So many thanks to Teshi, because we're married and all, and because she was the power behind the glorious 201 reviews I hit on the last the chapter.
And thanks to everyone who reviewed. Now, the chapter!
Chapter XIII: La Premiere Chanson de l'Ombre
There was something changed about Etienne's son.
The answer could have rested in the obvious fact that he had grown physically, more so than in any other previous year: at least an inch and a half added to his height, his shoulders just noticeably broader, his form no longer one of a stunted child, but of a stunted teen. The answer could have rested in such tangible facts, but no answer to any question about Remus ever rested in tangible facts, and probably never would. Etienne had long since understood that it would be misinformed foolishness to even humor the possibility.
So then, perhaps, it had to do with the sparkle in Remus's eyes, the color of burnished gold somehow more powerful than the dusky, dusty brown. It could have rested in the assured way he had learned to move his hands, the way he would get distracted more and more by remembering something of this earth, so the absence of attention in his features was less of an ethereal chill down the observer's back. It could have rested in the long letters he wrote and received in turn, or the way he would softly, shyly ask to go to a museum, a movie, the sundae shop down the street, always after he finished reading one of those letters, holed up in his room. (When Remus came to him that way, Etienne knew it was at the urging of the boy who wrote him, and he could hardly refuse. They spent sunny summer days searching for shade, eating ice cream, or speaking of actors, or artists.)
After the first few days of wondering what it was that had changed in his son's appearance, Etienne gave up trying to work it out for himself, knowing that, in time, his son would tell him everything he wished to know. It was heartening, reassuring, to know this. It took the edge of loneliness away.
Remus had brought back with him, from one trip to a place he called 'Hogsmeade', something that made Etienne alternately laugh and wince. Chocolate Frogs, as the little lolly packages were labeled, seemed to be the strangest idea in marketing that Etienne had ever come across. Though they came with Remus's almost amused, yet no less assuring, recommendations, Etienne still found that he was wary of eating any sort of frog-shaped lolly that, apparently, hopped hopped about before you popped it into your mouth, and put an end to all that. They kept the frogs for three weeks in a cool place so they wouldn't melt, while Etienne worked up the nerve and the belief to actually eat them.
"All right," he said to Remus at last, nodding over the paper he always read in the lull after dinner, "I think I'm ready." Remus stood from the dining table and took the two matching Chocolate Frogs from a side shelf in the refrigerator, on the opposite side of the kitchen. When he returned to the table he slid one brightly decorated box over to his father, keeping the other for himself.
"Be careful," Remus warned softly, "don't let yours get away."
"Unless I've decided to be incredibly humanitarian, and set the poor creature free," Etienne replied dryly, feeling oddly nervous. He tugged at the flaps on the box, cupped his hands over the opening, and waited. Something chocolate-y, and cool, thudded against his palms, and he instinctively caught the small, thrumming creature, which was trembling, with the cold or perhaps even excitement, he wasn't sure. He held it tight enough to trap it, but not tight enough to crush, or even maim it, quite aware that Remus was watching him fixedly. His son had his own Chocolate Frog pinned expertly with a grateful finger against the now open box that rested on the table before him. "Well?" Etienne asked finally, feeling ridiculous. "Now what?" Inside his hand the frog was rapidly becoming nervous, or maybe even impatient, banging back and forth as if it were a very large Mexican jumping bean.
"Now, you eat it," Remus explained kindly, understandingly. Etienne felt suddenly as if he were the child, and the thought, along with the realization that over-active chocolate really tickled, made him laugh.
"Oh, naturally," he muttered, though cheerfully, the rift between their two worlds serving only to bring them closer together, "now I eat the frog made out of chocolate. How silly of me, not to know."
"If you keep it in your hands that way for long enough," Remus went on wryly, "then it might just jump itself out, and you won't have to worry about losing it halfway to your mouth."
"Trick of the trade, I suppose?" Etienne asked softly.
"Something like that," Remus replied.
"Well, I suppose I'll simply have to trust you with that." Etienne watched Remus's own frog struggle with a piqued curiosity, the chocolate-smooth body catching the overhead light and glistening, almost ethereal. "Do they, you know, ribbit, or something of the sort?"
"I don't believe so," Remus said, though he had to stop to think about it. "They just jump a little. Apparently, they've got one good leap to them, before they're all jumped out. Something like that. I've never gotten a chance to test them out."
"Well. One day, perhaps. For now, I'd rather not lose it." Though the idea of watching his desert jump about his kitchen was tempting, Etienne was by all means a very practical man. He worked at a practical job and did practical things, and remembered long evenings in the woods, when the trees rose high to meet the blushing sky. And each time he told himself, no, I will never, can never have those days again, so while certain fantastical ideas amused him they also terrified him, because of what memories they brought back, ones he truly did not wish to relive. He was not a man who lied to himself. He liked his chocolate to keep still, and he loved it to move.
"I think," Remus said after a few minutes of silence, "that it should be safe now, if you want to give it a go." The point hadn't been to ruffle his father's sensibilities with a jumping Chocolate Frog, so very non-Muggle that it was almost hysterical. The point was, the chocolate was sweet and creamy and rather the best to be found in Hogsmeade, except for Honeydukes', and both Remus and his father shared a deadly sweet tooth. The point was, he'd thought his father would like it.
"You're right," Etienne murmured, and he flashed a smile that was intensely reassuring, "I believe the little bugger's stopped bouncing around, in any case." He splayed his fingers, and took a peak, and couldn't help but grin at the intensely strange, jarring sight. "D'you eat it all in one go?"
"Some people bite the heads off first; they think it's a fantastic joke." Remus's lips quirked into a smile. "Some people, though, like to savor it for as long as they can. It's really very good."
"So I would imagine." Etienne drew in a deep breath. "Well, here goes." He opened up his hands, and quickly put the sweet to his mouth, biting off what he could manage to, which happened to be a forearm and half the torso. The consistency of the chocolate was sweet, almost cloud light, dissolving on his tongue but lingering there. Savoring the flavor was like putting a piece of magic behind your teeth, and letting it melt there, filling you with rich warmth.
"Well?" Remus asked, watching thoughtfully, that relatively new little sparkle of gold in his eyes. "What do you think?"
"I think it's fantastic," Etienne answered truthfully, "and I shall have to give you extra pocket money next year, so you can buy a good deal more of them." Remus smiled, a true smile, no matter how small it was, and began to work on his own Chocolate Frog, saying nothing in return. The two of them spent nearly half an hour simply savoring the sweet before the last bit of melted chocolate was licked from sticky fingers, and the last breath was breathed from grinning lips. Etienne felt oddly young again, young and blessedly carefree. In the silence that followed, Remus at last spoke, almost as if he were talking to himself, but he would never have been that careless.
"Last year," Remus said softly, "Sirius showed another boy in our year what-what I was." There was silence. Etienne had to force down the surge of anger that came, knowing that though a good reason would not excuse such a betrayal, it would at least take deadly intent out of his rage. "And I didn't speak to him after that, not for a very long time." Remus swallowed, the chocolate giving him the courage and the strength to remember, and then forget, and then move on. "Over the summer, he, and James, and Peter as well, spent a lot of time together. They were - I don't quite know how to explain it, but - they were working on a certain sort of magic. For me, for my sake, I suppose; I didn't know they were doing it, and if I had, I don't think I would have believed they could. They're - you see, they're Animagi, which means, they can turn into animals, and you can't tell anyone, papa, because if anyone knew..." Etienne shrugged, once, as if to say, whom would I tell, Remus? Remus swallowed, and relaxed, and went on. "They come, with me, to where I spend the full moon. They spend the night." He was unable to say the relief, or the joy, or the completion it brought him, only that it was. Etienne would have to make of those words what he would, drawing on what he knew of the change.
Etienne's eyes flickered.
"I'm very grateful to them," Remus murmured at last, re-folding the box which the Chocolate Frog had come in. "I don't know what I would do, without that. I don't know how they thought to do what they've done, or how they managed it, but it's...right. Some things are right. It's right."
"And to think," Etienne replied softly, trying to piece together belief and disbelief, what he knew was impossible and what he needed to accept was reality, "that at first, I was so mad at the boy I might have strangled him the first chance I got."
