threatening than mist, and just as easily dispersed. Arabella worked in secret, part of a planning committee that even Hector knew hardly anything about. Mundungus traveled for the better part of the first year, all of the summer and most of the winter, returning home to Hogwarts only during the holidays.
With the chill winter wind howling outside the windows and the snow falling, blanketing everything in the purest color white, Arabella, Mundungus and Hector drank butterbeer together, feeling wonderful and childish, and laughed as they gave each other presents by the hearth. They offered each other tinsel-colored trinkets, unnecessary things, bracelets or cakes or socks, even, a book or two, a new scarf. They offered each other also tokens to prepare themselves against what rose up on the horizon, lurking beneath the chaste snow.
At last, Mundungus opened up a bottle of champagne he had procured on one of his short-lived trips to France, and they shared it, and another, and another, and got drunk together, and toasted to things both sweepingly important and minutely trivial.
"Next year," Mundungus promised his two closest friends, one closer than a brother, the other more than just a sister, "next year, we'll all three of us go to France, and we'll be wonderfully lazy there, instead of running about and wasting time by preparing."
"I'd like to go home for a while," Hector murmured thoughtfully, "I'd like to visit Germany."
"France and Germany, then," Mundungus promised, lifting his champagne glass a second time, so that the firelight caught the bubbles inside and the long, fluted neck of the glass, and seemed to wink, glinting, at the other two.
"I'd rather see America," Arabella added, voice wry, "to find out what all the fuss is really about."
"Then we'll go around the world," Mundungus said, suddenly somber and grave, "all three of us, as we're meant to be." Hector watched his serious eyes lit up by the dwindling flicker from the hearth and he looked away, though he, too, lifted his champagne glass.
"I'll toast to such a trip," he said.
"And I will, too." Arabella never got drunk, it seemed, or never enough to cloud her senses, or ever make impotent that brassy, brave voice.
"Next year," Mundungus said. Their glasses clinked.
"Or whenever it may be," Hector put in, but it was too soft to be heard, and with wishful promises such as they made in those times, it was deemed too unimportant to acknowledge.
That was the year when they all three of them slept together last, still children, really, young as they were, young as they did not act. Mundungus found that his arm still fit around Hector's waist and Arabella found that her chin still slipped perfectly against the dip in Hector's shoulder, and Hector found that if he could live this way, never moving from the warmth of the bed and the sweet feel of those familiar bodies against his, he would be quite lazy indeed, but quite content.
'I love you,' they said to each other that night, Arabella to Hector though she did not speak the words, Hector to Mundungus though he did not speak the words, Mundungus to the both of them and meaning it differently, though he did not speak the words. They never once, in all their time together, spoke the words, for words were truly not enough to name what passed between them, their eyes and the casual feel of their bodies pressed close.
They never once, in all their time together, spoke the words, and never again got the chance to.
The next day Mundungus left for Egypt and Arabella went to a meeting in a place unnamed for secrecy's sake, and they wrote each other letters back and forth, some short and some long, and met once more only, for the Easter of the next year. Then, Mundungus was tanned and looked far older, and Arabella's eyes had gotten far lighter yet far colder, and Hector had begun to see the things he did not wish to think upon, much less speak of. Then, they realized they were becoming strangers, because times such as they were entering into made friends of strangers and strangers of friends, and enemies of all.
Then, they found they had nothing left to say to each other, simply sitting close and tense without touching, and longing for the days that were, and knowing they might very well never return again. Arabella had kissed Hector's cheek when they said goodbye, and Mundungus had held him, and soon after Hector made up his mind to leave forever, so that the times he remembered would not mix and be spoiled by the times that would be.
'And no,' he resigned himself, 'I will not tell them good-bye, because we never had to say such things, once. Perhaps, if I am lucky, they will understand.'
And his bed was kept achingly empty for endless years, until he met Damon.
Time moved slowly. Summer turned to autumn and autumn to winter, the chill in the air growing stronger and the days shorter with each passing week. Sirius grew used to that one night out of every month when the moon rose full in the sky, when the three who had no excuses got little to no sleep. The wolf, too, got used to its visitors, its unexpected companions, and though it never became less aggressive, it learned to be less angry. Its pack, it discovered, wanted only to help it, though each full moon it raged and howled and begged to be set free into the forest, and each full moon its request was denied.
But it learned to live with the patterns of its disappointment well, and its pack, its pack mate, was there, now. The wolf took things as they came, and accepted at last what it could not alter.
Hours, days, weeks passed, blending into months and blurring in their minds.
And then, winter was upon them.
It came in with gales of wind and sudden snowstorms, and pounded against doorways and slipped into cracks in mortar and stone. It was strong enough to shatter glass and icy enough to freeze blood, and those first frigid nights Sirius was glad to have Remus's warmth along with his own in Remus's bed, glad because it was a comfort, glad because he knew Remus would not be cold. Secrets were stronger with such crisp air, and all emotions were heightened, carried like Muggle electricity through strengthened conductivity.
Classwork was hardly the first thing on anyone's mind. Remus's time alone in the library, time previously spent studying or being tutored in Potions by Severus, became time with Sirius in the library, with Sirius reading over his shoulder, with Sirius sitting by his side, with Sirius's hand on his thigh. Remus's time alone in the Common Room, time previously spent with a book in his lap, became time with Sirius in the Common Room, with Sirius's head in his lap instead, with Sirius waiting for them to be alone, so they could sit together, twined together, comfortably.
And it was almost like being alone, in a way, only more complete than any aloneness would be able to offer.
It was a tender, portentous winter, and more often than not Divination classes were canceled because of whatever promises lurked in the air and in the tea leaves.
Hogsmeade weekends became less childish and more filled with a sense of independence, and, sticking close together, Sirius and Remus held gloved hands as they moved past the stores, stopping only to buy chocolates, or a steaming cup of cocoa, and share the sweetness between them.
On one weekend they skirted around the edge of the trees, where the snowfall had been previously undisturbed. Sirius, incorrigible as always, lay himself down at one point, and made snow angels, while Remus watched, and wondered why anyone would wish to soak their robes through with chilly damp that way.
"Michael taught me how, you know," Sirius murmured afterwards, standing by Remus to survey his work, "first winter I remember."
The snow angel seemed only a gray-blue shadow against the contrasting paleness of the snow. It was hardly angelic at all, seeming more menacing and bruised than holy. Sirius seemed to notice this blatant inconsistency, and frowned.
"I'd make one, as well," Remus murmured, "but it's rather cold, isn't it?" Sirius grinned almost ruefully, slipping his arms around Remus's waist.
"Come on," he pleaded softly, forehead against forehead, "come on, mine's all lonely." Remus's lips quirked upwards into a wry, questioning smile.
"How can it possibly be lonely?"
"Just look at it!" Taking advantage of Remus's moment of distraction - eyes turning to cast a glance at the snow angel once more - Sirius's arms tightened around Remus's waist, and he gave up all desire to be standing, and down they both went. Remus opened his mouth, about to cry out, and then clamped it shut as powdery snow ghosted up around them, and he landed on Sirius's chest, knocking the breath out of the bigger boy. Sirius grunted, a sound like an 'ooph' slammed from his lips.
"That was your fault," Remus stated, once he'd regained composure, enough to feel slightly, bemusedly put out.
"Yes," Sirius said with a deep sigh, "yes, it was. Make an angel with me, Moony?" Remus sighed, deeply, but he was trapped as always, and not unpleasantly, by Sirius's eyes. "And you won't get your robes wet, either," Sirius added, puffing his cheeks up. "C'mon. Please?" With another, deeper sigh, Remus shrugged and gave up completely, because Sirius was more stubborn than anyone else he knew, and you could never win when he got that way. Leaning down, Remus brushed a light kiss over Sirius's lips, trying to move himself so that he wasn't elbowing the other boy in the stomach, or crushing his ribs.
