Disclaimer: HP doesn't belong to me, I make nothing off this. S/R slash, a
little graphic, adult themes, and so on.
The Dementors were away he knew; they hovered from one cell to another like vultures. Picking, picking at the souls of the unfortunate condemned all throughout Azkaban.
It was in those little intervals that he could relax, if only for a short while when the horrific coldness seemed to abate and the nightmare he was trapped in was a little more bearable. He could hear screaming in the next cell. Perhaps it was Loughan, a wizard thief who had earned himself twenty years in the dreaded prison for one of the grandest Gringotts theft plans ever concocted. He listened to him shriek for a little while, and there was a scuffling and several thuds. He had probably knocked himself out from hurling himself at the damp stone walls. Poor bastard. Years of solitude in this hellish place told him that weak-minded Loughan would lose his sanity entirely in another week.
He closed his eyes and waited. There was a memory there, one he'd been trying to resurface from his tortured mind for a while, but there were so many blanks in it he could scarcely understand anything anymore. Memories were often the Dementor's weapons of choice and each time one slithered by he could see old ones that never ceased to bring him hazes of pure agony and others he knew never existed but pained him nonetheless.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to grasp onto a happy memory. He had to have been a dog back then; it was the only way. It was so brief, only a sliver of a thought: a boy with eyes the color of dark honey staring at him with a wistful smile. It had been drained out of him straight away and he was left grabbing at the dissolving image in vain as if he had been trying to catch the wind in a net. He couldn't remember why the memory had once brought him happiness, and that in itself was enough to depress him. He curled up into a tighter ball on the filthy cot in his corner, thinking of this. He couldn't even remember his name.
Sometimes he got moments of lucidity, and things began to make sense again. He was an innocent man, betrayed by a rat he'd once called a friend, accused of killing thirteen people in a single blast. He was blameless of those crimes, his best friend had been murdered and he would get out of that dingy cell if it was the last thing he did. It kept him sane when the Dementors drew near, feeling sadistic and wanting to punish him, especially him--the servant of The Dark Lord, Sirius Black. It kept him sane when all sanity seemed to be bled from him, like the way all compassion and humanity was bled from the eyes of a werewolf once it was transformed...
That last thought stopped him in his tracks completely.
A werewolf.
"You're not yourself tonight, are you?"
The apartment was dark and he had been sitting there for a long time, seeming detached from the papers in front of him, from the hazy starless night sky, from the young dark-haired man who had just walked in. He seemed tired.
"Sirius?"" He was always mesmerized by the way he said his name. His mother always spit it out like a demeaning curse, Peter seemed to slobber when he said it, his eyes always twinkling with idolism and his voice laden with insidiousness, McGonagall had always sounded it with such sternness. She learned early to be wary of Sirius Black, that impetuous troublemaker of a boy who seemed to always charm his way out of every situation.
But Remus Lupin always said it different. With a soft accent less voice, as if he was speaking the first lines of a prayer.
His eyes focused on him but it appeared he didn't really see him. With a soft turn of his head he looked away, in one graceful gesture seeming to shut Sirius' presence out altogether.
He felt an irritation and a stirring somewhere in his loins just looking at him. He stepped forward and in the dimness the angles of his face seemed so perfectly delicate, his eyes never as melancholy and captivating. Remus' beauty and quiet insubordination could madden him like nothing else. He took him by the shoulders and shoved him to the white sofa, the one where the two usually entertained guests or watched the Muggle news on the television, warily searching for any threats from the Dark side non-magic people sometimes found.
He didn't resist. There was urgency in Sirius, one that demanded control and release in the swiftest, most crude of manners. He ripped the clothes off his thin, lean frame, feeling that smooth, sleek skin marred from so many years of painful transformation. For an instant he thought of James, sitting with Lily holding their infant son in her lap. His spectacled eyes sparkled with cold determination.
There's a spy in our midst, Sirius. There's a Judas among the Marauders.