"If you had known, in the beginning, then I might have wanted you to." Remus shrugged. "Now, though, I'd rather you didn't, if that's all right."
"I don't think I could, for your sake, even if I wanted to." A pause. Etienne licked his lips, fumbled for words that wouldn't seem awkward, stumbling or clumsy. He was so maladroit when it came to discussing such things, simply because he knew nothing of them, and never would. "Tell me about them?" he managed at long last to ask. "Only if you wish to." For a moment, it seemed as if Remus was unsure of whether or not he should go into all he knew about his unusual brethren, what he felt, what he loved, or whether he should keep the entire thing his own precious, glorious secret.
"There's Padfoot, Prongs, and Wormtail," he said finally, his voice low. "Padfoot is Sirius; a great big black dog, still only a puppy really ; and Prongs is James, a stag, which suits him really; and Wormtail is Peter, a rat..." He trailed off, and smiled helplessly. "I can't explain it," he excused himself, calming himself from breathless, feral memories, and the scent of dog that filled him suddenly, mindlessly.
"I wouldn't understand it anyway," Etienne said evenly, and all that was left to them after that, was silence.
At long last the lights were on at 62 The Glen. For a very long time there had been none, only darkness in the shuttered windows, and though Sirius had more than once taken wandering, aimless walks with Cassie, always guided in the general direction of the familiar cottage, never once had it proved fruitful. That one safe haven, the sweet cups of tea and the sweeter portions of teacakes and scones and the sweetest voice to go with it all, were lost to him, and remained so until two weeks before Sirius's sixth year was to begin. It became a ritual, to check and keep checking, up until the day all his perseverance paid off, and he saw the light glinting on and off one dusky evening, muted behind the windowpanes.
For a while Sirius moved around like a mongrel, a mutt that smelled food somewhere he could not reach, and then he shuffled up awkwardly to the door, and stood there for a while longer. At long last, listening in on whatever movements he could manage to hear through the panel of would that separated outside from in, the door was opened before he even had to knock, and Hector looked down at the boy with a tired but wry grin.
"It's hardly the time for tea," he said softly, "but it would be ever so nice if you could join me for dessert. Would you be so kind as to come in?" Sirius smiled broadly, gratefully, and slipped in before Hector closed the door, and slipped a bolt into place.
Later, as they ate pound cake with the most delicious lemon-cream frosting, Sirius found that he had a thousand things he wished to say, and none of the strength to say it. Maybe it was what Remus felt like, always reading so much, and always saying so very little. Sometimes, vocabulary simply failed, and you were left with the overwhelming burden of words left unsaid, lingering against your tongue and behind your teeth.
"Another piece of cake?" It would be Sirius's fourth, but far be it for him to refuse.
"Thanks," he mumbled, offering up the plate.
"And then, while you're eating it, I'm sure you have a thousand things to say to me? I remember that quite a lot can happen in a single school year, and all of it more exciting than the last." He shook his head, and made sure Sirius got a piece with extra frosting, before he handed back his plate, and licked something sticky and sweet off the side of his own thumb.
"A lot has happened," Sirius said cautiously, and busied himself by filling his mouth with cake rather than words. At least it could keep him distracted, for a little while.
"Care to tell me about any of it?" Hector's voice was cool, casual.
"All right," Sirius said, and another huge forkful of cake found its way into his mouth. He chewed for longer than was necessary, then swallowed. "Guess...I should start then, shouldn't I?" It seemed comforting to toy with his fork for a little while, something solid and grounding for while he spoke. "I think my brother hates me," he said finally, "I mean, it's not that he hates me, but that he doesn't love me, much less like me, anymore. Because he knows, I don't know how he knows, that I've fallen in love with someone he thinks I shouldn't have, even though he doesn't understand, and since there's no way for me to explain it to him so he does understand, I think, he's just going to go on not loving me until he starts to hate me." It hadn't, Sirius realized, made much coherent sense, as far as rambling went, but there was something understand in Hector's eyes.
"Go on," the man said.
"And it doesn't make any sense at all, if love is love! I mean, does it? That I love Remus, even if he is a boy, it's just that he isn't anything other than Remus, Remus who I love, Remus who I can't live without." Sirius ate another bite of pound cake vehemently, and swallowed it down without chewing enough.
"Careful, you might choke," Hector said, and his eyes were bright, and somewhat pained.
"It doesn't even matter," Sirius said, but he didn't mean it, and he knew Hector realized that much. "It's just, he keeps watching me," Sirius went on, sighing deeply, "Michael does, he keeps watching me miss him, and it hurts, it hurts that I miss Remus so badly and it hurts that Michael hates it so hard. Not me. Not yet. He doesn't hate me yet." And it all flooded back to him, that Michael was his 'main man' and his closest brother, his mentor and his best friend for so, so long that he didn't know what to make of this, that Michael would never understand. That Michael would grow to hate him for it. It was easy to see in those eyes, piercing and cold and unforgiving. He'd loved Michael since he'd known how to love -- so how was it possible to lose one love because of another?
"I'm so sorry," Hector said, "not because you love this Remus; certainly not because of that. Because there are people, a good many people, in this world who will not only be sorry that you are, but will, as your brother, be trained to hate you for it." He sighed softly, and shrugged. "You must, at least, do what you do for yourself, and for the people who do not force you into anything, any sort of choice, any sort of change of who you are. That, you will regret for the rest of your life, and there can be no rectifying it afterwards."
"I know," Sirius said miserably, dropping his fork to his plate with a clang, "but if he hates me, what am I supposed to bloody do about it?"
"You live," Hector said, his face lined and drawn, "you live. At least - and I assume here, that I'm correct -- your Remus loves you as you love him. There is no greater gift than knowing that."
"I s'pose," Sirius muttered, and they both fell silent. "I hope," he added softly.
"Ah," Hector sighed, frowning worriedly. "Doesn't he?"
"I don't know," Sirius replied, "I really don't know, with Remus." He became aware, then, that Hector was watching him, so hard it was almost scrutiny.
"What is it you were trying to do for him last year, Sirius?" Hector asked, and noted the way Sirius's face grew wary and pale.
"You wouldn't understand, and you wouldn't believe me, if I did tell you."
"Try me." Sirius shifted, uncomfortable with the direction this had taken, and with the straightforward, prying tone of Hector's voice.
"Where have you been all summer?" Sirius tried, nervous. "And where is the man you live with?"
"I will answer your questions," Hector returned steadily, "if you answer mine." Suddenly, Sirius regretted having had three and a half pieces of cake, because his stomach had grown too troubled to handle all that, and heaping portions of Aquila's pot pie dinner. He thought he might very well be sick. After all, Hector was, other than Cassie, the only person Sirius could talk to, and he truly didn't wish to lose his council, and certainly not through such unnecessary circumstances.
"It's a secret." The boy's brow furrowed, and he played nervously with his fork, segmenting the remains of his pound cake, and arranging them in a neat circle around the edge of his plate. "And I can't tell anyone."
"Give me a bit of a hint, then. I'm rather curious. You were working so hard at it, after all."
"Hogwarts," Sirius mumbled softly.
"What?"
"S'for, for Hogwarts," Sirius said, louder, perhaps a little too loud, as Hector startled back in his seat. It seemed, to Sirius at least, to be the best possible explanation, under the circumstances.
"That explains a great many things," Hector finally murmured, shrugging slightly, "as what else could you have been working on, except a little bit of magic here and there."
"You know Hogwarts?" Sirius's eyes were wide.
"...it would seem that I went to school there, though it feels like years ago, now. It's rather funny, that I should have returned to its halls after all these years -- for that was where I was, this summer, you see - during the few months that you were away from it." The smile on Hector's face was not a happy one, but whatever emotion it was trying to display was unclear, and Sirius struggled to name it, before he chose to give up. "I shan't pry any further, as to what it was you were doing, for I'm sure utter secrecy is needed, on that front; no doubt, to tell me, would be a betrayal of some sort, wouldn't it?"
"Exactly." Sirius breathed out a sigh of relief, though he wasn't quite sure what to make of all this. It was one of those moments where your mind didn't know what to do, in all the dizziness caused by your head spinning. For once, Sirius chose the wiser course of action, and waited it out.
