Returnable Memories

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Rain pours wildly, spraying about with no distinct pattern as the wind gusts carry it along. Heavy droplets drench me, with force more torrential than you would expect from rain and each drop sears painfully as it pounds against my battered form. I stagger slowly up the hill, dragging myself through the mud banks that have coagulated along the slope. Icy rainwater seeps mercilessly into the dragging and tattered hems of my already sodden cloak. A shiver runs through my body; I'm numbly aware that if I remain out much longer I will not make it.

Slowly and deliberately I continue my trek. I know I can make it; I have countless times before — this time it will be no different, I tell myself determinately. I know where I am; it isn't much farther, now.

Just over the crest of the hill I have been progressively ascending it will gently slope off for a few hundred yards into a small valley. And, amidst the desertion that will greet me at the sight, a lone beacon will shine amidst the dark sky that encompasses the area. A single ramshackle, ill-structured shack sits in the middle of this desolate valley — the only structure for a few miles. And, from that shack, an eerily glowing light will emanate.

Hopefully, at least, as that would mean his continued presence there.

And, why wouldn't he be there? I ask myself, contemplating this asI shake my head slightly, feeling idle raindrops trace down my face. My mouth creases into a slight frown. Why wouldn't he be there?

I'm not sure, really…except that, perhaps because, to him, I am no longer there, either...

It has been about a month now, since that night, now that I think about it properly. It had all started the night Harry had gone to the Department of Mysteries.

It was the night I had died.

Or, at least the night everyone thought I had died. The fact is quite different, considering that I am standing here, quite solidly, getting rained on.

I can recall it with perfect clarity…

After hearing about Harry's journey into the Department to rescue me — who at the time was seeing to an injured Buckbeak — everyone at the Headquarters promptly left in his pursuit. I too, was among them, initially. My wanting to go was generally discouraged, however; I went anyway. Who was I ever to follow the rules, after all?

I only told Remus that I intended to go and made it a point to leave after the others. Not too late after them, no. Just late enough after to give myself some distance from them should any foul play arise— Namely, arguing about why I had come regardless of their incessant imploring that I remain safely behind.

That was my mistake… and a careless one.

As I was tending to Buckbeak, I had not come out of the encounter completely unscathed. A wounded animal, no matter how tame normally, is always dangerous. They are scared and quick to defend themselves from potential danger. He had managed to rake my side and arm as I was dressing and cleaning his wounds. But worried as I was about Harry, the thought to heal myself before going after him never even crossed my mind.

That was another mistake…

And, part of the reason I couldn't fend off Dolohov when he ambushed me. That bastard overpowered me, coming up behind me out of an abandoned alleyway, no less! I couldn't believe it, couldn't believe I had let myself get into the situation; he had me bound before I could so much as raise my wand to stop him. The next thing I knew, that scum was forcing my jaws apart and pouring a vile glutinous liquid down my throat. A few seconds later I realized what it had been — Polyjuice Potion.

After that it was all downhill. Bound and having assumed his wretched, hideous form — never mind that I was weak from struggling against him, and my wounds from Beaky — he put me under the Imperious Curse… Damned if I hadn't fought off that in a few years…

It seemed that on a Death Eaters proposal, Voldemort had had Dolohov ambush me and assume my form as a precautionary measure. If by the off chance that Harry were to somehow escape the Department of Mysteries alive that night, someone seemingly close to Harry would be perfectly positioned to strike at the Dark Lord's merest mention. Reflecting on the plan, it was ingenious, I admit, though it is a shame it backfired thanks to Bella, who of course had no idea. Such a git.

That's the last I remember until I finally managed to break that damned curse. And, by that time, it was too late. I found myself bound and trapped on a dais only a few hundred feet above where everything was happening. Spells flared in every direction, people rushed around madly… and amidst all the confusion, there I was, fighting with dear Bella.