He hadn't believed him. If Lily wasn't so obviously perturbed, he would have thrown back his head and laughed in their faces. But he knew James was dead serious. Someone was betraying the Potters' movements to Lord Voldemort and that person could only be within his innermost circle of innermost circles; Moony. Padfoot. Wormtail. Prongs. Which could it be?
But Remus--?
He would not allow himself to believe for a moment that it could be Remus, he thought as he tore denim and wool away, hungrily. Not when he was here, with him, with his body so pliant in his arms. Not even if he had been so distant lately, the way his eyes seemed to stare far away when they were making love, or the way that he had acquired a secretive kind of manner, even more than usual. Not his Remus. He threw his cloak to the floor, and ran his hand roughly over Remus' pale thigh. Remus seemed to be far away, placing his body into his hands to do as he pleased not out of trust, but a kind of empty distractedness. One that Sirius utilized to the fullest. He drove into him with the cruelest of thrusts, feeling himself plunging into that familiar warmth, the tightness that seemed to snap around him and drive him mad with desire.
His heart pounded in his ears and he heard nothing, not even the involuntary gasps Remus made every time he drove him further into the white cushions, or the soft Stop he'd whispered when he slammed him once with an almost impossible force. Remus seemed to attempt to shift his weight into a more comfortable position but he shot out a hand and pinned him deeper into place. He continued to thrust, one hand clutching Remus' wrist to prevent him from squirming in the slightest, and the other wound around one of his legs so it was positioned up in the air, out of the way. He plunged in ever and anon. Harder. Faster.
He climaxed so sharply it was as if his mind had shut down for a second or two, replaced with a feeling of heaviness. He shuddered and collapsed on top of him, the two of them panting, gasping for air. Remus shut his eyes as he began composing himself. If Sirius was seeing straight he would have noticed that his lover was blocking away pain and throbbing from his mind, like he did when he was hurt. But he only grabbed a fistful of his auburn hair, and spoke hoarsely into his ear. That he loved him. That he should never leave him. That he would protect him if need arose.
But he noticed a change had come over Remus' face, a darkness passing over his eyes that he interpreted clearly. It was a look that understood what betrayal meant. It meant breaking away. Remus wanted to break away.
Of course it can't be Lily or Dumbledore. And you would never betray me, Padfoot. He had to admit, it felt good hearing Prongs speak about him so confidently. I really don't think the Dark Lord would use Peter, of all people. I know how this sounds, but that leaves only one person. The only one who could be the betrayer is....
"I hate you." Remus whispered suddenly. Sirius only looked at him, then cocked back a fist and hit him across the face.
Sirius was a fool back then. And like many fools, he didn't know it until it was too late. The memory of James' words and the defiance in Remus only infuriated him further. He would deny it, over and over. The pounding inside him commenced once more. Remus belonged to him and would never sell him or James out to the enemy. And he would claim him again and again, as if to prove it to himself, cruelly if he had to. Mine, he thought as he flipped Remus onto his stomach and mounted him again. He didn't notice the blankness that had come over the honey-colored eyes or the tears that were trickling from them.
Who are you, he wanted to ask, as Sirius walked into their apartment. He'd wanted to ask it for a long time, long after he'd moved in with him in that apartment. It wasn't that he was becoming distant, it was only that he was ceasing to recognize him.
Maybe it was the Dark Lord's reign, which was becoming stronger and stronger as days went by. Twelve Aurors had been killed in the past month, and the fatalities of both Muggle and Wizard seemed to be mounting. The Muggles had enough war on their own already and enough reasons to dismiss people who vanished or wound up driven mad by the Cruciatus curse, and go on with their happy, ignorant lives. But for the magic community, every day was a nightmare that went on and on.
"Dumbledore's thinking of making me a mole for the order." He'd said once over dinner. The two usually ate together in silence on the kitchen floor, boxes of instant magic take-out (a tap of the wand produced instant Chinese pork-fried rice) cluttered around them.