"I am, however, rather saddened to know that you shall have to be a part of--" Something dark crossed Hector's features, and he closed his eyes, lifting one hand to massage his temple weakly. At last, whatever it was had faded, and he sunk back against his chair, licking dry lips, swallowing thickly. "It isn't pleasant, you know; far from it. Magic. It takes more than it gives and changes who, what, you are. And there is power in it, yes, but power corrupts and power destroys, and power in the hands of men is truly intoxicating, but no more real than fool's gold, in the end." Now, Sirius could label what it was Hector's smile was trying to show: a deep, saddened bitterness, pained and old and rooted down to the soul. It was almost frightening, except for the weary, weather-beaten look in Hector's eyes, eyes that saw far too much more than they ever wished to. "But for now, I suppose," Hector said, brightening as best he could, as there was no use scaring the children, no need for it yet, "I shouldn't be talking of such things, as who knows what may be made of magic, or what magic may be making, mm?"
"You sound so much like him," Sirius whispered softly, feeling as if he wanted to cry, "that it sort of terrifies me." There was blunt, raw honesty to the statement, and Hector was nearly shocked enough to recoil. Nearly. Instead, he sat there, stunned into silence, not knowing what to make of those words. "There's never really anything quite so pure that words can't turn into something terrifying, like that," Sirius went on, trying to explain it. "And it's not possible anymore, to see the beautiful things, the good things, without seeing also the dark sides of them, the shadows, the-the lack of light, I s'pose, or all the cruelty, the misery, that goes on to counterbalance all the things you love. But isn't that," and here Sirius paused, struggling, "isn't all that darkness, isn't it what makes you see, and understand, what it is to have it's opposite? You can't have shadows without the sun. You can't have Remus, without the emptiness, the aching, behind his eyes. You can't have magic without the power and you can't have the power without the people who'll abuse it, in the end. It just, it works that way. Mum says, mum says there are circles in life, like, half the world is sleeping while the other half is in sunlight. You can't be given a gift you cherish without being given a punishment along with it, so's you know what it is you've really been given, in the end."
"I think you need to leave, Sirius." Somehow, though Hector didn't know what force was actually moving air through his lungs, he managed to speak. "Because if you don't, I'm going to start asking advice of a sixteen year-old, who quite obviously understands the world better than I ever will." Sirius found that his face was hot, and flushed, and he felt a little ill still, as if he knew what he was saying had been right, but he hated that it was, and he hated even more having to say it. It was admitting that Remus would not be Remus without that dark thing, which made him quiet and unsure and always questioning of himself. And it was true, but it was painful to acknowledge, and it gave Sirius a headache, just trying to work it out.
"Not for a second," Sirius mumbled, shy again. "It hurts to think about it, too much, so can't we justforget about it? Not that I'm hungry for anymore cake, but" Sirius trailed off, searching. "you still didn't answer my other question."
"He's staying late at work," Hector said after a pause, speaking the words softly, fondly, but almost forlorn, as if the words were what he wanted rather than what was, "but he should be home in a few hours. He told me not to wait up. He still loves me, for some inexplicable reason, and sometimes you really are so grateful, for love."
Sirius didn't think to ask what that meant, until it was too late, and the opportunity was gone forever.
"Uhm uhmmm, uhm uhm belle," Sirius hummed, lazy but impatient, tapping his foot along to a remembered, internal rhythm. His battered suitcase rested at his side, and he lounged against a pillar with easy, confident nonchalance, despite how nervous he was. There was a crowd of people, all seeming to hum with whatever orchestrations dictated their own movements and lives, but he was barely listening, ears almost seeming to perk forward as he waited, and listened. He'd smoked a little before but then it had started to remind him of Michael, and he tried not to think of his brother now, because such thoughts set him on edge and made him worry too much about more than he cared to think about. Certainly, he didn't have to think about it, because the start of the school term was his escape from it all.
The smell of smoke still lingered on his fingers, though, and when he turned his head he could scent it in his hair, so that finally, nerves grated, he tied his hair back and scowled to himself. He grew more annoyed as the time passed, annoyed as the cigarette smoke shrouded him, annoyed as he had nothing else to do but think about Michael, and think about how Michael first showed him how to roll a fag. He'd look like a pretty picture, he knew, when Moony and the others arrived, but that was what he got for trying to be early, and at least they could be grateful that he wasn't late.
It was being so gods-be-damned nervous that made him so gods-be damned sulky, he determined. Funny how every other year he'd been so childishly excited, but there was something hot and heavy in the air on this day, and everywhere he looked, he seemed to see a frown. The humming was the only thing that kept him relatively sane and cheerful, though the scowl still danced petulantly over his lips, which he licked often, to get rid of the taste of the cigarette smoke that clung stickily to his flesh.
"Uhm uhmm, uhm uhmour," he finished off, only remembering a handful of words and trying to put them to optimum use by sticking them here and there, woven in amongst the uhms, in order to rhyme.
"Bloody hell, it's hot." Lilly was beside him then, stretching her arms up, her suitcase between her legs. Its brass buckles shimmered in the heat. The orange hair that frizzed in the humidity around her face was disturbed only by the occasional, panting breeze, which was no more effective towards cooling down than a dog breathing on you would be.
"When'd you get here?" Sirius's voice was rumpled, grumpy.
"About the time you started scowling at people, instead of just into space," Lilly replied wryly, fanning herself with her hands. She had long, graceful fingers, but they'd lost all meaning for Sirius once James started describing them at length and with copious, repugnant detail. Sirius sidled closer, though, to catch the cross-breeze, in the hopes that it would do any amount of good. It didn't, naturally. "You know, if you keep on like that, your face might freeze that way, when the wind changes direction."
"There isn't any wind," Sirius muttered, but he couldn't help grinning just a little at the ridiculous youthfulness of the statement.
"Well," Lilly replied, smirking, "touché." She ran said graceful fingers through her hair, pushing it up off her neck, letting the air hit it for a moment before she realize, that was hardly a relief. "It shouldn't be this hot, you know," she added, ruffling her hair up. She was a mess, anyway, so it didn't matter now. "If you're frowning so much that Remus isn't here yet, it's probably because the air opened up a mouth and swallowed him whole."
"Thanks, Lil, I'll remember to talk to you so much more often."
"Lil?" Lilly snorted. "Where the blazes did you come up with that stroke of genius?"
"The heat spoke to me," Sirius said mockingly, pulling a face.
"Come on, wind," Lilly muttered half-heartedly, then, "it's too hot to argue with you, even, and that's saying something."
"It's true, Lil," Sirius agreed.
"But if you call me Lil again, I'll kill you without breaking a nail."
"Certainly, Lil."
"When you least expect it, you great overgrown mutt."
"Whatever you say, Lil."
"Ah, the two people I love most in the world, getting along as swimmingly as they ever do," James said smoothly as he came up behind them, brushing mussed bangs out of his eyes. "And Merlin, it's hot."
"Yes, thank you, we've noticed." Sirius's tone was impossibly dry, but it still couldn't suck some of the humidity out of the oppressive air.
"Only mad dogs and Englishmen," Lilly murmured, but neither of the other two heard her.
"I just thought maybe I should point it out," James said, still jovial, though he was flushed in the cheek, and his glasses were half-fogged in the heat. "Where are the others, then?"
"Probably off somewhere, with their heads stuck in a refrigerator freezer," Lilly said, grinning at the very idea, despite how refreshing it might have been at the moment. She could think of nothing nicer than to do just that, to feel the sweat on the back of her neck freeze, to feel cool air brush along her skin.
When Remus at last showed up, Peter in tow, they all of them plowed their way through the thick, moist air to get into the cool of the train cars before they made up for lost time. The heat was so intense that only Sirius's eyes came alive, to see that sight he'd waited so long to; but the look he and Remus exchanged was one of deep, secret longing, with the sweet lacing of joy interwoven into it. That one look said everything without needing so much as an added "hallo," and the desire for touch and for kiss and for embrace was kept at bay, until at last they grew used to the cool, dry air on the Hogwarts Express.
It was intoxicating, seeing each other again, as it always was, and at last, when their bodies cooled, and they could bear to touch each other, they did, arm brushing against arm, hip against hip, cheek to shoulder and cheek to hair. Sirius loved it. Sirius always loved it.