I suppose that so not as to seem suspicious he had to attack a fellow Death Eater and make it seem believable that he was me. And like I said, it's a shame Bella is as stupid as she is, because she didn't seem to realize what even I could tell from such a distance; that his spells were half-assed. So, being the twit we all recognize her as, she cursed her dear old cousin. Bella's spell hit Dolohov square in the chest, sending him backwards. He managed it so acrobatically, arching gracefully as he fell. And then, he disappeared, vanishing behind the archway — beyond the veil.

The next scene was a blur, almost as if everything had slowed to bullet time — extra slow motion. Harry leapt forward, bounding down the steps, running towards the dais from where he had fallen, a look of terror mingled with disbelief cascading over his features.

"SIRIUS! SIRIUS!"

The words ripped painfully through the air, and for a moment it seemed the world had stilled. I wanted to call to him; yell that I was alive and well. But my efforts were in vain. Amid the noise my voice would not have carried far and he wouldn't have heard.

He reached the ground slightly out of breath, his face flushed as he dashed towards the dais. He was getting awfully close to the edge of it, and I hate to think what may have happened in his act of desperation if not for Remus grabbing him 'round the chest and pulling him back at the last moment.

"There's nothing you can do, Harry—"

"Get him, save him, he's only just gone through!"

"It's too late, Harry—"

"We can still reach him—" He struggled valiantly, desperately, but Remus didn't let go.

"There's nothing you can do, Harry… nothing… He's gone."

The words echoed through the chamber amid the noise from still-ricocheting spells. It felt oddly disembodying to hear the words spoken as I was not dead, but had no way to make them see the fact.

"He hasn't gone!" Harry bellowed angrily. "SIRIUS! SIRIUS!" Again the name escaped his lips, again they would go unanswered.

"He can't come back, Harry," Remus placated as he struggled to keep a hold on him. "He can't come back because he's d—"

"HE—IS—NOT—DEAD—SIRIUS!"

A moment of silence ensued. A painful moment. One in which he must have realized what had happened. The truth had hit him hard. Another student, the Longbottom boy, had slid towards the dais next to Harry, his legs flailing about awfully. Remus had slackened his hold on Harry now that he had subdued himself and must have lifted the jinx — the boy's legs promptly quit flailing.

That's when I heard it. The words spoken that, in themselves, were worse to hear then Harry's own anguished pleas. The words were issued from Remus: "Let's — let's find the others."

He turned his back to the dais; turned his back to the still fluttering veil, which I hadn't even fallen through to begin with. His voice, like Harry's echoed around the chamber, and yet they hit a far deeper chord within me. His low, gentle baritone reverberated almost quietly, each word costing him something terrible indeed. I could tell that it was with great difficulty that he had turned his back.

But… he had turned his back, however painful, and that knowledge hit hard. He had given up.

It's been a month. A long month, and I finally managed to escape. My trek was not easy, nor was my leave. I had many Death Eaters to fight off, and with almost no strength in my reserves it was not easy going. In fact, I've come out of this worse than I went into it.

But, none of that matters now. All that matters is that I am alive. Alive and free.

Standing atop the hill at long last I smile in spite of myself. The rest should be fairly easy going now that it would all be sloping down. Well, it will be easy until I find myself standing before his door, at least. I have know way of knowing how he will react to seeing me, in this state no less, at his doorstep.

The rain still bears down on me in an unrelenting ocean, and through the rain blurred air I can see that, just as I had hoped, and same as ever, a single light is flickering from the distance. A wave of unspeakable relief washes over me, dissolving the cold that has gripped me instantly 'til this point at the welcome site. Finding myself suddenly rejuvenated by the site, I continue on, treading down the slope carefully. Rain-slicked grass and cumbersome mud banks make my trek slow and tedious, but, for the first time that evening, it couldn't bother me any less. Suddenly, the rain does not seem as cold, nor as painful; the wind does not howl as ferociously nor rip as violently at my figure; my body only aches dully — I am only partially aware of the throbbing wound to my side and the consistent trickle of blood issuing from the corner of my lips, and the rain seeping into my clothes is almost bearable.