"A...mole?"
"A double agent, like old Snivellus. Because of my family." And the thought of this made his face twist into a half grimace, half snarl. Remus learned from the files of the Order of The Phoenix that on the list of those associated with Death Eaters were many, many Blacks, several of them said to be top supporters of Lord Voldemort. Among them was one Regulus Black, who Remus remembered from school as Sirius' Slytherin brother. He had reckoned that his aged mother had died happy on her sickbed, knowing that at least one of her sons would uphold the family tradition of evil.
"Will you do it?" He asked him, putting away his chopsticks, and laying one pale hand over Sirius' stronger, tanned one. He brushed him aside and ran a hand through his ebony hair. "I don't know. Even then, I'm unsure if I can pull it off. I'm supposed to be dead to all of them, and Uncle mentions that they forbid speaking my name at all, like they do all those who are disowned." He frowned again, his eyes immediately dark and faraway once more. "I don't want to see them. I don't want to have anything to do with them again."
There were no more words again, as both of them got caught up in their own thoughts. Remus remembered his own family, and felt a deep pang. He hadn't told Sirius yet, but lately with all the trouble Sirius had been facing with James and the other Aurors he didn't want to trouble him further or make Sirius worry about him. His own family had been a wonderful one; although he had a slight feeling that his aunts and uncles despaired him ever being bitten by the wolf, they were accepting. They were two of them after all.
Romulus and Remus. His twin brother had run after him into the woods and he'd been bitten too. Romulus his brother who was always roaming around the world and always sent owls from Beauxbatons and while never as bookishly smart as Remus was, was an incredible pillar of strength. He'd handled being a werewolf at age six better than Remus had ever had. And as much than anyone, he'd supported the forces against Lord Voldemort, working action in whichever part of the world he'd been in.
Romulus had disappeared. None of the family had heard from him in a while but Remus had a sickening certainty on the whereabouts of his brother. Just like the whereabouts of most of the active protest leaders, Aurors, and anyone considered dangerous or subversive to The Dark Lord. He'd been sent to another place, one where not even magic could bring him back...
This is the world we live in, he thought. Where I can't even grieve the death of my own brother. What kind of person am I? And now, with my parents dead and any other member of the family scattered so far away, I've never been so alone. Like Sirius is now.
He couldn't tell Sirius. He didn't want to burden him, who had enough to deal with on his own, who seemed stuck in the preconception that Remus was delicate and needed to be taken care of. He never even met Romulus, that boy always away, courting danger and traveling wherever the wind could take him. So Remus had kept Rom's death to himself, but there seemed to be a widening gap that piece of secrecy put between the lovers. Then Sirius had changed.
Sirius came home that night, looking wary and displeased. The way Sirius looked at him now made him feel a little uncomfortable. He wasn't sure what to make of it. There was forever a tension between them these days, and something had disappeared in their relationship as Romulus had disappeared three weeks ago. Trust.
Who are you, he wanted to say, I scarcely know you anymore. Instead what came out was "You aren't yourself tonight, are you?" Inside he wanted to add that he hadn't been himself for much longer than that, much more than tonight. But he didn't, and Sirius didn't reply.
He bit his lip. "Sirius?" That seemed to have a strange effect on him, and Sirius stirred, his eyes seeming to clear from their previous lost haze. Then they focused on him and there was a predatory sheen to them now. He looked away, feeling a little disconcerted by those eyes.
Without warning Sirius rushed at him, shoving him onto the sofa and stripping off his clothes. All right, he thought. If he must, then let it be. Let him take me if he needs to, if sex is the only way I can reach him. Let the pain be no factor in it, even though the pain was unbearable. Sirius claimed him so brutally and forcefully it was a true struggle to bite back cries of pain. He couldn't recall now when Sirius had started being so ungentle, unmerciful.