"I'm so glad to be back," he breathed, reverently. Remus's hair smelled just right, clean and soapy but also like bark and oak leaves. Oak leaves had a distinct smell, different than any other type of leaves and obviously so, tinted with the smell of acorns, their scent almost fitting in with their shape. Sirius breathed in deeply, because it had been far too long since last he'd revelled in this particular smell. Proper trains of thought had been devoured by the heat and any grumpy mood had been banished from his conscious the moment he'd so much as caught a glimps of Remus, and registered that the loneliness of the long summer was over.
"We're not even back yet," Remus murmured, into the lovely, soft curve of Sirius's neck. They were making Peter uncomfortable, and, if the boy knew what was good for him, where Sirius's fists were concerned, he'd probably leave sooner rather than later, so they could have their privacy. Peter had an uncanny sixth sense that preyed on emotions rather than understanding or empathizing with them. It set Remus's skin crawling when he least expected it, when he found that Peter was watching him, though Remus was never quite sure afterwards just why he reacted the way he did.
"I'm back," Sirius replied easily, "I'm back where I wanted to be." He felt rather than saw Remus flush, and brushed his fingers over the slope of that smooth cheek, the curve of it, the heated plane. "You're blushing, Moony."
"It's the heat." Sirius found he was grinning at the obviousness of the casual lie, simply because he'd missed that voice, missed the slim fit of that body, missed the way his heart beat differently when they were together. What he wouldn't give, he thought, his one moment of mourning, to know that Remus felt the same way, too.
"Oh it is, is it?" Remus shrugged lazily, curling himself up to fit in closer at Sirius's side, legs tucked up against his own chest. This was nice. He felt small and lazy in a world that wavered in the heat, as if suddenly, life was alight with smoke. He hadn't felt comfortable all summer, speaking to his father of things he could not possibly describe, scripting letters to Sirius of life he could not possibly be living, when he was lacking so much.
"How've you been?" Remus switched tactics just as easily as he had lied. Sirius's grin couldn't be stopped, and it spread over all his features, rough but tender at the same time on his blunter features.
"I told you all about everything, in my letters."
"Tell me again, now."
"Well," Sirius said at last, "I turned sixteen, and I don't feel a day different. Don't s'pose I ever will. Oh, and I missed you horribly, and I did absolutely nothing, and sat around missing you some more. And then, I did some stuff with Cassie, but I was missing you then. And I was a great lazy sodding bore, because, damn you, Remus J. Lupin, a guy can't get you off his mind even if he tries." Sirius paused. "I didn't really try. It was pretty bloody awful, you know, the way I acted. It's worse, what you've done to me."
"I'll try not to be this way, in the future." Remus's voice was dry but softened, sparingly sweet and deeply, intensely pleased. Sirius prided himself on being able to tell, now, when Remus's silence meant he was so happy he could barely speak, or so lost in his own agony he couldn't move his lips to make so much as a single sound. The smaller boy was hard to learn, and it took patience, diligence, insightful understanding -- three qualities Sirius Black could hardly be described as having. And yet, he had worked on it, and he was working on it still and, if Sirius did say so himself, it was certainly coming along. Perhaps not swimmingly; not yet, anyways.
And it seemed as if Remus, too, was trying to learn Sirius, in return; the boisterous way he filled a room, the loud way he interrupted, the careless way he disturbed spaces and thoughts and the eager to please nature of him, the kindness along with the rash foolishness born of impulses that were rarely ever thought through. Sirius Black hurt people, but he never meant to; leastways, not the people he loved. And as Sirius treated Remus as one might treat porcelain, Remus was equally careful, the both of them so sensitive, in such separate ways.
"Don't you change for a single second, you bloody wonderful creature," Sirius murmured, burying his face in Remus's hair. "Don't change or I'll go mad, I will, because damned if I know what in hell I'd do without you."
The heat wave didn't break. By the time Halloween rolled around the temperature was still sky high, and a special spell had been put into effect all throughout the building - which acted as Muggle central air conditioning might have, only better, and without the electricity bill that would inevitably be involved. Students moved through the halls with groggy laziness, grateful for the slight, though fake, chill in the air, thinking of the heat outside with deep-seeded resentment. Why should the world act as if it were summer without the relief and the laziness allowed during those three glorious months? It was almost as if the weather were mocking each student, pumping heat into the air as professors tried to schedule tests and essays. The two seasons conflicted miserably in the students' minds, and managed to nearly drive them mad during those months of unendurable heat.
Sirius, who spent all the free time he had in the air on a broom, high over the Quidditch field, resented this the most, as if it were a personal affront, and spent most of his free time with his head in Remus's lap, listening to him read. They went over the Count of Monte Cristo most of all, which was Sirius's favorite for an unnamable, impulsive reason, especially the scene of the escape. It struck Sirius as gloriously admirable, what cunning went into such an escape plan, but also what spur-of-the-moment flashes of brilliance, and, of course, what sheer dumb luck.
"It isn't what opportunities there are, really," he told Remus, in one of his moments of lucid insight that came when you least expected one and left you reeling sometimes for weeks afterwards, until the next came and knocked you off your feet, "it's not the opportunity, itself, but what you make of it, that counts." Because after all, Edmond could have spent the rest of his life in that place, rotting away into atrophy for a crime he did not commit, had he not seized that slim chance, had he not clung to it with all he had. It wasn't just opportunity, though that was a part of it; it was more who you were, yourself, and the opportunities you made from the opportunities you were given. Sirius forgot the theory moments after he spoke it, because it didn't seem all that important or useful, except that it made Remus smile a secretive, wonderful smile.
There was also endless Shakespearean verse, and though Sirius preferred his comedies to his tragedies, Remus seemed to love the grief held in the latter, so Sirius humored him, because he loved to hear the lilting of his voice when he read something he cared about. There was Wilde, Oscar Wilde, if Sirius recalled correctly, and some of his stuff was absolutely incomprehensible, while some of it was laugh-out-loud hysterical, and kept Sirius amused for hours. Sometimes, the humor was too subtle for Sirius's taste, though again, he would wait for them eagerly, just to see Remus understand, and come to the very cusp of laughing, without ever quite getting there.
There was a poet named Eliot and when Remus read his lines aloud Sirius felt suddenly a great, cavernous hole in his chest open up, quite against his will. It was that he understood perfectly what the words meant without even having to truly listen to them, and when he furrowed his brow and set his mind to the task of trying to explain why, why Eliot's poetry made such profound and stirring sense to him, he found that he could not put a finger on when or where the words had rung true. They did in his heart, he decided at last, and not in his thoughts, and it shook him, and made him uncomfortable down to his bones. Such truth should not be written. Such truth was simply the truth of action and of desire and of gut feeling, of love and of loss and of death, and no one should ever put it to paper for anyone else to read. It was what you felt at birth and what you felt at the very end of your life before you felt no more. It was not for a poet to describe. It gave you the bloody willies, was what it did.
The one line from Eliot that Sirius remembered for all his life -- which, in truth, was simply the line he could not forget -- was a circle of language, not sad but not hopeful, either. "In my beginning is my end." It was the first line of the poem. "In my end is my beginning." And that was the last.
After they read that poem, Remus could sense Sirius's inherent discomfort and he stopped reading Eliot altogether, though sometimes, sometimes, if he left a book of Eliot's collected works lying upon a desk or on the edge of his bed, he might catch Sirius flipping through the pages, searching for the one poem which contained those two perfect, devastating lines.
The long weeks passed this way, trapped indoors, and during this time the four found their only respite hot, lethargic nights of the full moon, of Remus's change. The days passed but they did not seem to pass, stumbling along with parched throats and weary legs. Even minutes, even seconds, were drawn out into painfully long measurements of time by the heat in the air, which stopped progress all together, and melted energy, and atrophied limbs.
One night in particular, Sirius at last came to the breaking point with boredom. His limbs needed something to do; his mind was tired at nights but his body restless, in desperate need of exercise.
"Let's steal James's cloak," he whispered impulsively, heatedly, into the shell of Remus's ear, "and get out of here. We can go to the Shack. We can just, we can get away from everything. Do something." Remus felt a shiver run down the length of his spine. He was unable to refuse.