"Fine," he acquiesced, because it was easier than trying to protest at this point.
And so Sirius guided his limbs and spread Remus out atop him, chest against chest, arm over arm, leg over leg, and they moved together that way, arm over arm, leg over leg. It was almost like flying, if you closed your eyes, like flying into snowdrifts. Sirius's legs spread, and pressed shut, and so Remus's legs spread, and pressed shut. And Sirius's arms lifted over his head, pushing through snow and more snow, and then they pressed back against his sides, and so Remus's arms lifted over Sirius's head, pushing through snow and more snow, and then they pressed back against Sirius's sides.
They stood at last and moved away carefully, so as not to disturb their work. One wing of the second angel had intruded into the space of the first, and it was bigger, less dark, less of a bruise in the snow and more of a footprint, a remembrance, a token of who they were and where they had been.
"That's better," Sirius decided at last, brushing snow off his back as best he could, before it could melt and soak through to his skin.
"Yes," Remus replied, and meant it.
That night there was another snowstorm, and the snow angel they had made was covered up under new snowdrifts, and Sirius caught a cold from lying in the snow, but that was the way the world worked, awkward, and fleeting.
During the holidays the presents were sparse and few, because it seemed trite tokens of affection bought by limited resources of pocket money could not properly express the wealth of affection that had grown between them all. They sat together, Christmas Eve, Sirius, Remus, James, Lilly, and Peter too, and they talked well past midnight, and fell asleep by the dwindling fire, all heaped on a couch in the Gryffindor Common Room. When they woke there was one large present at James's feet, and the boy tore into it eagerly, wrapping paper flying everywhere.
The package itself was merely a bundle of fabric, and James frowned as he unfolded it, and held it up. It was a cloak, they discovered, made of some unknown cloth that shimmered of a thousand colors, when it caught the early morning sunlight.
"Well," Lilly said, head inclined to one side, "it's hardly fashionable, but put it on, anyway. It should be good for a laugh."
"Oh, thanks," James muttered, and undid the clasp at the front, and swung it over his shoulders, and was gone.
"Bloody hell," Sirius breathed, pausing mid-stretch and mid-yawn, "that was fantastic." Peter, Remus and Lilly merely stared, not quite believing that they were seeing what it was they just saw.
"What was?" James asked, confused, and then he looked down, and blinked. "Oh," he said, blinking again, a few times, rapidly, "I seem to have gone missing."
"An Invisibility Cloak," Sirius murmured, still awestruck, "a bloody real Invisibility Cloak. I always knew your parents were loaded, but James, James, James, do you have any idea how much these things cost?" James said nothing, though his mouth opened and closed a few times, without any sound. Sirius stood, and quickly, hurrying over to inspect, not quite daring to touch, though, the space where James's body should have been. "And d'you know what this means, James, you lucky arse? D'you have any idea what this means? We can go anywhere we want, anytime we want, without anyone, ever, getting in our way."
"Like you weren't enough trouble already," Lilly said, managing at last to find her voice, though it was oddly breathless.
"We'll be unstoppable," Sirius went on, "we won't have to wait until late-for the-you know, the" He blinked towards Remus, and grew a little quieter, just for some sake of secrecy. Remus bowed his head, though it seemed to be in thanks, not in admonition.
"Right, that's what you need," Lilly muttered, keeping her distance, choosing instead to rub a sore muscle in her neck and avert her eyes elsewhere. It was unnerving, she admitted, it was unnerving and strange to see James's head floating in the middle of the room, with no body attached to it.
"Let me try it on?" Sirius pleaded, taking a step back to take in the whole effect. "Just for a minute, James, please?"
"Not bloody likely," James spoke at last, trying not to stare down at himself, trying not to seem as startled and childishly excited as Sirius was acting. "I haven't done anything with it yet!" And with that, he pulled the hood up over his head, and disappeared completely to the eyes of the others in the room. Lilly actually gasped and Sirius exclaimed, disappointed and absolutely enthralled.
"Did you see that, Remus?" He turned, wild-eyed, to the boy on the couch, and then whirled a full circle, in search of James, though he knew it would be impossible to see him. "C'mon, James, let me have a go with it!"
And that was the beginning of everything. As Sirius said -- a flash of truth revealed in sleepy astonishment -- they truly were unstoppable, now.
Severus Snape liked Potions for a number of reasons. The first was obvious: because he was inherently good at it, skilled without having to really try, talented in this area above all others. The second was that to be truly exceptional at it, he had to devote a certain amount of compulsion and a certain amount of time to improving himself, and it kept him focused, kept his mind exercised. The third, and perhaps most important, was that it was an art that required intense focus and attention to minute detail, and it was perfect for whatever his neuroses were.
Lucius had never been very good in the class, at the art. He simply didn't have the patience for it.
There were a good many things Lucius Malfoy had the potential for, and most all of them were never fully realized. Severus had grown used to it, and no longer let it get him agitated, or anxious.
"But you have to go, Severus." It became suddenly apparent that Lucius was talking, trying to be heard over Severus's studies, and failing miserably. The tone of the blond boy's voice was petulant, a low, refined whine hidden in it. Severus heaved a deep sigh, and turned the page in his book, not gracing Lucius even with a look over the edge of it. The smaller boy scowled, crossing his arms over his chest. "Well, you're expected, anyway," he added, pointedly. Severus let his shoulders rise and fall with a shrug.
"I'm working."
"Well, yes, I can see that, you always are, you know." Lucius lifted himself up to perch gracefully on the edge of Severus's desk, casting shadows over the pages before him, so he needed to squint to see.
"Do you mind?"
"Mm?"
"My light," Severus illustrated, and Lucius shifted, moving instead to peer over Severus's shoulder.
"I really don't understand you," Lucius murmured at last, after skimming a few lines and deciding he was absolutely one-hundred percent not interested.
"Some things are better left misunderstood," Severus returned cryptically. Lucius made a face, draping his arms over Severus's shoulders and resting his cheek up against his neck, letting dark hair tickle the side of his face.
"You just don't understand what an honor it is to be invited, that's all." Lucius toyed with Severus's hair absently, threading graceful fingers through the black strands. "Or maybe you do understand," he added thoughtfully, nuzzling in against his cheek, "but you just don't really care. After all, you're not stupid."
"No," Severus muttered half-heartedly, "I just put up with stupid people."
"I'm wounded," Lucius drawled, then quickly shifted gears. "Come with me tonight."
"I told you. I'm busy."
"But that isn't important." Lucius ran his fingertips up over Severus's scalp, mussing his hair carelessly, then focusing on the task of smoothing it out, ruffling the other boy both mentally and physically. Lucius always, always got what he wanted, no matter what it was, or how hard it was, to get it. Now that was dedication and perseverance that even Severus did not have. "What is important, is coming, tonight. You're expected. You don't go often enough that soon, he'll lose interest in you, and once he does -- well, you've lost your chances for good."
"Why don't you understand that it doesn't matter to me?" Lucius looked oddly blank at that statement, as if he'd heard it but it hadn't registered. The blond always was good at not hearing what he didn't want to.
"You're coming," Lucius went on after a moment, his lips curving up into a smile Severus always found he couldn't resist, "and you know you are, so what's the point of this, mm?"
A few minutes later they were both cloaked against the winter wind and snow and striding through the winding halls and down the shifting staircases, Lucius moving with smug regality, and Severus trundling along behind him. Lucius was so very convincing, Severus thought to himself, because he was so very spoiled, and so very stubborn about it. No doubt he was the way he was because people kept deciding it would simply be easier to let him have what he wanted than to argue with him for hours on end. At least Severus wasn't fooling himself. At least he saw what he was perpetuating.