I scarcely know you anymore, this man lying here, stripping me, raping me, and looking me with the eyes a wolf must cast upon a lamb. You're the wolf now, aren't you, and I'm just your little tool, and you're hurting me and you're whispering "I love you Remy, I love you and I'll never leave you" but your words are as empty as your promises...
"I hate you." He breathed, hating this man who was not the one he'd fell in love with at age fifteen. Hating the person he didn't recognize, forcing himself on him.
James says there's a traitor among us, Moony. I think...I think it's Sirius.
What are you talking about, Peter? It can't be Padfoot.
Oh but it can. The little man's face was sweaty and pale as he said this. He's the sly one, all smart and strong and dark and he's got connections to You Know Who doesn't he? It...it has to be Sirius...
No, Wormtail, you're wrong. It can't be...
Could it?
"We were young." Remus said shortly as he calmly stirred his cup of tea. The fire burned steadily at the fireplace, and Sirius looked down into the cup of chamomile perched in his hands. Remus may love tea like anyone else in Britain but he much rather preferred coffee. Remus seemed to read his mind.
"I haven't been able to get any, forgive me. I...didn't know you would be coming here and now ."
"Tea's too much like you; light and sweet and calming." He said gruffly back, and softly added. "But it's all right."
Remus smiled, the lines of his face creasing. "And I suppose coffee's like you then? Strong and black and keeps you awake all night long..."
Sirius snorted and he laughed. Remus' laughing was a sight for sore eyes, and he wanted to kiss those thin, smiling lips, issuing laughter like ringing bells. After a moment, the two of them fell back into their melancholy again. So much had changed after all.
"I know", he began, "that it's almost fourteen years too late, but..."
"Don't apologize." Remus said quickly, shaking his head. "We were young. Foolish. I should never have doubted you. I should have told you about Romulus..." His voice choked again, and he took the chance to make another long sip from his cup.
"Bloody hell, Moony, your brother was fucking killed and I had no idea and I..." The regret never left him, intensified during those Dementor nights that even morphing into a huge black dog could not wear away. How could he have been such a blind git? He had thought Remus, his Remus, was the traitor and trusted the wrong man. He'd made the wrong decision and the cost was high, so high, that he could hardly bear it. Sirius swallowed.
"I was no traitor, Remus. But I deserved everything that's ever happened to me. I deserved Azkaban." He closed his eyes, a man older now and nearly broken from years of confinement. It was impossible to imagine how much he'd wanted, needed to see Moony again, but the sight of his face made all those terrible memories haunt him again. Like that last night together, before he asked James to make Peter his Secret Keeper without telling anyone else, not Remus, not even Dumbledore. Both instances he would regret forever.
And how could he forgive him so easily for that?
There was a clink as Remus put his teacup down on its saucer and took both of his calloused hands in his. Such a simple gesture that was so comforting. He looked down at the floor as he spoke. "I lied to you that night, you know. When I told you I hated you. Even if you destroyed me, it would never be true. So don't say those things. Don't say you deserved to be locked in that place..."
"It was hell." His hands freed themselves from his clasp and taking one of his thin, pale hands, pressed it firmly onto his own cheek. Those solemn gold eyes were transfixed on him, so filled with love it hurt. "It was the deepest sphere of hell...to be trapped in that place where, even in my dreams, I couldn't catch a single glimpse of you."
The shaggy black dog howled at the moon in his dank prison cell, and the Dementors passed by, gleefully noting to themselves that the most dangerous of prisoners was finally losing it and how delectably nice that was. Once they went crazy, they were eternally trapped in a loophole of their own little universes and the emotions were much better to absorb.
They didn't know that the dog was howling not of mania but of joy; the closest thing to joy he could ever experience in that hellish place. Because he had finally remembered his name. He couldn't think of anything else about him that was luminous or happy but that didn't matter. He knew his name, he finally knew his name, and when he would escape to wreak his vengeance on the traitor rat, he would see him again, as he would also see The Boy who Lived.
