Disclaimer: They're not mine; I'm not making any money from this.

A/N: This story assumes a romantic relationship between Sirius Black and Remus Lupin. The rating, however, is for dramatic content and some swearing, not for overt sexual content.

The Ones Who Love Us…

It's one of the wisest things I've ever heard, and Merlin knows every one of us needs to hear it at some point. It was Dumbledore I heard it from – it was him I think so many of us learned it from, really.

James and I had been Aurors for not quite a year then. We were the juniors on the staff, so of course we got the least of everything – the smallest office, which we had to cram into to share; the broken furniture (and it was really broken: there wasn't a reparo spell in the world that could fix that damnable desk); the fewest resources. If we hadn't been good friends to begin with, we would probably have been at each other's throats in a week. I rather suspect that we disappointed our seniors with our limited entertainment value.

It was the only time that James didn't immediately understand exactly what I meant – in fact, he misinterpreted what I meant so badly that for a moment I thought it wasn't really him, it was a stranger.

I found him in our office, trying to do some of the endless paperwork the Ministry was so happy to dump on us. I can't have looked good, because the news I'd just been given was horrible. So it wasn't a surprise when James clambered over the desk and hugged me.

"What is it, Padfoot?"

I know I started shaking then, because I could barely hold back the tears.

"Regulus," I said. "He's dead."

Regulus. My brother – in fact, My Brother the Death Eater. When I became an Auror, I'd taken a vow to protect the wizarding world, a vow that assumed that I would kill Regulus myself if need be. And there were a thousand fights between us, ten thousand bitter words. But he was also the only person who knew what our early, sheltered childhood had been like; in the end, the torture of growing up at Grimmauld Place was the only thing we could talk about with sibling camaraderie. And he was the only one who really understood.

He was my brother.

James looked stunned. "Regulus is dead? What – in – in interrogation? I didn't even know he'd been picked up! He's supposed to be lower-level, not even on our list."

I shook my head. "Not here, not one of us," I told him. "The other Death Eaters. They… they executed him."

James pressed his lips to my forehead. His mother was a healer, and from the time he was little, she claimed the forehead kiss was special healing magic. He'd first used it, shyly, on me in just our first year at Hogwarts, after a brutally bad day that had included humiliating myself in Potions. I think his mother was right about that magic.

But – he kissed my forehead – and I waited for words of wisdom from him. James was brilliant at that, and I sometimes marveled that he was really only the same age as me. But this time, though his healing kiss had found its mark, his words missed theirs.

"I know you're scared," he said, "we all are. We knew there was a price on your head. But think of the punishment those idiots are going to get when they go to Voldemort and tell him We've killed Sirius Black.' Wait until he finds out they got the wrong brother – that they've killed one of their own. They'll lose their pensions for certain. We've always said that organizational incompetence would finally be Voldemort's downfall, right? Wait'll they get –"

But he'd missed it, he really had. And as soon as his joke left his lips, James realized what he'd said. We often joked about Voldemort, gallows humor about how the Death Eaters Trade Union was going to go on strike unless they got better hours, or scarier robes, or nonsense like that. It was automatic. But right away I saw in his eyes that he knew he'd just said something horrible to me, and worse, that he couldn't think of what was right to say. No one in the Ministry would understand what I was feeling. The battle lines had been clearly drawn: We were Aurors. Regulus was a Death Eater. Anything that might have lingered between the brothers Black had been neatly severed by that distinction. Except that it hadn't. And for once James, my stalwart, could not find the words of comfort that I needed to hear. I could see it in his eyes. It was like being abandoned.

But I sure as hell wasn't going to say that to him, not then and not ever. So I pulled myself together – I think I even laughed – and said, "I've got to get to Hogwarts. Dumbledore says he has another shopping list for us."

James nodded, and said, "I've got some groceries for you to pick up in Hogsmeade too." Only a very few of the Ministry's Aurors were in the Order – mostly recent graduates from Hogwarts – and the general conception of Dumbledore at the Ministry was of a doddering old fool who could barely feed himself. Dumbledore was happy enough to play into that, as it meant that his agents within the Ministry could talk about him in a half-derisive code that no one else would pay any attention to.

James found, somewhere on the unruly mess that was our shared desk (I think it had been jinxed with a Permanent Clutter Charm), the "grocery list" and I floo'd to Dumbledore's office. Once I was there, I was just barely able to deliver the information he'd requested from James and me; then I started crying like a child.