It was so silly, Severus had decided since the secret meetings began, silly because it was some sort of fan club, silly because it was so pointless, silly because it had the overwhelming potential to be incredibly dangerous and yet it still wasn't. He disliked being so ineffectual, and though he knew their Lord Voldemort -- no, Lucius's Lord Voldemort, the others' Lord Voldemort, not his Lord Voldemort -- was no doubt biding his time, waiting until he could use the youth whose hearts and minds he had swayed. For the time being, though, Severus found it absolutely pointless, to sit in darkness and bathe in shadow and listen to a man talk of a future that fooled all the other, less intelligent lackeys he had managed to amass.
They were called the Death Eaters. Whoever had thought up that title did a good job of making it sound intimidating, Severus would give them that, and once things were assigned to the group which required skill and careful thought, then, perhaps, the name would not seem so childish and almost comical. For the time being, Severus simply tried to ignore it, and would only half-listen to the chilling man who spoke in soft tones to the assorted group of youth. He'd otherwise occupy himself with thinking up new ingredients for sub-par potions, or mentally check down just what he needed to do the next day. If the meeting ran long, Severus would go through all the tasks that lay ahead for the next week.
All in all, Severus was not pleased to be going, but it was something he could easily live through, and so he said nothing, lost in thought as he followed Lucius down one hall, up another, down the next.
Of course, nothing could ever be easy.
"Malfoy." The unpleasantly familiar voice startled him out of his thoughts and he lifted his head slightly to find that Lucius had stopped a few steps before him, his body tensed and angry. The reason why was easy to guess: Sirius Black stood directly in front of him, Remus Lupin by his side, as Remus Lupin was always by his side, these days. Severus stood still for a moment or so, and then simply took a step backwards. He had learned to let the two volatile boys fight their own battles. It was best to keep out of it entirely.
"Black." Lucius's voice was imperial and cutting, while Sirius's had been more of a thrown dagger, a challenge.
"Looks like you're in my way," Sirius said casually, arms folded loosely over his chest, the tension in his body made of sheer readiness for confrontation.
"I was just about to say the same thing to you," Lucius returned easily, falling into the same stance.
As if the evening couldn't get any more ridiculous, Severus thought to himself, but he knew better than to voice such opinions.
"Get out of my way," Sirius said, and his eyes glittered, dark and dangerous.
"Make me," Lucius shot back, raising himself up to his full height. Sirius snorted softly, and took a step forward, too close to the other boy for any sort of comfort.
"Come now, Lucius," he growled, his voice low and richer than it usually was, "do you really want that? I'd hate to have to beat your sorry arse twice in one week."
"That's it," Lucius hissed, a snake moving for a dog suddenly, swiftly. They never came in contact, though, as on some unspoken cue, Severus and Remus moved forward hurriedly and grasped their respective friends, pulling them back and away, though they both struggled against the restraining arms near enough to shake free.
"Calm down," Remus muttered reproachfully in Sirius's ear. Sirius scowled, but relaxed, stilling himself before he fell back against Remus - something that no doubt would have knocked him down.
"Don't be a fool," Severus found himself warning Lucius as the both of them stumbled backwards, and Lucius snorted softly, shaking free of the other boy's arms. "We'll be late, and you were the one who wanted to go, in the first place."
"Next time, Black," Lucius snapped, tossing his hair back, almost like a stallion would, purely for show, "I'll get you." His lips twitched into a smirk. "And your little dog, too," he added.
"Oh, that is it," Sirius spat out, and, breaking free of Remus's hold, threw himself at Lucius, barreling into him. Severus nearly fell backwards as Lucius was knocked out of his arms, and he and Remus were able to only stare as Sirius shoved Lucius up against a wall, and the fight began. It was quite obvious that Sirius was the stronger of the two, but anger made him careless, as it always did, so half the wild, powerful punches he threw were easily ducked. Lucius could keep his cool for a while, but as one fist caught him squarely on the cheekbone, knocking his head back against the wall, he let out a cry of anger and lashed out with a booted foot at Sirius's shins.
Sirius stumbled, and grabbed out at Lucius's cloak, dragging the other boy down as he fell.
"We should do something," Remus thought aloud, taking a step forward, then nearly tripping as Lucius kicked out, trying to knock Sirius from him, and hitting against Remus's ankle instead. Remus hadn't even noticed that he'd spoken until Severus answered him.
"But what?" There was the sound of something, bone, cracking as knuckles came in contact with it, and a sound after that which signaled the ripping of clothes. Remus lifted his eyes to Severus's darker ones, and Severus nodded. "Before they kill each other, anyway," he murmured, and they both dove into the fray, with the sole objective of splitting it up. Remus grasped a handful of blond hair and winced, ducking a clawing hand that was quite obviously not Sirius's, before he managed to get his arms around Sirius's waist, and haul him up and away. Severus was clear then to grasp both of Lucius's wrists, dragging him to his feet, a good ways away from where Sirius and Remus stood.
"We should just leave," Remus murmured helplessly, his arms tight around Sirius's waist.
"The bloody little twit thinks he can insult anyone he wants to, you or me, and get away with it--"
"Sirius," Remus half-soothed, half-scolded, "your lip is bleeding. We'll get it fixed up, back--"
"And someone has to stop him," Sirius muttered, and then added, "Iesu, mae o'n rel coc oen." He spat the Welsh out in Lucius's direction, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. Not even Remus knew what he had said, but it wasn't the time for asking.
"This isn't the end of this, Black," Lucius returned, still struggling against Severus's hold. His cheekbone was beginning to turn a deep shade of bluish purple, and, once you saw Sirius's swollen knuckles, it was obvious to tell why.
"Hardly, Malfoy." Sirius's eyes flashed with the promise, before he allowed Remus to guide him away, not once giving Lucius the satisfaction of looking back over his shoulder.
"Come on," Severus said, brushing dust off of Lucius's robes, lifting a hand to his bruised cheek. "We should take a look at this--"
"No," Lucius bit back, shaking his head vehemently, "we're going as planned. No common idiot like Black is going to keep us from our plans." He turned on his heel, motioned once for Severus to follow him, and was gone down the long hallway, disappearing into the shadows.
"Coward," Sirius snarled to himself, "spoiled, stupid coward, son of a bloody inbred bitch, no doubt--"
"Just be quiet," Remus murmured, "or you'll split that lip more than it already is."
"As if I care," Sirius snapped back at him, and then he softened, shrugging weakly. "He insulted you," he explain, the anger seeming to flood from his gentler voice, "what else was I supposed to do?" He dabbed lightly at the cut on his lip with his finger, wincing, and then shook the wince off.
"You could have left it alone." Remus stopped, tugging lightly at the sleeve of Sirius's robe, and lifted his thumb to brush at the blood pooled at the corner of Sirius's mouth. "You didn't have to get hurt."
"He's hurt more'n I am," Sirius said with a grin, trying not to seem as if he regretted it, the second the cut on his lip was tugged wider. "Besides, how'm I supposed to let him have the last word?"
"It's been done before," Remus pointed out, voice dry. "It is possible. you're going to have a black eye, you know."
"So that's why my head is pounding," Sirius murmured, and his eyes grinned, though he kept his mouth still as possible. "In any case, it was all for your honor, so it's worth it. At least, I think so." Something in those eyes saddened, and they pulled away, as Sirius began to walk again. It occurred to Remus then that all Sirius wanted was some form of a thank you, and he sighed softly, mentally kicking himself for not seeing this, sooner. Though he knew Sirius as well as he knew anyone, and better, it was still going to be a long time before he truly understood the way his mind, and his emotions, worked, both separately, and alone.