Remus. His name was Remus, and deep in that fortress of pain, the jubilant dog howled again.
The Dementors were away he knew; they hovered from one cell to another like vultures. Picking, picking at the souls of the unfortunate condemned all throughout Azkaban.
It was in those little intervals that he could relax, if only for a short while when the horrific coldness seemed to abate and the nightmare he was trapped in was a little more bearable. He could hear screaming in the next cell. Perhaps it was Loughan, a wizard thief who had earned himself twenty years in the dreaded prison for one of the grandest Gringotts theft plans ever concocted. He listened to him shriek for a little while, and there was a scuffling and several thuds. He had probably knocked himself out from hurling himself at the damp stone walls. Poor bastard. Years of solitude in this hellish place told him that weak-minded Loughan would lose his sanity entirely in another week.
He closed his eyes and waited. There was a memory there, one he'd been trying to resurface from his tortured mind for a while, but there were so many blanks in it he could scarcely understand anything anymore. Memories were often the Dementor's weapons of choice and each time one slithered by he could see old ones that never ceased to bring him hazes of pure agony and others he knew never existed but pained him nonetheless.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd been able to grasp onto a happy memory. He had to have been a dog back then; it was the only way. It was so brief, only a sliver of a thought: a boy with eyes the color of dark honey staring at him with a wistful smile. It had been drained out of him straight away and he was left grabbing at the dissolving image in vain as if he had been trying to catch the wind in a net. He couldn't remember why the memory had once brought him happiness, and that in itself was enough to depress him. He curled up into a tighter ball on the filthy cot in his corner, thinking of this. He couldn't even remember his name.
Sometimes he got moments of lucidity, and things began to make sense again. He was an innocent man, betrayed by a rat he'd once called a friend, accused of killing thirteen people in a single blast. He was blameless of those crimes, his best friend had been murdered and he would get out of that dingy cell if it was the last thing he did. It kept him sane when the Dementors drew near, feeling sadistic and wanting to punish him, especially him--the servant of The Dark Lord, Sirius Black. It kept him sane when all sanity seemed to be bled from him, like the way all compassion and humanity was bled from the eyes of a werewolf once it was transformed...
That last thought stopped him in his tracks completely.
A werewolf.
"You're not yourself tonight, are you?"
The apartment was dark and he had been sitting there for a long time, seeming detached from the papers in front of him, from the hazy starless night sky, from the young dark-haired man who had just walked in. He seemed tired.
"Sirius?"" He was always mesmerized by the way he said his name. His mother always spit it out like a demeaning curse, Peter seemed to slobber when he said it, his eyes always twinkling with idolism and his voice laden with insidiousness, McGonagall had always sounded it with such sternness. She learned early to be wary of Sirius Black, that impetuous troublemaker of a boy who seemed to always charm his way out of every situation.
But Remus Lupin always said it different. With a soft accent less voice, as if he was speaking the first lines of a prayer.
His eyes focused on him but it appeared he didn't really see him. With a soft turn of his head he looked away, in one graceful gesture seeming to shut Sirius' presence out altogether.
He felt an irritation and a stirring somewhere in his loins just looking at him. He stepped forward and in the dimness the angles of his face seemed so perfectly delicate, his eyes never as melancholy and captivating. Remus' beauty and quiet insubordination could madden him like nothing else. He took him by the shoulders and shoved him to the white sofa, the one where the two usually entertained guests or watched the Muggle news on the television, warily searching for any threats from the Dark side non-magic people sometimes found.
He didn't resist. There was urgency in Sirius, one that demanded control and release in the swiftest, most crude of manners. He ripped the clothes off his thin, lean frame, feeling that smooth, sleek skin marred from so many years of painful transformation. For an instant he thought of James, sitting with Lily holding their infant son in her lap. His spectacled eyes sparkled with cold determination.
There's a spy in our midst, Sirius. There's a Judas among the Marauders.