"It'll be hot out there," he murmured, because he felt he needed to simply outline the flaws in the plan for the sake of posterity, "are you sure you want to go?"
"I just need to do something," Sirius groaned, his fingertips itching and his muscles coiled, like a cat tensed and about to pounce, "I just need to get out of here or I'm going to lose my mind!" His eyes glittered wickedly. "We'll bring ice cubes, or something. We can keep each other cold with them."
"How?" Remus asked, blinking, but Sirius was already off to filch James's Invisibility Cloak, and Remus really wasn't in the mood for protesting much longer, anyway. When Sirius got ideas like these, it was simply best to go along with them, because he was impulsive but he was infinitely more stubborn than anyone Remus knew. Sirius set his mind to something, and he got it done, and there was no changing that fact no matter what you tried to do.
Remus could smell Sirius when he returned, though he couldn't see him, and he waited patiently until Sirius himself grew absolutely unable to wait a minute longer. He threw himself at Remus then, tackling him back against the bed, and then drawing him into the folds of the cloak so they both disappeared completely from view. Had he not been pressed so close to the other boy's chest, so a part of his vibrancy and his exuberant being, Remus would have murmured something dry, but he was content this way, and wouldn't have ruined it for the world. Besides, Remus had learned to be more careful of Sirius's feelings, as of late, because no matter how loud the boy was, he was still easily hurt.
"We'll figure out a spell to make ice cubes," Sirius whispered, very matter-of-fact, "and then we can spend the night in the Shack, or something, or out in the woods. I'm not bloody joking; if I don't do something -- anything! -- soon, I'm going to go barking mad. I swear."
"We can't have that," Remus said softly, not sure what he felt about the woods, or about being there, but knowing, no matter what, that Sirius was there to protect him from the shadows he himself made. It would, inevitably, be all right, and none of his apprehension showed through in his wry tone.
"Spoil sport," Sirius grumbled, "c'mon, before I change my mind about taking you."
They spent the night around a bucket of ice Sirius filched from the kitchens. They'd spelled it to keep from melting, and around it, they made the oddest sight: two figures leaning in to the shivery cold that radiated from the bucket. It's purpose was to banish the hot air all around them; it was the exact opposite of nestling close to a fire to chase away the chill of the autumn air.
"It isn't a proper fire," Sirius remarked offhandedly, stretching his body out luxuriantly. The heat really wasn't so bad, when you were like this. "So I guess we can't tell ghost stories, or anything like that." And he moved closer to Remus's side, then, slipping a hand against the back of his neck, threading long, callused fingers through his hair. "Oi, Moony?"
"Yes?"
"D'you think it's too hot to kiss?" Remus paused for a moment to think it over, and Sirius bit back the nervousness that came with the pause, the nasty cut of dismay, and waited.
"I don't think it's ever too hot to kiss," Remus answered truthfully, and Sirius broke out into the widest of grins. It really was something Remus liked: finding different, small ways to make Sirius smile. It wasn't hard, if you went about it the right way, and it left you with this glorious, giddy feeling, that not even smiling yourself could give you.
"Oh you don't, do you." There was that sparkle again in the haunting blue of Sirius's eyes. His fingers played over the soft, sensitive hairs at the base of the smaller boy's neck, watching him shiver, and loving to imagine every thrill that might run down Remus's back at the feel of the touch.
They kissed. Sirius initiated it; most often, it was Sirius who began a kiss, and Remus who finished it, a deft tugging of his lips that he'd learned somehow, which made Sirius long instantly for more. No doubt it was on purpose, because when it came to instinctive moments, if Remus simply let go of his nervousness, the smaller boy always knew what to do, and how to do it, and when. Sirius moved forward on his knees, lips warm upon lips, and Remus moved back, leaning on his elbows, feeling Sirius's dark hair brush against his own cheeks. For a while, they kissed, just this way, until Sirius's muscles grew tired and he pulled back, licking his lips and grasping at words to find something fitting to say.
"It is too hot for kissing," he decided at last, with a firm bob of his head. Beneath him, Remus seemed to glow, the color of a wheatfield in the sunshine, and Sirius cupped his cheek, looking at him thoughtfully while drinking in the sight of each feature, and how shadow moved over it in this lighting.
"Well, here," Remus replied, voice a low murmur, and he moved deft fingers forward to undo the buttons on Sirius's shirt. The action startled Sirius, and then pleased him, fingers brushing along the collar of Remus's T-shirt before they moved to the hem at the bottom, and tugged upwards. Remus's hands dropped back and then lifted up, the scarred skin of his abdomen and impossibly smooth skin of his back bared to the air. He wasn't sure whether he was freezing now, or burning hot, and finally came to the conclusion that he was both, in the face of the glorious contradiction that was Sirius Black. Meanwhile, Sirius shrugged himself out of his own shirt, pressed one hand almost shyly against the scar on Remus's belly, palm to marred flesh. It was getting paler, had gotten less angry and red since the first time he saw it, but it made him angry, accusatorily so.
"I've got an idea," Sirius said suddenly, and he pulled back, startling Remus with the abrupt movement. For a moment he felt a pang of loneliness, at losing Sirius's touch, before he adjusted to being just himself again, none of Sirius's vivid person merging with Remus's own. "Lie on your stomach, Moony?" Sirius pressed his cool palm back to Remus's skin, this time, on his shoulder. Remus gave him a skeptical look. "Just, trust me," Sirius insisted, and Remus sighed, and gave in, turning around to stretch himself out, stomach down, on the warm plank floorboards beneath.
His skin was pale, awash with moonlight, the color of marbled cream and cast with silky shadows. The slope between shoulderblades was breathtaking. Sirius could have, if he'd wished, run a finger down the center of the other's back, and counted each vertebrae. Resisting the urge to tell Remus he was too thin, he licked his lips and watched the muscles in his shoulders move as Remus folded his arms beneath his head, and tilted his head to the side, cheek against his forearm. The shadows splayed like fingers over his flesh.
This was the stuff Sirius's dreams were made of.
With a weakened grin, he turned to grasp an ice cube from the spelled bucket, holding it between two suddenly cold fingers. It was impulse, and if he stopped thinking, then impulse would probably guide him better than actual thought would. At least, in a situation like this.
"Hold still," Sirius murmured, maneuvering himself up Remus's body, perched over his hips, breathing in the sight of his bared, smooth back. There were no scars on his back, and the plane of perfect flesh was as it should be. Smooth. Untouched, unmarred. As youthful as they were, as youthful as Remus never was otherwise. Pinned between both of Sirius's legs, Remus tensed, then relaxed slowly, waiting. Sirius could almost taste his curiosity, his oddly eager confusion. It filled him with a giddy, lightheaded feeling, wanting to please, not knowing quite how.
The ice cube was beginning to melt. Two shivering droplets of water fell between Remus's shoulders, and pooled there, glinting in the moonlight. Remus gasped, and shifted.
"Hold still?" Sirius asked it this time, and the wriggling beneath him stopped. "Right," Sirius praised softly, and he ducked his head down, licking the wet spot from Remus's skin with a cautious motion of his tongue. Remus's breath hitched in his throat, which was encouragement enough for Sirius to continue. It was funny, how unselfconscious he felt, experimenting this way. All he wanted, was for Remus to want this. It was incentive to try harder, and to do things right, and as such, it was a delicious challenge.
It was exactly what cooped up Sirius Black needed to get him feeling alive again.
Sirius brushed the hair away from the back of Remus's neck, toying for a moment with those sensitive, fine hairs, before he ghosted the ice cube over the largest bone at the base. He heard Remus's breath catch again, roughening, quickening, and he closed his eyes against the thrill it sent through him.
"S'a good way to cool down," he murmured lazily, before kissing the smooth skin over firm bone, soothing away the chill. Remus said nothing, but Sirius hadn't expected a response.
Sirius lifted himself up again, leaning his weight all on one arm. He pressed the ice cube to his lips in thought, then moved it back to Remus's neck, drawing a wet, cold line down his spine, just enough to make the other shiver. His breath followed, cooling the moisture, disturbing the hot air and turning it into an easy conductor for a pleasant chill. Remus's muscles twitched in response, his arms stretching out before him, grasping at nothingness, at empty air. Burying his face between those perfectly sculpted, perfectly visible shoulderblades, Sirius let the ice water trail over Remus's side, so that he trembled, and whimpered moments later. One wet trail had found its way to running over a fairly recent scar, flesh sensitive there, more tender. The feel of it was a shock to Remus's system.