Just because it had been foolish -- and it most certainly had, and Sirius knew that ( for he wasn't an idiot, even if he tended to act like one ) -- didn't mean it hadn't been well-meant. Not towards Lucius, of course, but some sort of clumsy gift from Sirius to Remus, as most of Sirius's gifts were.
Remus hurried to catch up with the other boy, and found his hand, and took it, twining Sirius's fingers with his own as he fell into pace at Sirius's side. "Thank you, Sirius," he said, very softly, so that Sirius had to strain to hear it. And then, once he did, it was very hard to keep from breaking into another wide, and therefore painful, grin. Remus had that strange effect on him.
"Don't thank me," he mumbled softly, ducking his head down, "just see if you can get some ice, because you're right, as always. And I'm going to need it."
Mundungus Fletcher was hot, down to his bones and sticky in his skin hot. Even his hotel room -- Muggle, of course; it was more discreet, strangely enough -- seemed to have given up fighting the heat with air conditioning, and simply resigned itself to the oppressive and all powerful weather. The bedsheets had been cool when first Mundungus lay down upon them, but they were not so any longer. Luckily, Mundungus had always been near-impervious to such elevated temperature, and while he was very, very hot, now, he knew that most any one else sent to stay in this place would have been rendered immobile, or at least abjectly miserable.
Hector would have hated it most, Mundungus found himself thinking, but Arabella, would have complained the loudest and the most.
Though it pained Mundungus to remember, he did not once harbor the impulse to forget. To ban those times from his thoughts and his heart would have been to deny all that he was.
There is no future," Hector murmured over a cup of tea, "without a past."
All that matters is the present," Arabella corrected, serving Mundungus another scone as if it were second nature, "and what you know, and what you make of it."
Mundungus smiled.
Still, you could not dwell in a land of what was, certainly not on a lazy hot day when there were things to be done, out there in a world of shimmery heat. Swinging himself out of bed, Mundungus was pleased to find that the wood floor was cool, for a moment or two, against the soles of his bare feet. He was less pleased when he looked outside the window and saw the rooftops wavering with the humidity of the air, as if the entire world was being seen from behind a bonfire. Mundungus groaned and ran his fingers through his sandy hair, and had to convince himself he had better things to do than hang about naked in his hotel room all day, trying to suck up the meager relief offered by malfunctioning central air.
It was tempting, to stay indoors, but there were letters to answer and myths to research, and a sphinx to gather information on. The sooner the task was over, the sooner he could return to lovely, rainy, cold England. Where, his mind added nastily, Albus will give you your next miserable assignment. But he kicked that thought aside quickly, and told himself to be far more grateful than he was already being. It was more trouble than not, being well-liked by Albus Dumbledore, but it was almost impossible to find courage or true reason ever to complain. With a great, good-natured sigh, Mundungus leaned one shoulder and part of his side against the windowpane, enjoying the momentary chill of the glass.
Egypt really is hot, he'd written in his last letter to Arabella, really damn hot. They're not lying when they tell you it is.
Her unopened reply to his latest post was sitting neatly on the bedside table, and it seemed as if he would have to read it before he could actually begin his day. He shook his head fondly and pushed off the windowpane, falling back against the bed once more and snatching up the letter at the same time, all in one fluid motion. The seal was easily broken and the handwriting was comfortably familiar, though it made the ring that hung on a chain around Mundungus's neck feel heavier, just at the sight.
Dearest M,
I've gone to Wales.
Before you ask me why in the name of all that is and isn't holy why I've gone to Wales, stop for a moment, and think; no matter how hard it may be for you to do so.
Mundungus, I can't let him run away as he did. It's been a long time, long enough for him to think he's forgotten us, and I refuse to let him, the bastard. We need him; Albus needs him; and he needs to be with us. He always has, but you know how he is -- so easily scared by so little. And I think, something did scare him, back then. So, I've gone to Wales, because that's where he is. I've gone to Wales to find out what it is that sent him running.
I'm sure you're near to killing me at this point, and probably, so long as we're at this point, I probably deserve it. It may be that I should have told you before I went off, but as you're in Egypt, and I am not, that's rather impossible.
I'll be speaking with him tomorrow.
I'll tell him you love him.
Love A
Mundungus was cold, down to his bones and clammy in his skin cold, and his hands were shaking, so that the single sheet of parchment fluttered by his fingers.
She wouldn't, had been his first, gut response; and then his deep understanding of Arabella had kicked in, and he had corrected himself, but of course she would. She's Arabella. Hurriedly, he flipped the letter over to check when it had been postmarked.
A few days ago.
"Bloody Muggle post," Mundungus hissed under his breath. There was no time to intercept her, no time to keep her from going to--
--and potentially ruining his entire life--
--just because Arabella worked on intelligent impulse, so strong and so intense and so spirited that she could never become any more than what it was she was, with all her stubbornness added into the mix.
It took Mundungus a while before he could calm enough to write a letter in reply, knowing that whenever Arabella got it, it would be far too late already. If Hector had run away, Mundungus knew -- because Hector had always understood him so well, and he, Hector -- then he had run away for a reason, and to try to badger him into returning would be to slam up against a fragile soul surrounded by fragile bone. And just thinking about Hector made Mundungus ache in his chest, his throat going all wide, and dry.
Stupidest A,
What in Merlin's name are you thinking?
Oh, that's right, nothing at all. How very like me that is, Bella.
You know how I'd have felt about this if you told me sooner.
I can't believe you've gone to him.
If you hurt him, I don't care who you are to me.
But you already knew that.
No love, M
On the page, it seemed like some sort of warped poem. Mundungus didn't laugh to see it.
"Hector? Anything wrong?" There was the sound of something rustling -- hair against hair against cheeks; Hector was shaking his head.
"Nothing."
"Have a little something to drink."
"I'd rather not." The feel of Hector's cheek against his fingertips, the feel of his hair through his fingers, just the slight glimpse of those worried eyes.
"Something's wrong, isn't it."
"Nothing's wrong. Really." The tension of the air as that smile was forced to those lips. "Just-been a busy day, that's all. Hasn't it? Been a busy day. I should turn in, I'm tired."
"See something in the tea leaves again?"
Silence.
"Maybe it'll help to talk about it."
"It wasn't the tea leaves. I can't even look at the stars, Mundungus! Not even the stars, because I see things, I feel things, and it's better not to know! I just want to look at the stars, and see the stars, and nothing more, nothing else."
"It's better to prepare, to know how to prepare..."
"You bloody see things like I see all the time, and then you tell me that, and mean it, and I'll listen."
Silence.
"I'm going to bed, all right? It'll be better, in the morning. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." And then the feel of Hector's shoulders against his arms, of Hector against his broader chest, though Hector was by no means a frailly built man. Sometimes he just had to hold Hector to make sure he was really real, that he was really there, and with him, with everyone else, on earth. Sometimes, it was impossible to tell just by looking at him or talking to him, and Mundungus simply had to touch, because he desperately needed to be reassured. Sometimes, Hector was so much and so little all at once.
"You don't have to apologize to me, Hector."
"I snapped at you. I shouldn't have."
"But you're right. I don't know anything about it, so why am I trying to pretend I do?"
"Because you want to make things better." The feel of Hector trembling against him.
"Maybe you should just, go to bed. I can't make things better." All I want is to be reassured, myself.
"I'm all right."
"I know."
"I'll be all right."
"I know."
"Good night, Mundungus."
"Good night, Hector. Sleep well." And the unspoken knowledge, that Mundungus would join him later, and nothing would come of it, and he'd be gone again in the morning. Sometimes, it was nice just to lie by Hector's side and know that he would not disappear during the night; that Mundungus himself would be the one with the power to leave. Sometimes, it was painful, having a friend so ethereal, with his eyes always elsewhere, however hard they tried to be fix onto something solid, of the earth. But it was harder, for Hector, and so Mundungus simply took what he could, selfishly, and missed all possible opportunities.