He hadn't believed him. If Lily wasn't so obviously perturbed, he would have thrown back his head and laughed in their faces. But he knew James was dead serious. Someone was betraying the Potters' movements to Lord Voldemort and that person could only be within his innermost circle of innermost circles; Moony. Padfoot. Wormtail. Prongs. Which could it be?
But Remus--?
He would not allow himself to believe for a moment that it could be Remus, he thought as he tore denim and wool away, hungrily. Not when he was here, with him, with his body so pliant in his arms. Not even if he had been so distant lately, the way his eyes seemed to stare far away when they were making love, or the way that he had acquired a secretive kind of manner, even more than usual. Not his Remus. He threw his cloak to the floor, and ran his hand roughly over Remus' pale thigh. Remus seemed to be far away, placing his body into his hands to do as he pleased not out of trust, but a kind of empty distractedness. One that Sirius utilized to the fullest. He drove into him with the cruelest of thrusts, feeling himself plunging into that familiar warmth, the tightness that seemed to snap around him and drive him mad with desire.
His heart pounded in his ears and he heard nothing, not even the involuntary gasps Remus made every time he drove him further into the white cushions, or the soft Stop he'd whispered when he slammed him once with an almost impossible force. Remus seemed to attempt to shift his weight into a more comfortable position but he shot out a hand and pinned him deeper into place. He continued to thrust, one hand clutching Remus' wrist to prevent him from squirming in the slightest, and the other wound around one of his legs so it was positioned up in the air, out of the way. He plunged in ever and anon. Harder. Faster.
He climaxed so sharply it was as if his mind had shut down for a second or two, replaced with a feeling of heaviness. He shuddered and collapsed on top of him, the two of them panting, gasping for air. Remus shut his eyes as he began composing himself. If Sirius was seeing straight he would have noticed that his lover was blocking away pain and throbbing from his mind, like he did when he was hurt. But he only grabbed a fistful of his auburn hair, and spoke hoarsely into his ear. That he loved him. That he should never leave him. That he would protect him if need arose.
But he noticed a change had come over Remus' face, a darkness passing over his eyes that he interpreted clearly. It was a look that understood what betrayal meant. It meant breaking away. Remus wanted to break away.
Of course it can't be Lily or Dumbledore. And you would never betray me, Padfoot. He had to admit, it felt good hearing Prongs speak about him so confidently. I really don't think the Dark Lord would use Peter, of all people. I know how this sounds, but that leaves only one person. The only one who could be the betrayer is....
"I hate you." Remus whispered suddenly. Sirius only looked at him, then cocked back a fist and hit him across the face.
Sirius was a fool back then. And like many fools, he didn't know it until it was too late. The memory of James' words and the defiance in Remus only infuriated him further. He would deny it, over and over. The pounding inside him commenced once more. Remus belonged to him and would never sell him or James out to the enemy. And he would claim him again and again, as if to prove it to himself, cruelly if he had to. Mine, he thought as he flipped Remus onto his stomach and mounted him again. He didn't notice the blankness that had come over the honey-colored eyes or the tears that were trickling from them.
Who are you, he wanted to ask, as Sirius walked into their apartment. He'd wanted to ask it for a long time, long after he'd moved in with him in that apartment. It wasn't that he was becoming distant, it was only that he was ceasing to recognize him.
Maybe it was the Dark Lord's reign, which was becoming stronger and stronger as days went by. Twelve Aurors had been killed in the past month, and the fatalities of both Muggle and Wizard seemed to be mounting. The Muggles had enough war on their own already and enough reasons to dismiss people who vanished or wound up driven mad by the Cruciatus curse, and go on with their happy, ignorant lives. But for the magic community, every day was a nightmare that went on and on.
"Dumbledore's thinking of making me a mole for the order." He'd said once over dinner. The two usually ate together in silence on the kitchen floor, boxes of instant magic take-out (a tap of the wand produced instant Chinese pork-fried rice) cluttered around them.
"A...mole?"