"It's okay?" Sirius asked softly, unsure.
"Yes," Remus answered, though the words seemed laborious, hard pressed to leave his lips.
"This?" Sirius drew himself up, let the ice melt against the curve of Remus's lower back as the smaller boy held himself faithfully, obediently still. The water glinted, cool and blue, until the slim moon went behind a cloud, and all they were, was shadow playing against shadow. Sirius chose that moment to lap at the little pool, almost, almost a canine motion, before he kissed the soft, now-cold skin, letting his lips rest at the soft fuzz of nearly invisible, pale golden hairs that could be felt there.
"This," Remus murmured lightly, his back arching up, his hips pushing forward. Sirius molded his cheek to the dip in Remus's back, right there, right before the curve of his backside. He could feel the spine against his cheekbone, three countable bony ridges. Sirius dropped the ice cube onto the floorboards and let it melt there, unheeded and unnecessary.
"Tell me something beautiful, Moony. A poem. Something French. Anything you want." I want to listen to you talk for hours and hours, into the still of night.
"Anything?" Sirius's hair tickled like silk tickled.
"Anything." Sirius moved his head, kissing a particularly poky bone. It was so comical, so affectionate, and so shadowed. He felt terribly young. "Tell me anything, Moony." It took a moment for Remus to think of something he remembered, something he knew well enough to remember when Sirius was pressed so close.
"Souleve ta paupiere close." It's so hard to talk around you, because all I want to do is hear you breathe. Words fail me. But you ask me to speak, and I'll speak anyway, because it's what you want of me. "Qu'effleure un songe virginal. Je suis le spectre d'une rose que tu portais hier au bal."
I don't know what you're talking about, but I only want to hear you voice, saying what I don't, never will, understand.
"Tu me pris encor emperlee de pleurs d'argent de l'arrosoir, et parmi la fete etoilee, tu me promenas tout le soir." Sometimes I don't listen to myself speak. I listen to you listen to me speak. I almost like to hear it.
Keep talking. Whatever you do, don't stop talking. Sirius shifted, thrills running through his body at the language. He had an erection, that much was obvious. What was more; he was sure that Remus could feel that he had one, as he pressed himself closer, stroked Remus's shoulders, and listened.
"O toi, qui de ma mort fus cause, sans que to puiisses le chasser." But the only words that suit you aren't my own. I can't speak to you, of you, the way you should be spoken. I can't modify you with my adjectives. There is nothing so destructive as the wrong word. "Toutes les nuits mon spectre rose a ton chevet viendra danser."
Your voice is like singing. Sirius pushed himself against Remus's thigh. Sirius breathed in deeply. Sirius pushed himself against Remus's thigh. Sirius felt his eyes close and his ears strain to listen and his hips strain for something else. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Merlin, what you do to me.
"Mais ne crains rien, je ne reclame ni messe ni de profundis; ce leger parfum est mon ame et j'arrive du Paradis."
Words shouldn't sound like this. Jesus. Oh, Jesus.
"Mon destin fut digne d'envie, et pour avoir un sort si beau."
But I asked for it. I wanted it. Brought him here wanted to hear him talk wanted to feel him talk--the rumbling of the muscles in Remus's back as he spoke and the movement of Sirius's hips and-- It'll end, it'll end, because I won't have enough patience to make it last.
"Plus d'un aurait donne sa vie, car sur ton sein j'ai mon tombeau."
It's like falling when you've already fallen.
Sirius felt his breath move all wrong through his throat and heard Remus's breath move all wrong through his own throat, and felt the smaller form push back against him, and he nearly howled with that wordless joy. It was selfish, making Remus talk at a time like this, when all he no doubt wanted to do was bay to the moon. Or maybe it wasn't selfish. Maybe it was just what Remus wanted. Reminder of words in a land without.
"Et sur l'albatre ou je repose, un poete avec un baiser."
Jesus, JesusJesusJesus--
It was worth whatever pieces of him he lost, pieces of himself, pieces of others, pieces of his future and memories of his past. There was loss you could bear, and loss you could not, and Sirius knew, clear as day, which was which. He held tight to Remus's shoulders, and pressed his hips against the back of his thigh, and w himpered something wordless.
"Ecrivit: Ci-git une rose que tous les rois vont jalouser."
And Sirius tensed and he gasped thickly and Remus made a soft, helpless sound, keening and small in the back of his throat, and then it went very white, and very black, and then colors began to come back to them. And then sight, true sight. And then smell. And then the feel of their bodies, and where their bodies lay, and all the little discomforts brought by lying against hardwood floors.
"You make anyone else's words sound prettier'n they were when they were written, Moony," Sirius whispered softly, when he truly came back to himself. And Remus had nothing of his own to say.
The Gryffindor Common Room was quiet. Too quiet. Soon, the silence would be over, and it would come quickly upon Lilly Evans in a manner that would hardly be pleasing. Oh, she knew the Common Room far too well for it to ever surprise her. She was only pretending to read, now, pretending, and waiting.
"Hey, Lil." It drove her insane that Sirius chose to call her that. It drove her insane that Sirius chose to call her that specifically to drive her insane. She kept her eyes fixed casually on her Charms essay and didn't even give the mongrel that satisfaction he gleaned from her bristling. No - she was far more mature than these petty games required her to be. Lilly Evans was above this.
"Hullo, Sirius. Want anything? And no, you can't 'work with me' on the Charms essay; you have Remus to copy off of, isn't that right?" Naturally that set Sirius on edge. It was so sad, really, how Lilly could always win at these games, even when she was trying to be above them. Well, always won, except for when he persisted in calling her Lil, at the end of every blooming sentence. Then, she went absolutely mad. (It was in that way that she was fond of Sirius, and even fond of that horrid nickname. Because it was that one thing in her life that was a constant, that never failed to make her crazy, she hated it because she loved it and loved it because she hated it.)
"Oh, do put a sock in it, Lil." Sirius was grinning once more. He always won if he used that nickname, he'd found, and he always had to win, even though right now he would have much preferred to be serious.
"What is it that you can possibly want, then, puppy?" It was time for Lilly Evans to fight fire with fire.
"I'll get you for that later, Lil. Right now, I'd rather talk. Seriously." There was a pause, in which Lilly stored the equally appalling nickname for later use, and ran through her mind all the reasons Sirius could possibly have had for wanting to talk with her. Remus, she decided at last, firmly, it had to be Remus. When was it ever anything but?
"What's up with Remus, then?" Lilly asked coolly as she put her quill down. It was always nice to show Sirius just how transparent he really was, and just how one track his mind so obviously was.
"Nothing's up with Remus." Sirius sounded oddly dismayed. "That's the whole point, I guess. I mean, there could be something up with Remus, there could be anything up with Remus, but I don't know if there is, I never know if there is." So it was the same problem as always, Lilly realized. Quiet people hid things always with their silences, while loud people never truly knew what to make of that, never truly learned that the silence was not aimed at them.
"You need to stop doubting him, puppy," Lilly murmured, and though her words were wry, her tone was soft and surprisingly kind. Her voice was so sincere that Sirius didn't even notice the offending nickname, and even if he did, the way it was said would have been enough to convince him he liked it.
"He -- he just -- he doesn't show things the same way I do, I know that, but sometimes I can't help but wonder, Lil, whether he doesn't show them because he doesn't feel them or because he just, he just can't."
"Just because his isn't so obvious doesn't mean he doesn't feel things as strongly as you do, if not stronger. Whenever you doubt him, Puppy, just look in his eyes, and you'll know you're being a grand fool to ever think he'd give you anything less than he could." Lilly's smile was sad, but mostly because it was remembering Remus's smiles, and they way they were sad. And really, Remus did have this way of making people who loved him fee insecure, and incredibly so, as if their intense love of him was never strong enough -- never strong enough to make him love himself.