Mundungus sent the letter out by Owl Post later in the hot day, as it was quicker that way, and he didn't know where Arabella was, at that. And for the duration of his stay in Egypt, or at least the part where he waited for Arabella to reply to his letter, he tried desperately not to think, at all, on what had happened to tear them apart.
The house was very small, and very quiet, now that Damon had left. Damon would be coming back, or so he had said, and soon, but whatever soon happened to be, it wasn't soon enough. Leaving him alone in this place he did not know to these feelings he could not bear, was far too much for Hector to breathe through.
And so he sat, alone, in the empty, cold kitchen, drawing on the things Arabella had said, before he and Damon had chased her out, and Damon had told him, with numb, hollow tones, that he needed some time alone, to think.
"We married. Mundungus and I. We were married, for all of five hours, before we realized that we both loved you, and it was the bloody stupidest idea any two people could possibly harbor, and we got it annulled." Hector noticed the ring that hung around her neck, and he felt his stomach sink past his feet and through the floor, all the way to the other side of the world. He wanted to throw up.
"Why are you doing this to me, Arabella?"
"Because you deserve it, you son of a bitch."
And maybe he was weak.
All his life, Mundungus had tried to shelter him, to protect him from the harsh realities of the world and life itself, and Hector had needed him for that. In losing Mundungus he had lost the shell, and now, Arabella's words echoed in his head and through his heart, and crashed against his brittle bone, and broke him.
"Leave."
"I'm not leaving until you listen to me."
"And haven't you said enough?" His voice was wild, even in his own ears. "I want you out of my house, I want you out of my life, I want you to get out of my heart and my head, I want you out!"
"You're weak, Hector. And I thought it meant you felt more than others, but it just meant you were weak. And Mundungus thought, and still thinks, the bloody fool, that it meant we were here to protect you, and keep you safe, and that was what loving was, but it wasn't, and he sits and looks for women to protect when he should be looking for you again. Merlin knows why, but you put your hold on us and then you ran away, you fucking coward, you ran away and left us to fend for ourselves, without you. Son of a bitch. How dare you do that to us. To me. How dare you."
"Get out."
"If only it were that simple! But I can't get out, just as you couldn't get out, and it isn't fair to think we can forget you so easily!" Arabella had the wildest eyes. They burned and they ached and they pierced, they needed and they hated and they accused, and they wailed, like a siren lost at sea, hungry, hungry. "You listen to me, Hector Karnaugh, and you actually listen: when you left, you took pieces of us, and I damn well demand that they be returned. Perhaps you can't, now, but I'm hear to make sure that you return them one day, and if you don't, I'll hunt you down as the dog that you are, and I'll kill you to take it back if need be. Don't think that I won't."
Her eyes meant it.
Next to him, Damon was terrified.
And he was terrified, looking into those eyes, and hurting so deeply, so badly, that he wanted to scream.
Now, it was hard not to watch the stars, so clear on these crisp, winter evenings. The stars that haunted him so, that taunted and mocked and twinkled, brightly, beautifully, and ominously above. Hector had always been aware only of the dark spaces between each, and how vast a map they painted, and how small and insignificant he was. All he wanted, was to simply be able to lie back against the ground one summer day, and simply watch the stars, simply see them, not some grand, futuristic gesture, painful and portentous.
The stars said, or rather made him say to himself: I am alone.
And truly, he was just that, with only Arabella's words echoing in his head, and in the empty spaces all throughout each small room, between furniture and photographs and flowerpots.
"I like gardening," Hector told Damon softly, smiling. "It's so-- solid. You can feel it. There's nothing missing, nothing to puzzle together. Just dirt and seeds and the sunlight, and water, but everything needs that, really, so I'm not sure if it quite counts."
The tea was getting cold, he noted. Frigid, actually, but it was hard to discern between 'cold' and 'freezing' through the chill that flooded the tip of Hector's nose, and all through his fingertips. It was hard to discern when one truly didn't care to.
Later, when there was a knock on the door, he realized that he should get up, should answer it, but he wasn't sure if it was locked or not, or if it mattered who came to him, or who didn't. He heard the door open, and close -- so it wasn't locked, obviously -- and he settled himself lower in the wooden chair, staring fixedly at the wall before him.
Damon was gone, and the house was very, very cold, and even more empty.
He didn't know what to do with himself, now. He didn't think he could bear to make pancakes alone. He didn't think he could live this way or die this way, or do anything else but sit there and hold a cup of tea and mourn what he'd lost, and how careless he had been with it, when he'd had it.
"I know," Damon whispered, pained, "I know that it would have been - well, I mean, I don't think I could have believed it, but here it is, and-- I just need, I just need some time, a little time, to think about things. About everything."
"Oh," Hector said.
"And I'll come back," Damon went on helplessly, "of course, I'll come back, I just need to be alone for a bit, and sort this out, what to make of it, I have to know-- what to make of it, after all. Because it just, it doesn't make sense, and I-- I'm sorry. I wish you'd told me. I don't know what to think yet."
"Right," Hector said.
He felt -- if he felt anything at all -- very small, and very childish, and utterly incompetent. But here he would sit, and here he would wait, until Damon came back.
If Damon came back.
Of course he'd come back, he had said he'd come back.
"I'm going to have to kill her," said the voice behind Hector's back, "I'm going to have to, I told her I would if she hurt you, and she obviously did. Bitch. I will, you know; or, I would, if I thought it wouldn't hurt you further. She's still an incorrigible cunt, and she's going to be punished for this." When Mundungus was nervous he always ended up talking, filling uncomfortable or awkward silence with the sound of his voice, which was sometimes so cheerful, sometimes so somber, but always so deeply pleasing to listen to.
"Have you come to hate me, too?" Hector asked at last. He didn't turn around. He didn't think he could bear what he might see, over his shoulder.
"No. I'd stay away for that."
"She does, you know. Hate me. Bella. I didn't mean it. I didn't want it. I just wanted her to leave, in the end, and it shouldn't be that way."
"No. It shouldn't. If I had known, I would have kept her from coming."
"Yes."
"I missed you, Hector. Merlin, I missed you." And he had said it, easy as that, admitting freely that there had been an absence, that Hector had left them both, that there had been something to miss. It hurt, but he felt lighter. And then he saw Hector's shoulders shake.
He hadn't seen this man -- this boy, really, in so many ways -- for years upon years, decades, now. It hit him at last, along with the miserable picture Hector made alone in that chair, and Mundungus felt as if someone had sucker-punched him directly in the stomach.
"Oh, fuck," Mundungus said, and Hector began to cry. It was one thing to see a young man, a boy really, weep that way, as Hector had used to, but to see a full grown man break into tears, as Hector just had done, was shattering to any spirit, no matter how strong. Mundungus moved forward, quickly, and pulled Hector easily up and out of his chair, holding him close, trying to hold him above whatever it was he was drowning in.
Good, he thought helplessly, as he did so, we stillfit.
But it seemed as if that fact of life might never have cause to change.
"I'm so sorry," Hector whispered, between shuddering tears, "I'm so sorry, I never meant to hurt either of you, I just couldn't see-- anymore, I couldn't see what I had to-- it was better, to find someone else, who could protect you, who could do-do something."
"Don't think we ever could have replaced you," Mundungus soothed, brushing his fingers through Hector's hair.
"I couldn't say goodbye," Hector went on, "how could I say goodbye? I didn't want things to end."
"No one ever does."
"And she hates me, now, and I thought maybe she'd understand--"
"I understand, Hector. I'm here. It's all right. It's going to be all right." Just petting his hair, because it was comforting and familiar to them both, little patting motions with his broad, callused palm.