I remember that he clasped my hands in his and led me to a chair, and I remember that because the texture of his skin was like nothing I'd ever felt. It was incredibly soft; weathered but not battered. I envied him that skin.

I poured out my story, including how my best friend had so severely misunderstood me. Then Dumbledore clasped my face in those remarkable hands, and said, "The ones who love us never really leave us."

I know that Dumbledore said the same words to Harry; Harry himself told me, in one of the few quiet conversations we were allowed to have together. I've been praying, hoping, that he'll remember it when he thinks of me, but so far he hasn't. I know he hasn't, because if he had I could go to him. Instead, once again, I'm stuck at Grimmauld Place.

It's worse this time. I'm not a ghost, so no one can see me. I'm more of an… essence, I think. Remus knows I'm near. He can sense me, I think, or scout me with those wolfish nerves of his. Or maybe there's a scent of me – I don't know. He's never said it aloud, and I can't ask him.

It's worse this time, being stuck at Grimmauld Place, because of what I've done to Remus. It was an accident, of course; I would never have inflicted this on him, and not just because we were lovers. Of course – and here's the irony – if we'd just been friends and never lovers, I wouldn't have been able to inflict this on him.

When we first moved into Grimmauld Place together, I wanted Remus – and everyone else, for that matter – to understand where Remus stood in the hierarchy of the house. I was owner and possessor; and Remus, my love, my mate, rightly took his place by my side, at last. His word was the same thing as mine; he was as much owner as I was.

The first entity I had to convince of that was the House itself. It took three solid days with almost no sleep, but I managed to re-adjust all of the wards and guards on the house to recognize Remus, precisely the same spells I would have used had he been my legal spouse. So the House knew him, recognized him, and that's the reason he was the only one who never needed to knock.

But now, he's the only living being the House recognizes and will respond to. After they met Harry at King's Cross last year, even Remus had the devil of a time getting back in. No one else can even open the door.

He can't leave now, not until the Order finally abandons Grimmauld Place as its Headquarters. He's trapped here, just as I was. I would never have done that to him deliberately – if I knew that my efforts to make him recognized as my spouse would have imprisoned him, I would never have done any of it. He's a damn smart man, and he would have found other ways to let the others know where he stood in the social hierarchy.

But because he's here, I'm here again, though I'd pay any price to free him, even being stuck here for eternity. But we're together in a way. I know that Dumbledore gave him the same words of wisdom that he gave to both me and Harry, or else he'd never be able to sense me.

He dresses slowly when he's getting ready in the morning. He really takes his time about it now; and he never used to, not even when we were living together here. I think it's because he knows I'm here with him – he's trying to please me, indulging us both in the only kind of sexual gratification we can share together now.

He was dressing this morning – and if I were tangible I'd have been drooling on him – when he said, "Harry is coming here today." He closed his eyes; I think he can sense me better that way. "I'll try to make him understand, Sirius."

Harry does arrive shortly, and he does it amidst the traditional cacophony that accompanies the Weasley family wherever they go; I am sure they are all or will be loyal members of the Order, but there's not a damn one of them quiet enough to be a spy. Hermione is with them as well, and as she and Ginny Weasley struggle out of their coats in the front hall I hear her say to Ginny, "Well it has to be somewhere. Kreacher isn't here anymore, so your mum must have done something with it."

"That's what's making mum battier than usual," says Ginny. "It's not just the teapot – she's losing everything she touches. It's driving her crazy. She's sure it's the house, but Professor Lupin swears it isn't."

I smile to myself, because I know what no one else except Remus does. The House isn't hiding things from Molly Weasley; the House couldn't care less. Remus has started a quiet campaign of mischief, and his usual target is Molly – not out of malice, but because she's just the best. Tonks is always losing things, she'd never notice; Moody just rages joylessly. Snape is always good for a laugh, too, but he's rarely there.

Grief hasn't bowed Remus: he's known far too much of it. Instead of giving himself over to pain and wallowing in self-pity, he's turned back into the wicked boy I once knew at school. He's so quiet as an adult, so staid, that there's not a soul who would believe him capable of it. His placid demeanor is so perfectly controlled that it was easy for even me to forget that he had been the trickster among the pranksters once upon a time. An ill-concealed grin on his face when Jamey and I came back from Quidditch practice meant he'd been up to something, and a wise man would look under his bed.