"A double agent, like old Snivellus. Because of my family." And the thought of this made his face twist into a half grimace, half snarl. Remus learned from the files of the Order of The Phoenix that on the list of those associated with Death Eaters were many, many Blacks, several of them said to be top supporters of Lord Voldemort. Among them was one Regulus Black, who Remus remembered from school as Sirius' Slytherin brother. He had reckoned that his aged mother had died happy on her sickbed, knowing that at least one of her sons would uphold the family tradition of evil.
"Will you do it?" He asked him, putting away his chopsticks, and laying one pale hand over Sirius' stronger, tanned one. He brushed him aside and ran a hand through his ebony hair. "I don't know. Even then, I'm unsure if I can pull it off. I'm supposed to be dead to all of them, and Uncle mentions that they forbid speaking my name at all, like they do all those who are disowned." He frowned again, his eyes immediately dark and faraway once more. "I don't want to see them. I don't want to have anything to do with them again."
There were no more words again, as both of them got caught up in their own thoughts. Remus remembered his own family, and felt a deep pang. He hadn't told Sirius yet, but lately with all the trouble Sirius had been facing with James and the other Aurors he didn't want to trouble him further or make Sirius worry about him. His own family had been a wonderful one; although he had a slight feeling that his aunts and uncles despaired him ever being bitten by the wolf, they were accepting. They were two of them after all.
Romulus and Remus. His twin brother had run after him into the woods and he'd been bitten too. Romulus his brother who was always roaming around the world and always sent owls from Beauxbatons and while never as bookishly smart as Remus was, was an incredible pillar of strength. He'd handled being a werewolf at age six better than Remus had ever had. And as much than anyone, he'd supported the forces against Lord Voldemort, working action in whichever part of the world he'd been in.
Romulus had disappeared. None of the family had heard from him in a while but Remus had a sickening certainty on the whereabouts of his brother. Just like the whereabouts of most of the active protest leaders, Aurors, and anyone considered dangerous or subversive to The Dark Lord. He'd been sent to another place, one where not even magic could bring him back...
This is the world we live in, he thought. Where I can't even grieve the death of my own brother. What kind of person am I? And now, with my parents dead and any other member of the family scattered so far away, I've never been so alone. Like Sirius is now.
He couldn't tell Sirius. He didn't want to burden him, who had enough to deal with on his own, who seemed stuck in the preconception that Remus was delicate and needed to be taken care of. He never even met Romulus, that boy always away, courting danger and traveling wherever the wind could take him. So Remus had kept Rom's death to himself, but there seemed to be a widening gap that piece of secrecy put between the lovers. Then Sirius had changed.
Sirius came home that night, looking wary and displeased. The way Sirius looked at him now made him feel a little uncomfortable. He wasn't sure what to make of it. There was forever a tension between them these days, and something had disappeared in their relationship as Romulus had disappeared three weeks ago. Trust.
Who are you, he wanted to say, I scarcely know you anymore. Instead what came out was "You aren't yourself tonight, are you?" Inside he wanted to add that he hadn't been himself for much longer than that, much more than tonight. But he didn't, and Sirius didn't reply.
He bit his lip. "Sirius?" That seemed to have a strange effect on him, and Sirius stirred, his eyes seeming to clear from their previous lost haze. Then they focused on him and there was a predatory sheen to them now. He looked away, feeling a little disconcerted by those eyes.
Without warning Sirius rushed at him, shoving him onto the sofa and stripping off his clothes. All right, he thought. If he must, then let it be. Let him take me if he needs to, if sex is the only way I can reach him. Let the pain be no factor in it, even though the pain was unbearable. Sirius claimed him so brutally and forcefully it was a true struggle to bite back cries of pain. He couldn't recall now when Sirius had started being so ungentle, unmerciful.