"I'm alone, Mundungus. I'm alone. I'm going to be alone. I'm alone--"
"Shh. You're hardly alone. I'm here, remember? And I'll stay." There was something unnecessary accusatory in his voice when he said that, and he winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it that way. I will. I won't try to make you do anything. Bella -- Bella was just hurt, more than anyone really, when she realized you were gone. She never let it show, which is why she was so angry. You know Bella."
"I know Bella. I know she means what she says."
"We've all changed, Hector. Bella has changed. We've been apart for a very long time. You've gotten so damned thin, I'd've hardly recognized you, you know, if it wasn't for" If it wasn't for the fact that he'd know Hector no matter what he looked like and where he was, no matter what time had grown gaping gaps between the two of them. "You still feel the same, anyway," Mundungus muttered, frowning to himself. "We should probably sit down, shouldn't we? And talk. I passed by the sitting room on my way in here. Let's go, Hector. Let's-- let's talk."
"If you promise not to hate me," Hector whispered, pulling back for a moment. At last, he got a long, good look at Mundungus's face. In all the years they had been apart it hadn't changed, still cut jaggedly, youthfully, with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose, and sparkling eyes set beneath a proud brow. He still looked young, though there was something coarser and wiser about those features, or at least hidden within them. All Hector's memories of Mundungus were of him smiling, but his lips were set in a straight, worried line, now. And his hair was shorter, though it fell forward more messily over that broad forehead.
"I'm not going to hate you, Hector. I never did. I loved you too much for it."
"Then-- let's talk," Hector murmured at last, and, leaning on Mundungus's arm, led the way back, into the sitting room.
And Mundungus found his way into Hector's bed that night, despite the pained words he had spoken, despite the lingering ache in his heart at them, and he knew that no matter how hard Hector pushed things away, no matter how foolishly, he would still find his way back to his side, bonded as brothers. He would still find his way to wrapping an arm around Hector's waist and pressing his lips against his hair, and smelling the smell of him, the smell of home.
Leaving Hogwarts was always like leaving a nest, one of safety, of home, of love. Though it was nice to know there was a lazy summer before you it was equally not to know that it would be a lazy summer spent alone, without those grown accustomed and comfortable by your side during the long school year. This year, it was worse, for there were other factors to be weighed into the mix; one other thing, to be exact, and that was the cycle of the full moon, and to what the wolf, and Padfoot, as well as Prongs and Wormtail, had become so used.
"What is it about leaving," Sirius asked softly, packing the night before his Fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry was to end, "about having to leave, that makes you feel so helpless?"
"It could have something to do with the black eye you're not going to be able to hide from your mother," Remus murmured softly, folding one shirt neatly, because there really were less wrinkles that way, than using magic to pack up. Sirius was waving his wand about wildly, and still managing only to stuff and mash the last sock in before he zipped his suitcase up.
"She's going to give me a matching one, when she sees it." Sirius frowned, and sat down atop his suitcase. Only then was he able to get the stuck zipper pulled shut all the way.
"She's going to give you a matching one, when she sees the way you've packed up your things." Remus moved forward with a light sigh, shooing Sirius away and unpacking everything he'd shoved so unceremoniously in places they hardly belonged, so he could pack it again properly, himself.
"You don't have to clean up after me, Moony," Sirius said with a playful scowl, sitting on the edge of his bed next to Remus, facing him, to watch.
"Someone has to." Remus expertly smoothed the wrinkles from a t shirt and tucked the arms in against the chest first, then folded it in half, and in half again, setting it down and running his fingers over the fabric as a final touch, just to be sure. "Because if you went home with your suitcase like that, your socks all rolled up into knots and your shirts in a crumpled up heap, your mother would kill you, and then were would I be?" Graceful fingers moved over a pair of socks, twisting them and rolling them into a neat, wrinkle-free ball.
"Oh, great; nice to know it's for my own good, anyway. Or maybe, just for your own good." Sirius ran his fingers through his hair, and then delicately touched the sensitive flesh around his eye, wincing as he learned the bruise was still very tender. "Least I know I almost broke his nose, and knocked out a tooth. A tooth, Moony, I'm getting pretty, bloody good, don't you think?"
"Yes. It's terribly appealing, to see you flailing about, smashing your fists into people and whooping like an aborigine when the blood flies." Remus sounded comically matronly; his voice, added to the image he made as he was balling socks, made Sirius laugh out loud.
"In any case, if Malfoy thinks he can sic Crabbe and Goyle on me and get away with it, he's one Sickle short of a Galleon, that's for sure." Remus lips quirked upwards, just slightly, and he ducked his head over his task to hide the smile he couldn't quite keep from his face. "Look at that! Even you're smiling, and you know it's true, 'cause I can take all three of 'em in one fight if I want to, spoiled brat and his oversized lugs and even that greasy git Snape, as well, if he ever got up the courage to fight." It was best to let Sirius go on like this -- it distracted him, no doubt, from whatever loneliness or dread that he was experiencing at the idea of leaving Hogwarts the next morning. It was distracting to Remus, as well, just listening to Sirius ramble for a while, talking about nothing, bragging about everything, and filling Remus's ears with the familiar, glorious sound.
"All four of them, hm?"
"And, you've seen me do it," Sirius said, indignant, "more'n once, I'll add, so at least I'm good for something, even if I can't fold my own socks." Remus set down the last pair and couldn't help but smile at that, eyes meeting with Sirius's, and catching. "Oi, Remus," Sirius said after a few moments of that heated silence, "I'm going to miss you so damn much Merlin only knows what I'm going to do." Almost unconsciously, Remus lifted his hand, brushing his fingers through Sirius's hair and pushing a few unruly strands off his forehead, out of his eyes, to rest, tucked behind his ear. Sirius swallowed, and a pained, unhappy expression crossed his face, and Remus abandoned the half-finished task of packing to move forward, and cradle Sirius's head against his chest, in his arms.
"If only I were good with words," Remus said softly, "I'd write you enough letters that you wouldn't miss me for a minute."
"I'd miss you anyway," Sirius returned, voice muffled against Remus's flannel pajama top, "because they'd just be letters. They wouldn't be you. I hate the summer, Moony, I hate being alone."
"You're not alone," Remus soothed, stroking Sirius's hair. "You have your entire family there with you, I know how it is. How can you possibly be alone when they're there for you?"
"Trust me." Sirius's voice was low, lost, grave. "I'm alone there, because it isn't enough, and they're alone, because they know it."
"I'm sorry," Remus said, "I am." Sirius shook his head as best he could in the awkward position, and slipped his arms around Remus's waist, holding tight. For a long time, he'd realized that all other emotions were petty and unimportant, in comparison with this, its warmth and its irrational, beautiful fire. So his mother would laugh with him, and he would fight a little with Cassie just like old times, and Michael and he would go down to the river and maybe skip stones if the weather was right and they found any stones good for skipping. And once, once he would have jumped for joy at the idea of it all, would have known that this was life, blissful and simple and summer-warm and perfect. Once, he had been younger, and he had not known the boy with eyes the color of birch-and oak bark. Now, all that had been familiar was not, and all that had been pleasant and wholly good was not enough.
Sirius needed things, needed most of all to look to one side of him and know he could see Remus walking there, lost in thought or lost in looking at Sirius the same way, but never again lost to his touch and to his sphere, his axis, of living.
Sirius needed desperately to be able to hold the smaller boy when he felt suddenly unsure of what the world had to offer, or what it was he felt, or thought, about someone or something, or what it was he should do, or say, or become. Remus was his solid ground. Remus was his point of no return. Remus was his air and the world that nourished him and the world he nourished in return. Without the other boy beside him, everything was dull and unimportant, and he slipped into a land of lethargic discontent, waiting, waiting, to be returned to him.