When Harry comes in, wordlessly trailing behind Ron, I understand why I can't leave Grimmauld Place and go to him, though Merlin knows I've tried. Harry has refined bitter sulkiness to an art, and there's no way he could possibly sense me; two solid months of blaming yourself instead of proper grieving will do that to you, I suppose.

He barely greets Remus at all, and is clearly annoyed at being dragged into the front parlor for a private conference.

He refuses to sit down. "I know what you're going to tell me, Professor," he says. "So let's just get this over with, all right?"

Remus leans back in his chair, and I feel a wave of sympathy for my angry godson. Remus is a master at making you look at the things you don't want to look at, and anger is the easiest thing in the world for him to chip away, probably because he's faced so much of it all of his life.

"All right," says Remus in a reasonable tone, "Let's get it over with. You start."

"Fine. It's not my fault. Sirius was a grown man, responsible for his own actions, and he made his own choices. If anyone is to blame it's Dumbledore for imprisoning him here and making him nearly insane. And of course, it was Bellatrix Lestrange who really killed him. So I'm perfectly innocent."

"I wouldn't go that far," says Remus, "but I can tell you've heard this speech more than once. Anything you'd like to add?"

"Sirius wouldn't want me to be sad."

"Well, now, that's just bullshit," says Remus conversationally. Harry gapes at him in shock. "I'm really appalled that other people would presume to speak for Sirius," Remus continues, though this time there is more than a tinge of anger in his voice. "And I'm disgusted that they'd have the unmitigated gall to assume they would know what Sirius would or would not think. I knew Sirius best, and I can damn well guarantee you that death didn't turn him into some sort of sugary Pollyanna who'd beg you to smile through your tears."

Harry is still a little taken aback, and not just by Remus' uncharacteristic use of profanity. I think this is the first truth he'd heard in a while. It takes him a minute to realize it; it's like being handed a Galleon of suspicious origin – you bite down on it, feel the texture with your teeth and tongue, taste the alloy.

Finally, slowly, he nods. The coin has been tasted, and found to be true.

"So – so how would he – "

His voice is so small and quiet that I want Remus to get out of his chair and hold him close. But they don't really have that kind of relationship, not yet anyway, and neither of them would be comfortable with it.

"I knew Sirius better than anyone else," Remus repeats, "and even I don't have the right to speak for him. But since you want me guess, I think he'd want you to be furious."

Harry gives a huge sigh – more a groan – and his whole body quivers.

"He'd want you to cry," says Remus. "He'd want you to rip apart Heaven itself with your grief. He'd want you to rage at the unfairness of it, at the stupidity, at the sheer waste. He'd want you to scream 'til your throat was bloody and raw."

Harry shakes violently, barely able to contain his fury, buried deep inside since I died. His legs start to give way, and he quickly backs up to a chair and drops into it. Just as quickly he stands again, a peculiar look on his face. He turns and looks at the chair.

"Teapot," he says.

"Yes," says Remus. "Be so kind as to hand it – er, the pieces – over?"

Harry looks a little stunned but does as he's told; Remus quickly goes to the parlor door and, opening it, peers into the hall. "Oh, good, Ginny, take these," I hear him say, and his voice sounds oddly distant. "Tell your mother that Harry found the teapot, will you?"

He closes the door again, and finds Harry sitting, this time assured that there is no more crockery in the chair.

Harry gives him a strange look. "Teapot?" he asks.

Remus nods gravely. "Everyone needs a hobby," he says, as though intoning sacred text. "Mine is frustrating Molly."

Harry gives a little gasp at her name, a little involuntary spasm. "She tries to be nice when she talks about Sirius," he says angrily. "She never talks about the fights they had. She just talks about how much he loved me."

Remus' expression changes at once. "My God, he loved you," he says quietly. "He loved you so much."

Harry laughs at that, bitterly. "Oh, yes," he says. "That's what everyone tells me. 'Sirius loved you, Harry.'" He's imitating Molly's voice, but his tone is thick with sugary sweetness, the kind that turns to acid. "'Sirius couldn't have loved you more if you were his own son.'"

"Well, now," says Remus quietly, "That's not true, either."

Harry moans, and hangs his head. "I know," he says. "I know he couldn't have loved me that much."

"No, he couldn't," says Remus, and Merlin! What I would give to be tangible at this moment, or at least audible! How can he say that to Harry?

Remus perches on the arm of my godson's chair.