I scarcely know you anymore, this man lying here, stripping me, raping me, and looking me with the eyes a wolf must cast upon a lamb. You're the wolf now, aren't you, and I'm just your little tool, and you're hurting me and you're whispering "I love you Remy, I love you and I'll never leave you" but your words are as empty as your promises...
"I hate you." He breathed, hating this man who was not the one he'd fell in love with at age fifteen. Hating the person he didn't recognize, forcing himself on him.
James says there's a traitor among us, Moony. I think...I think it's Sirius.
What are you talking about, Peter? It can't be Padfoot.
Oh but it can. The little man's face was sweaty and pale as he said this. He's the sly one, all smart and strong and dark and he's got connections to You Know Who doesn't he? It...it has to be Sirius...
No, Wormtail, you're wrong. It can't be...
Could it?
"We were young." Remus said shortly as he calmly stirred his cup of tea. The fire burned steadily at the fireplace, and Sirius looked down into the cup of chamomile perched in his hands. Remus may love tea like anyone else in Britain but he much rather preferred coffee. Remus seemed to read his mind.
"I haven't been able to get any, forgive me. I...didn't know you would be coming here and now ."
"Tea's too much like you; light and sweet and calming." He said gruffly back, and softly added. "But it's all right."
Remus smiled, the lines of his face creasing. "And I suppose coffee's like you then? Strong and black and keeps you awake all night long..."
Sirius snorted and he laughed. Remus' laughing was a sight for sore eyes, and he wanted to kiss those thin, smiling lips, issuing laughter like ringing bells. After a moment, the two of them fell back into their melancholy again. So much had changed after all.
"I know", he began, "that it's almost fourteen years too late, but..."
"Don't apologize." Remus said quickly, shaking his head. "We were young. Foolish. I should never have doubted you. I should have told you about Romulus..." His voice choked again, and he took the chance to make another long sip from his cup.
"Bloody hell, Moony, your brother was fucking killed and I had no idea and I..." The regret never left him, intensified during those Dementor nights that even morphing into a huge black dog could not wear away. How could he have been such a blind git? He had thought Remus, his Remus, was the traitor and trusted the wrong man. He'd made the wrong decision and the cost was high, so high, that he could hardly bear it. Sirius swallowed.
"I was no traitor, Remus. But I deserved everything that's ever happened to me. I deserved Azkaban." He closed his eyes, a man older now and nearly broken from years of confinement. It was impossible to imagine how much he'd wanted, needed to see Moony again, but the sight of his face made all those terrible memories haunt him again. Like that last night together, before he asked James to make Peter his Secret Keeper without telling anyone else, not Remus, not even Dumbledore. Both instances he would regret forever.
And how could he forgive him so easily for that?
There was a clink as Remus put his teacup down on its saucer and took both of his calloused hands in his. Such a simple gesture that was so comforting. He looked down at the floor as he spoke. "I lied to you that night, you know. When I told you I hated you. Even if you destroyed me, it would never be true. So don't say those things. Don't say you deserved to be locked in that place..."
"It was hell." His hands freed themselves from his clasp and taking one of his thin, pale hands, pressed it firmly onto his own cheek. Those solemn gold eyes were transfixed on him, so filled with love it hurt. "It was the deepest sphere of hell...to be trapped in that place where, even in my dreams, I couldn't catch a single glimpse of you."
The shaggy black dog howled at the moon in his dank prison cell, and the Dementors passed by, gleefully noting to themselves that the most dangerous of prisoners was finally losing it and how delectably nice that was. Once they went crazy, they were eternally trapped in a loophole of their own little universes and the emotions were much better to absorb.
They didn't know that the dog was howling not of mania but of joy; the closest thing to joy he could ever experience in that hellish place. Because he had finally remembered his name. He couldn't think of anything else about him that was luminous or happy but that didn't matter. He knew his name, he finally knew his name, and when he would escape to wreak his vengeance on the traitor rat, he would see him again, as he would also see The Boy who Lived.
Remus. His name was Remus, and deep in that fortress of pain, the jubilant dog howled again.