"We both have to go home, after all," Remus said softly, toying with a stray lock of Sirius's hair.
"You don't get it, Moony," Sirius returned softly, fingers knotting at Remus's back. "This is home." And it was quite obvious that he didn't mean Hogwarts, or the bed, but the boy held in his arms, and the tight, comfortable feel of the world, when they were so close.
Sirius pulled back slowly, almost reluctant, and reached up to touch Remus's chin, to urge him down for a kiss. It got easier and easier for Remus, this knowing how to move your mouth and what to do with your tongue, the more he and Sirius spent time simply kissing. Barring the self conscious nature Remus indulged in, something that would pass once the awkwardness of youth passed, it got better each time, if that were possible.
"I should finish packing for you," Remus whispered against Sirius's lips, "or else we'll be late, tomorrow morning."
"But what if," Sirius replied, softly, tones somber, "what if tomorrow never comes, and we wasted all of tonight?" Whatever the bigger boy meant by that was left to the imagination as he kissed Remus again, gently, searching his mouth. Tongue ran over teeth and toyed with tongue, teasing, tugging. Sirius was without a doubt one of the best kissers the world had ever seen, and would ever see again, and Remus wasn't one to protest it, at least not for the sake of folding dirty clothing.
They fell back against the bed and they broke off the kiss at last, breathing in deeply, curled in around each other.
"We'll be home again soon enough," Remus managed to say, shivering. Sirius ran his fingers up and down his side, pushing at the warm fabric of Remus's pajama top, motions that seemed almost absentminded, but were entirely purposeful.
"But I don't like having to leave," Sirius said, and sighed. "That's the point of all of this."
"Someday, you're going to have to learn a little patience, Sirius," Remus retorted dryly, "and I don't know what it's going to be that teaches you, but Merlin knows you need it."
There was a long, echoing silence, cavernous throughout the room, between curtain and curtain, curtain and curtain, of Remus's canopy bed. Here was a place where their scents mingled on the sheets, and filled Remus's senses with secret, thrilled bliss. Here was a place that echoed sheets wrinkled by both their bodies in Sirius's mind and on his skin, and he loved to lounge there, luxuriant, lazy, loved.
Or, as he'd like to think he was. Remus wouldn't be this way with him, if he didn't feel something more for him than he could ever feel for anyone else. At least, Sirius hoped his theory was right; but thinking along those lines always made him sick to his stomach, and he banned such wondering thoughts from his mind.
"I don't need any bloody patience, Moony," Sirius mumbled back, his hand falling still, resting against the curve of Remus's hip, "I don't need any bloody patience because I have you." He nuzzled against the side of Remus's face, and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose, and flashed a light, weak grin. "Or at least, I'm crazy enough to delude myself into thinking I do; but either way, I'm rather happy, so don't tell me the truth, just yet. I'd like to be happy for just a little while longer."
Remus said nothing, but his eyes promised everything.
Later that night, Remus taught Sirius as best he could how to fold clothes properly, and they finished packing, and fell asleep tangled limb with limb as the cool air filtered over their warm skin, and they wondered just what it was they could possibly be feeling.
And when they boarded the train the next day, with the bright sunlight washing over them, they sat together as close as they could, and held each other's hands tight, and spent the aching, too-short minutes in silence, until it was time to leave what they felt and knew was 'home' for what was actually called by that name.
"I'll see you, Moony," Sirius said.
"The time will pass," Remus replied.
Sirius lifted a hand and brushed gold-flecked bangs back from Remus's eyes, affectionate, tender. Sirius had rough palms, Quidditch callused, but they could be so soft when he wished them to be. Then, he turned round, picked up his suitcase, and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Remus alone to face the busy thrum of a grayscale world.
Sometimes, with instincts like Sirius's, you could tell when people thought differently about you, simply by the way they looked at you. Especially if they'd been looking at you the same way for all your life, and suddenly, it was changing, or had changed, and you were just beginning to notice it.
Michael had this steel to his eyes as of late, nothing soft and fond left save for the slightest hint of it every now and then, when Aquila was in the room. Sean and Sirius had never been close, and so it was harder for Sirius to tell what he was imagining in those familiar eyes, and what was really there, and harder still to put a name or a reason to what it was, once he'd decided. But Michael's eyes made him uncomfortable, as if they wished to pin him down and strip him of everything he was -- no, of everything he'd become. The looks were always given when Michael thought Sirius's back was turned, when Michael thought Sirius wouldn't notice it or feel it, but how couldn't he? Piercing and detached, the looks cut into your skin and pried open your soul, and Sirius felt for the first time the aching need to close himself off to someone.
And it wasn't just any someone. It was Michael, for Merlin's sake, Michael, who taught Sirius how to skip stones and how to climb a tree and how to swear like any of the men at the local pub. Michael, who was everything Sirius had ever wanted to become, strong and capable, loud and proud of it, a joke a minute and a steady hand, whenever you needed one.
But something between them had changed, and Sirius hoped it wasn't but knew it was the one thing in the world he himself could not, would not, let go, not even for Michael's sake.
It was clear that there would be no more visits, just the two of them, to the river, for those times were over. There would be no more trips down into the mine after lunch breaks, where Aquila would protest and Michael would sneak him in anyway, and they'd both of them come home covered in the black soot and catch hell for it. They'd go to bed with no supper and soundly boxed ears, but it would be worth it, just to have the memories, Sirius feeling older and wiser, and Michael feeling young once more.
And there wasn't any lack of love, exactly, just a lack of unity, the fraying of that rope-tight bond they'd shared once, when they hadn't just been brothers in blood but in spirit, as well. Sirius missed the way it had been; he'd admit that quite freely. But he knew also there was simply nothing to be done about it, not with those looks Michael gave him, not with the tension in the air, whenever they were left alone.
It was partly because of 62 The Glen -- for Michael saw as much as he didn't tell, and always told very, very little -- and partly because of Remus, and the first puzzled Sirius, or at least he tried to convince himself it did. The third wounded him more deeply than he could express and he spent some nights awake when most often he would sleep like a rock, wondering and agitated and hurting. Michael had been in love once or twice, so he said, with a round-hipped, dimple-cheeked miner's daughter, but obviously it had been something other than love or he would have understood. He should understand, Sirius told himself, time after time, whenever that piercing ache began in his gut, he should. He should.
But the simple fact was, he didn't, and whenever Michael's eyes came to fall on Sirius they found some new way of expressing disappointment, misunderstanding, and even the faintest hint of disgust, which was the worst of it all. Sirius wanted to ask, why are you looking at me this way? But he knew why, or had enough information to know why, and to ask would be to bring it out in the open. For now, all Sirius wanted to do was hide.
It was one of the only things he'd ever found in all his life that he could not bring himself to bully and bluster and confront.
After all, what would he possibly have to say? Michael was stubborn, stubborn as all the Black men were, and you couldn't convince anyone out of something they felt, something they felt that was strong enough to erase more than fifteen years of brotherhood and love. Guess some of Moony's brains are rubbing off on me, Sirius told himself as he thought this over for the umpteenth time. He could barely bring himself to even laugh at the image, once it had formed in his mind, and simply rolled over, pulling his blanket up over his head, trying not to think at all.
Naturally, it was worth it. It was worth losing Michael and Sean, even Orion and Aquila -- though he never for a moment thought he'd lose them, certainly not over whom he loved. It was worth losing everyone and everything, just to keep Remus, and though he'd be miserable with it, should it come to such deep and overwhelming loss, he knew that he'd bear it. Somehow.
Such thoughts, such feelings, absolutely terrified him.
But the way Michael kept looking at him kept causing him to confront them, when all he was, was very young, and very in love, and very, very scared of knowing it so well.