"Sirius hated who he was," says Remus quietly. "He hated this house, he hated his family, and he hated where he came from, hated his lineage. He despised the very blood in his own veins. His family frankly regarded him as a freak, because he was moral, and he felt like a freak. If he'd ever fathered a child, he could never have given himself up to truly loving it – he would have loved a child of his own flesh, yes, but not with abandon. He would always, always have feared that centuries of genetics and inbreeding would win out over environment. From the time we were all young, he vowed never to become a father. He refused to continue the bloodline."

He reaches out and strokes Harry's hair, smoothing away the tears on the boy's face with his thumb. "But it's natural to want children, especially when you've been bred to breed. You were his salvation, Harry. He loved you far more than he could ever have loved his own child. His love for you could not have been purer, or more true."

"He loved me."

"Desperately."

"He died for me."

"Yes, he did."

"I – I was stupid."

"Yes," says Remus gently, "you were."

"I made a horrible mistake."

"Yes, you did."

"And Sirius is dead."

"Yes, he is," says Remus. "But you must know two things, Harry. Two things. And you must believe them. Have I ever lied to you?"

"No."

"Do you believe everything I've told you just now?"

"Yes."

"Then believe this as well: his death was not your fault."

Harry gives a keening shriek, and falls forward; Remus catches him, and at long last holds him close. He rocks Harry back and forth until his tears finally stop falling.

Then Remus pulls away, smoothes the messy hair back a little, and kisses him on the forehead. James and I must have both kissed Remus that way a million times or more, to make the pain of transformations go away. I'm grateful we taught him that little bit of healing magic.

"Believe this, too, Harry," says my lover. "The ones who love us never really leave us."

Harry sniffles. "I know," he says. "That's what Dumbledore says."

"Yes," says Remus, "and he's right. Dumbledore told me that after my mother died, and I realized he was right. After that, I have felt her presence with me, always."

"I can't feel Sirius' presence." Harry's voice is pleading and miserable.

"I know," says Remus. "It's because he's here. I don't think he can get to you. You have to give yourself over, and be willing to sense him. It will take time, but you have time to learn it. And when you go to Hogwarts, all that is left of Sirius will go with you." He takes Harry's hands in his own, just as Dumbledore had held mine so many years before.

"It's an ancient magic," says Remus, "One so old there's no name for it. One so powerful even Muggles can use it. It's the first magic. Use it. You will find him, and he will go with you always."

They sit there together for a while; then Harry begins to struggle to his feet. My lover, always graceful, rises first and pulls him up.

"I'm sorry Sirius hated himself so much," whispers Harry.

"So am I," says Remus. "I spent most of our youth, and all of our time here in this house, trying to convince him otherwise."

Harry takes a little breath, then looks Remus straight in the eye.

"Were you lovers?"

"Oh, yes," says Remus, smiling. "We were. And I believe that we will be again."

He gives Harry another brief kiss to the forehead, a benediction, but when he pulls back his smile has faded. "The worst is yet to come, Harry. I don't know if I'll make it to the end, though I hope to, if for nothing else than the privilege of killing both Peter Pettigrew and Bellatrix Lestrange. I so wish I could tell you that you won't lose anyone else you love, but I won't lie to you. But if you remember –"

"I will," says Harry quietly.

And now the day has come when Harry is to go back to Hogwarts. He's worked very hard these last few weeks, trying to open himself up, trying to sense me. He can't do it all the time, but he does know I'm there, and sometimes he can sense me clearly. We spent last night in silent communion; I wish I could have held him as the tears ran down his face, could have told him with words how much I love him. I am deeply grateful that Remus has done and said those things for me.

But still, I'm afraid to leave. I spend this morning, as I have spent every morning since I passed through the Veil, with Remus. I am grateful that the full moon was last week, and that somehow my Moony sensed his Padfoot was there, at least in elemental form. And that Moony and Padfoot, too, had a final goodbye.

Remus knows I am afraid. He dresses slowly, very slowly, letting me see as much of him as I can. Finally, he says, "I won't forget, my Padfoot. I shall never leave you, either."

And then there's a hurly-burly in the halls, and the house springs to life as happy children run through it, heading downstairs laughing and all excited. There's a knock at the door, and Remus, now decent, calls for the knocker to enter.

Harry comes in, and smiles. He closes his eyes, and senses me; he looks so serene. Remus closes his eyes, joining Harry in meditation, and for a moment we three are united again.

Then Remus kisses Harry on the forehead, and Harry turns and goes. I follow him.

I am not afraid.