"You're right," Sirius murmured softly, and his cheeks were flushed, perhaps with shame, perhaps with embarrassment, perhaps with a combination of both. Lilly felt almost bad to have to point such things out to him but it was necessary, or else he'd go through life doubting himself. It would have been one thing if he spent his time doubting Remus, but it wasn't quite that. It was, rather, that he did not know if Remus doubted him yet, could not see that hero worship in those deep brown eyes, and so he doubted himself because he thought Remus might.
"Of course I'm right," Lilly said softly, trying to be jocular, to lighten the mood. "I'm always right, and don't you forget it, Puppy." Sirius halfheartedly made a face, then sobered once more.
"Oi. Lil?" Lilly found herself inexplicably dreading whatever was to come next, if only because Sirius's deep blue eyes were looking so serious, so thoughtful, so uncharacteristically dark.
"Mm?" Ever since she could remember, Lilly Evans operated under the principle that, if she could pretend something didn't bother her, then it actually wouldn't. So far, she'd been successful, if only because she could badger anything she wished into being significantly less scary than it would be, simply because she wore down the threat's self confidence, and eroded its power.
"What's it like? Knowing that nobody's going to hate you, because you like James, and that's the right thing?" It sounded all funny when he put it that way, but it seemed it was best to be direct, and speak of things as other people would, put them into other people's terms, so he could properly describe what it was he knew certain people thought, and would think, of him.
Lilly felt as if all the air had suddenly left her, as if someone had socked her in the gut and left her reeling, seeing stars. It was far from expected -- but it made sense, after all -- and she hurt, suddenly, as if whatever bickering that went between Sirius and herself was brother and-sisterly, and she should hold him in her arms now, and protect him.
"I," she began, then choked on her words, and could not go on.
"Shouldn't've asked it, maybe? I don't know, I just-- wanted to know. Is it different? Guess you wouldn't know, you've never been Well, you know. 'Wrong' before. You're always right, Lil, and don't I forget it."
"Puppy," Lil murmured, shaking her head, "you know it isn't wrong, why're you asking me such a bloody question? Just to shake me up?" Sirius looked sad, wounded. If he'd had big floppy ears in this form, they would have been drooping.
"Really, I wanted to know. D'you love James like I love Remus? Or d'you only like him? And if you love him, is it more or less, different or the same? Just love, in the end?" Lilly wondered for a moment where this creature came from, and how he could possibly creep up with such stealth to replace the loud, most-times offensive, ever-careless boy that joked and play-fought with her. "Because love is what you feel it is, anyway," Sirius muttered, talking to himself now, "not what other people think, so maybe it is the same, and not different, at all. Except you have to treat it different. Hide it so someone doesn't get hurt or resent it a little, when you can't hide it, and someone does. Well, not resent it, exactly, just question it."
"Don't question it." Lilly's voice was firm. "I know you won't but I'm telling you anyway."
"But what if Remus does? What if he loses people, like I lose people, like I've lost 'em already, and--and what if he hates me for it? What if I lose everything? Him?"
"Stop asking so many questions, Puppy!" It came out as a harsher snap than she'd wished it to, and Lilly hoped the apology showed in her verdant eyes before she went on. "Stop asking so many questions. You know you don't mean them. The only answer is, 'I love,' because you do, don't you, great overgrown thing, so no bloody questions are needed for it. For any of it. Are you listening to me?"
"I s'pose." Sirius was grinning sheepishly. "You still haven't answered my question though, Lil."
"And what question would that be, Puppy?" Lilly sounded exasperated, but it was all in good humor.
"Do you? Love James like I love Remus?" There was a pause, and Lilly thought about how best to answer a question she didn't know, as if she actually knew it. (And then there was the part of her that panicked; and then there was the part of her that did know, but panicked anyway; and then there was the part of her that wanted to kick Sirius for being too damn smart too damn unexpectedly.)
"I don't know how you love Remus," Lilly answered at last, "can you really know?"
"Oh," Sirius murmured softly, shaking his head -- how could she ever doubt? "Oh, of course you can." He grinned slightly, and ducked his head, and Lilly realized later that he must have been blushing, because she'd never really seen him try to hide himself before.
"So then," Lilly murmured, feeling embarrassed, and though Sirius was waiting for more, there was nothing else she had to say. "Charms essay," she muttered, after an uncomfortable quiet needed to be lifted.
"You still need to answer my question, Lil."
"I really don't, actually."
"Lil."
Silence.
"Lil."
Silence.
"Lil, if you're toying around with my best mate, I think it's my job or something to find out, y'know." There was no more laughter in Sirius's tone, so the words were threatening rather than a joke. Sometimes, the boy could be like a pitbull; that, too, came upon him unexpectedly, when anything he loved seemed to be endangered.
"I'm not toying around with him. Where are you getting this from? You're a bothersome little puppy; go get Remus to take you for a walk." Lilly tried to curl in on herself, burying herself behind the book she was researching.
"Answer me, Lil." Deftly, Sirius plucked the book out of her hands with swift fingers, closed it with a snap, and plunked it down on the table beside her chair. "Look at me, and answer me."
"I just don't know," Lilly said, her eyes snapping emerald fire. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Sirius, what's come over you? Give it a rest!"
"So you don't, then." Sirius's voice pinned and trapped and accused, and it was a stronger force than Lilly would ever have expected.
"What? No! I never said that!" If that bloody over-zealous ball of fur didn't just leave her alone and stop putting words into her mouth, she was going to punch him good, better than good. He was going to lose a tooth or two.
"If you don't know, then it's obvious," Sirius murmured, and the anger was gone, replaced only by sadness. It hit home more than the yelling did.
"No, it doesn't mean that," Lilly contradicted, firmly, her eyes hidden in the shadow of her long, pale lashes, "it just means you're a little scared, and a little young, and a little too weak to put names to anything, yet. So stop shouting about, Sirius Black, you don't know anything about it, about being too scared of anything, because you show it all and then some, and it's so easy for you." For a while, neither of them said anything, Lilly feeling ill and Sirius speechless.
"You don't know me too bloody well, then, if you think I'm not scared out of my mind with him. Everybody knows I love Remus except Remus and the reason that is, is because nobody knows if Remus loves me except Remus. And maybe he doesn't, or maybe he does; and maybe I'll never know for sure. Christ, Lil, I just wanted to know if you were going to make James happy, or if you wanted to. That's all." Lilly licked her lips, playing nervously with a lock of her own hair, winding it around her finger until it snapped and she began again. She'd always hated that particular nervous habit of girls, young women, because it looked so very damsel-in-distress, particularly pouty, particularly blonde. It peeved her no end that she was doing it herself, now, because Sirius Black had come crashing into her sensibilities, knocking them all helter skelter without proper warning.
"Sorry, Puppy."
"yeah. Sorry, Lil."
"Right."
"Right." Sirius lifted a hand, and rested in on Lilly's shoulder, lightly, giving it a faint squeeze. It was feminine, the feel of her slight frame, her delicate build, beneath his palm, and it was infinitely different from touching Remus, the only person he really touched anymore, despite how small Remus was, despite how fragile or how frail. "Just had to know. I think you do. I mean, from the way you acted."
"Some words of advice, puppy." Sirius blinked.
"Yes?"
"Quit while you're ahead." Lilly lifted up a hand gracefully and ruffled Sirius's hair until it was a comical, flopping mess, then gave him a swat on the arm. "Now get." Sirius scowled, mock-petulant, and ran his fingers through his hair to smooth it out, though the motion was an unselfconscious gesture. "You'll have to learn to do it at some point you know," Lilly called after him, as he turned to leave.
"Right!" Sirius tossed back over his shoulder and then, with a wicked grin, added, "but later, y'know?"
All Lilly Evans could think at that was: How very like him.
It was a dark night, the darkness pierced only by the wavering of the pale moon, full and round in the pitch-black sky. Nights were not usually this dark, not noticeably so, in any case; nor were the nights ever this impenetrable, this starless, this ink-seeped black. But on this night, clouds had settled over the stars, and veiled the moon, too, in a deep almost-mist, so that the world was thrown into unforgiving and unexplained darkness.
Trapped again between the wood walls, the wolf howled, a desperate, haunting howl, and Padfoot ached and ached and felt yet that there was nothing to be done.