So Sirius spent the days with Cassie, oddly enough, who looked at him as though she knew and was envious, rather than as though she knew and she couldn't bear to think of the poor, pathetic, and even revolting fool he had chosen to become. It was the way Cassie looked at him -- a slight bit of admiring jealousy, a wistful touch to her deep blue eyes -- that made Sirius feel as if, at last, someone seemed to understand what it was to love, or at least wish they knew what it was, so that they could understand it. It was simply that, the onset of love in the face of anything, love that was love and nothing else. There were no other names. There was an l, and an o, and a v, and an e, and it framed what love was, which was something more and something without any words and something without any deep, accusatory looks.
What have you become? I loved you, once.
What have I become? I fell in love. That love could not have been what betrayed your love. It simply was.
Cassie and Sirius spent time in the center of town, wishing they could spend money they did not have in the candy shop, and Cassie found that Sirius looked at chocolate in a way that suggested he wasn't the one who wanted to eat it. She found him fascinating, really, completely and utterly so, because no one else in her family acted this way, and she was jealous, but only because she wanted to know more.
On a day when Aquila found it impossibly pleasant that they no longer fought, squabbling together as foolish children might, she handed them her purse and told them they could go buy whatever they wanted, so long as they didn't take advantage, and hoped as they ran off pell-mell that she hadn't made a mistake.
"What are you going to buy?" Cassie asked, breathless, as she tried to keep up with Sirius, who had far longer legs than she did.
"I'm going to buy him some chocolates, to make sure he's eating even that," Sirius replied, and he let out a wild, echoing whoop of joy, that there was something at last that he could do. Cassie found herself growing curious again, but she didn't have time for it to take full effect while she pressed all her concentration into the task of running. At last, when they reached the candy shop, and Sirius picked out only the most expensive sweets while Cassie ordered one bar of hazelnut fudge, Cassie felt that wondering curiosity creep back. She was so caught up in thinking about it that she didn't even watch the man behind the counter wrap up their purchases and slip in a free jawbreaker for each of them to have on the slower, meandering walk back home.
Outside, they sucked on their jawbreakers in silence, Cassie taking hers out of her mouth every so often to watch the colors change. Sirius kept his candy against the roof of his mouth, letting it melt. He was too old, now, he told himself, to keep popping it in and out, simply to see the purple give way the yellow give way to the blue.
"Sirius?" Cassie asked at last, licking sticky sugar from her fingers.
"Mn?" Sirius's voice was odd and muted by the slowly dwindling candy still large in his mouth.
"Tell me about him." Her eyes were bright, fixed ahead of her, and she waited, hoping he would. She knew Sirius wouldn't have to ask, 'tell me about who?' because it was quite obvious from the way he missed a casual step that she'd taken him off guard. And to take him off guard, you simply had to mention that name, whether in intent or in words: Remus.
"what about him d'you want to know, then?" Sirius asked finally, not looking over to his sister at his side.
"Whatever you want to tell me," Cassie replied firmly. Sirius paused again, and his brow furrowed.
"There's a lot to tell," he answered at last.
"We have the whole summer," Cassie said cheerfully. "Well?" She was going to win; she knew it. It seemed as if Sirius had been waiting for all of the time he'd been back to get an excuse to talk about him, and she could look on it as doing him a favor, giving him the chance. But she knew also that she simply had to know, a clutching longing grabbing hold of her stomach whenever she thought of it.
"Well," Sirius said thoughtfully, and then he tugged the candy from his mouth, wrapping it back up to save for later, so he could talk easily and freely now. It was a good sign, Cassie thought, and she knew she could lead the way to the side of the river, or even the abandoned lighthouse, so she could sit and he could sit and she could listen all day to him talking about this. Why she was so curious, she didn't know. She simply had to find out what it was like, what all the fuss was about. Her damn lucky brother had fallen in love, and she would be the first to hear absolutely everything about it.
"Well?" Cassie prompted, sucking eagerly on the candy, which was growing steady smaller against her tongue.
"Well he's like this," Sirius murmured, then trailed off helplessly. "He's like-- you can't explain what he's like. He's quiet but he fills a room. He's small but when I look at him, he's all I can see. Naturally, he's smarter than I am, but that's not hard," and Sirius attempted a weak grin at that, getting painfully lonely just thinking about the boy, feeling the chocolates he'd bought for him swing by his side. "And he knows something about everything, why people do what they do or feel what they feel, and what needs to be done about it. I don't think he ever stands up for himself, because I don't think he understands how wonderful he is. And it hurts to know that when he smiles, you've got to coax it out of him, or when he laughs, you've got to treasure every second of it, because you might not hear it again for-- for years, even!"
"Oh," Cassie whispered, "oh," and she loved the little thrill she got just imagining him through Sirius's eyes, but Sirius didn't seem to hear her as he went on.
"I'm lost," Sirius said softly, "I'm lost without him, and I'm lost with him, and it's really just that simple." It seemed easy, casual, to say it, but it hurt a little, admitting how alone he was, and how afraid he was of being alone.
"Does it help to talk about him?" Cassie asked, softening. There was something deeply wounded in Sirius's eyes that might have been there before, simply going by unnoticed because no one expected to see it there.
"I don't know yet," Sirius admitted, "but I hope it will." Something, out of all of this, had to help. There were two and a half months left during summer break, and if he didn't find something to soothe the ache, he might just go stark raving mad.
"So keep talking," Cassie said after a minute or so had passed. Now, it wasn't just simple curiosity. Now, it was something else, something she didn't quite know or understand, but it had to do with truly wanting to hear about this boy that was so loved, this boy who was so complex and so wonderful when seen through Sirius's eyes. It had something to do with compassion, with truly wanting to help her brother, for his shoulders had begun to droop.
"D'you really want me to?" Sirius sounded unsure, wary.
"Would I let you bore me out of my mind?" Cassie returned, giving a half-hearted scowl. "Go on," she added, softer, tossing her hair back over one shoulder. "Please? I want to hear. Go on."
And so Sirius did.
He told her about Remus's deep brown eyes, and the way they looked in the starlight. He told her about the scars on his body and how it hurt to see smooth skin marred that way. He told her of the way his face could be filled with shadow and light all at once, and the way he kept trying to hide himself, as if something too terrible to imagine had scared him, too long ago to truly remember. He told her of the way he felt against his fingertips, and what it was like to hold someone so much smaller and so much more wonderful in your arms, and have them want you to. He was a small boy, Remus Lupin, but when Sirius Black described him he seemed to be the entire universe, the sun and the stars and the midnight moon. Cassie listened with rapt attention, hanging with bated breath on every word that passed his lips.
Sirius went on.
He told her about the soft feel of Remus's hair and the trembling of his lips, the graceful lines of his hands and the way he curled around a book as if he were trying to slip between the pages. He told her of the way it was when he cried, so rare and so terrible that he knew he could never let it happen again, never let tears stain his cheeks. He told her of the way his breathing hitched when they kissed and the way it felt to hold his hand when it was cold and the snow was falling. He told her what it was to hear Remus speak French, things Sirius would never truly understand himself but loved to hear because his voice grew deeper, and oddly shy, and the words rolled off his lips like maple sugar and honey. He told her of the way he made things so clear and so beautiful, simply by understanding them, himself.
He told her that Remus was like a book, words that hid meanings and meanings that transcended words, pages smooth to the touch and smelling of moss and thyme. He told her that Remus was like a library, filled with too much of too many different things, so that you could spend lifetime upon lifetime trying to learn him and love him and have a thousand and one lifetimes left before you learned it all.
He told her through telling her about Remus what love was.
Cassiopea Black fell in love with Remus Lupin that afternoon as Sirius Black fell in love with him all over again for what he would have sworn was the billionth time, as the sun winked through the trailing, lazy clouds, high in the sky above.