The transformation had been harder this time around than any time before, something to do with the clouds veiling the moon, something to do with how bright it was, anyway. The day had been filled with a deep sort of calm, but as the night began to fall, the silence became ethereal, and then the clouds came out, thick and dark and splotched against the solid sky.
Again, the wolf howled, over and over and over, so that the sounds echoed throughout the small room. Wormtail hid behind one of Prongs's antlers and Padfoot paced, back and forth, back and forth, watching the wolf beneath the window, begging by the windowsill. It was obvious that something had to be done, or the wolf would go mad, or they would go mad, or one of them would get hurt. The question, simply, was what that something was.
Padfoot trotted over, and nuzzled lightly, worriedly, at the wolf's muzzle. There was no visible response to the touch; just the twitching of tensed muscles and another low, keening howl to the moon. Something about the brightness of the moon, the stillness of the eerie night, made the wolf yet more hungry for freedom than ever before, and it would not give up until it had gotten what it wanted. With a low, rough bark, Padfoot pulled away, though he nipped at the wolf's neck to get its attention, and then made his hesitant way towards the door.
In its corner, the wolf froze, golden eyes wide and fixed on the black dog's form.
Again, Padfoot barked -- and this one was a warning for the wolf to stay exactly where it was. Prongs tensed, Wormtail squeaked, and Padfoot threw his great, shadowy body at the wood of the door. The old hinges gave a great, creaking sound, and the lock snapped. The second time Padfoot knocked into the door, the knob cracked, and fell across the room, and the splintering bolt cracked in half, and the door swung open, into the dark night.
For a while, the wolf was still.
Then, it let out a low, glorious baying sound, and bounded towards the open door, towards the promise of freedom at last.
With one snapping, commanding bark from Padfoot serving as their orders, the other three moved swiftly after the russet colored, unnatural beast, out into the hold of the dark night. Beneath Padfoot's paws the earth was hard; against his fur and on his wet nose, the air was cool. Just before him he could see the streak of color that was the wolf, and he could scent on branches, on leaves, on roots, the direction the other creature was taking, the places where it had stopped to explore or even to mark what was its own. It was intoxicating, the wolf musk so heavy and so present in his senses, and mixed the with the smell of tree bark and dirt and moss.
Ahead of them, the wolf howled, in warning to the world and in glory of the moon. The sound was low and far from mournful, telling all those quivering animals that had to tremble as they listened that it was powerful over them all, at last. And it let Padfoot, and Prongs and Wormtail, know also where the wolf was, and where they should follow.
Padfoot lifted his head and let out a rougher, lower howl in return, and sped up through the brush of bushes and low tree branches, not stopping to take in the scent, just following the wolf's trail. He lost it, once; found it again; lost it once more. He was unused to tracking this way, unused to such 'play.' For the wolf, it was second nature, and had been in every single dream since it had known the terrible anger that came with being caged.
And then the wolf charged at him from the side, knocking him over and claiming his neck with its teeth, his belly with its claws. The growl in Padfoot's throat was muffled against fur and more fur and familiar scent, and they rolled about with each other for a long time until Padfoot at last found his muscles tiring, and the wolf triumphed. They fell still. Golden eyes gleamed above the black dog, glinting and powerful in the cloudy, just-barely-moonlight.
When they were in the forest, when the wolf could draw from all the land and all the trees and the great white moon watching above, Padfoot would be forced to submit, to bow his head or offer his neck as the wolf so pleased. A little whine at last escaped Padfoot's throat and the wolf licked at his muzzle, then pulled away, tail swishing proudly. From the roots of an adjacent tree, Wormtail squeaked, and Prongs bowed his noble head in deference.
With that final display, the wolf was at last satisfied, giving up another howl, this one victorious. Above them, behind the fingers of the clouds, the moon winked down in untroubled serenity, unmoved, uncaring, completely untouched. The forms of the four animals beneath scurried about like so many ants and had the moon had eyes, it would not have been watching this particularly unimportant display, anyway.
Throughout the night Padfoot wondered if he had made a mistake, but instinct had dictated his actions, and he was all too canine, all too impulsive. He could do no more than to act as impulse told him to, the black and white world before his pale eyes showing only one path, only one opposite path, and only split seconds moments in which he could choose one or the other. He did not act, he did not live, for acting and living, acting and being, were the same when the song of the woods was the song of his blood, and the wolf was panting hot in the curve of his cocked ear.
But the wolf had never been free before. For all its life it had been caged, kept from the secret desire of its gut and the open desire of its nature. For all its life, it had never once run beneath the glow of the full moon, felt the moonlight in the curves of its shoulderblades, felt the earth yield to its paws. Never once had the wolf known this sensation, alive at last, at long last, to do as it pleased, to realize its full power. Here, it was the leader of its pack, able to protect and to punish; too, able to hold its body proud and its tail erect. Here, among the whispers of the trees, was its kingdom, the movement of leaves upon leaves, the rabbits scurrying from bush to bush, or frozen, terrified, in the hold of the hedge.
It was time to hunt, time to find prey; time to chase his own tail and the tails of his packmates until the moon at last released its reign over the sky. Only then would the wolf return to the doors that kept it trapped in too-small, unnatural places, and only then would the wolf allow itself to find rest.
The wolf cried out its pleasure to the vast expanse of bitter black sky, and again began to run, so that the air whistled past its ears and stung its eyes sightless. Running with Padfoot at its heels, almost like a shepherd, guiding him the wolf this way, guiding it that. Running with Prongs loping gracefully at its side, the rat-scent nestled neatly between two doe-soft ears high, high up.
They did not follow the stars, but made their own paths, trammeled through the underbrush. They left their scent to mark as much of the woods as they could manage, so it would truly be theirs not only in their own minds, but daily in the minds and the hearts of the woodland creatures that lived there. From month to month, that scent would last, thickest, heaviest, in the dead of night, when only the owls dared to seem peaceful.
Around them were night moths and the occasional bat, and rabbits too that scattered out of their way. Small mice lurked underneath the bowers of fallen leaves for protection. In bare tree branches were the remnants of bird's nests, now abandoned. The trees themselves were leaf less and dried out, twisted above, gnarled against the sky, bony, finger like maps.
Beneath their feet were brittle branches and old, crackling leaves, and the hard packed earth, and moss, and small pebbles, and larger stones. Nothing about their run was smooth, nothing about it was silent, and though they ran so fast that they could not see, save for the blurs of forest life so easily passed by, they noticed everything, and saw it as clearly as if they looked evenly upon it with both focused eyes.
The forest was a world of wordless secrets, passed between the tree-roots, heard by mice ears, and at last sleeping unspoken in owl bellies, behind downy owl fur.
It was everything that man once had been, a garden, a deep lush garden, but it was also the space where man had become what he was, now, dried up and waiting on the edge of snow for the coming of winter.
The forest was the right place for the wolf and its pack, impossibly better than the creaky floorboards and old yet solid wood of a small house in the middle of it all. Isolated. Caged. Pretending it was 'home'. Even Wormtail learned as he rode between Prongs's antlers to love it, love the feel of freedom, of rushing air, of gasping wind. In this place, the world was in the curve of their ribs and the spaces in between their claws, the bend of their hipbones, the blink of their eyes.
The world was the first squirrel they chose to chase, hunting it down until it froze, cornered, against the bark of one tall tree, and let out a desperate squeak. One snarl from the wolf, and its heart exploded, a hemorrhage perfect and split-second swift in the tiny creature's chest cavity. Their first sobering casualty, the wolf sniffed around at the body and reveled in the smell of blood so present on the air, while Padfoot shuffled unhappily behind it, and Wormtail averted his eyes to the sight that hit far too close to home. Prongs watched on in thoughtful silence with reproving eyes. On some unspoken agreement, the four of them began to cover the body with twigs and pebbles and crumbling, dry leaves, until those panicked eyes were hidden properly from the brightness of the moon. Never again did they dare be so careless with life, with the freedom the wolf had longed so long for. Never again did they dare treat the forest with such impersonality as could kill a squirrel with a tremor of unsurpassed, unmanageable fear.
And they ran on, silent shapes streaking across the silent night, knowing they were the strongest there and then, and foolishly thinking that what was so in the forest would be able to last them forever.