---

A single oil lamp glows wanly, its soft yellow light radiating a sort of warmth around the room, as its guiding rays pierce through the dusty interior. A patched and frayed traveling cloak is draped dankly over a coat hanger near the door. The floor, an ill assortment of boards, is covered with a single, tired-looking, thread rug. In the far corner of the chamber, sitting beneath the single oil lamp, is an old red recliner, the once voluptuous crimson fabric long since stained rust red by age. Against the opposite wall stands a small wooden case, an assortment of books, some ancient-looking, some fairly well-kept, line the rows neatly.

An old photo album lays open and abandoned upon the hardwood floor. The images, some still in black in white, though the larger portion seemingly in color, move frame to frame freely, as is normal in the wizarding community. The occupants of the said images are young boys; jovially enjoying what remained of their teen years together…

Or rather, what remained of their years together in general.

Most times the pictures taken were of the three of them: James, Sirius and himself, Remus. They sometimes tried to weasel Peter into joining the photographs, but the boy was photo-shy, and they all admitted it — he wasn't at all photogenic. And, while he cherished these pictures, they could not compare to the rest. When the pictures weren't of the three of them, as logic would follow, it was of two of them.

He and James.

Sirius and James.

He and Sirius…

A single photograph, edges frayed with age, floats quietly to the floorboards, drifting from the recliner to lay with its fellows. It lands face-up, revealing the inhabitants: two seventh year boys grinning broadly with their arms slung around each other, and with their free hands flashing peace signs into the camera. It was a picture that James had taken of him and Sirius the day of their graduation.

It was the last picture he had taken of them.

He sits hunched over, his head resting in his hands, brown hair, streaked with gray at such a premature age, spilling between his fingers like silken tresses. His shoulders shake involuntarily, and his fingers flex convulsively against his forehead as though trying to will away a terrible headache.

After a moment he lifts his head to stare blankly into space. The oil lamp above him flickers dangerously as though about to go out and in the resulting flicker a wave of light passes over his tired features. Pale and peaky as ever. His brow is furrowed in deep thought or inexpressible grief. Tired eyes gaze ahead unblinking, liquid streams trailing silently down his gaunt cheeks.

His rich voice, usually quiet yet always so compelling, cracks hoarsely as a sorrowful whisper escapes him: "I'm so sorry, Padfoot…"

He falls silent once more as his eyes travel over the photos spilled haphazardly over the floor. He knows he should probably pick them up and restore them; after all, these are all he has left now.

He had lost his friends — save Peter, who was never really who he considered to be in the same league as his true friends — one by one. James, and only a year after his wedding and the birth of his son, no less… Now Sirius, who had spent a better portion of his life locked away for a crime he had never committed, and even in his death he had never actually been acquitted of…

He was truly all alone now.

All he has left now are the memories… And a memory cannot be returned… because a memory is rooted in an event from the past… and the past cannot be retrieved…

And still, in spite of the fact, he cannot bring himself to pick up and store the photographs. They are all that remained of his friends, and yet, he has no will to put them away. He has no will for anything really, he acknowledges, unless one counts sitting there and allowing oneself to become asphyxiated by one's own emotions as something.

He finds his gaze idling once more on the picture before him on the dust-stained floor. Sirius had him in a playful headlock looking very disheveled as he proceeded to rumple his hair to the point were it could easily be more messy than James'. In spite of it though, they were still both laughing good-naturedly. There was a warm look in Sirius' eyes in that shot, he notes mildly.

Could it have been…?

No, he shakes his head. No, don't be foolish. It wasn't affection. It couldn't have been. Sirius had always been the type to go for women… not men.

But even at the sentiment, something struck him as amiss.

He had known Sirius since their first year, and all through their time at Hogwarts he had never once had a serious relationship. Of course, there had been the typical teenage romps and many a one-night-stand — they had all had them; he himself was no stranger to it — but it was never serious. And by the time James and Lily had actually gotten together in their seventh year, Sirius was no longer even having his custom flings.

No. You're doing it again Remus. Idle fantasizing… Not that it matters, but he's gone — dead.

He sighs heavily, his shoulders heaving tiredly and turns his gaze to the picture for a third time, determined to assure himself that the look in his best mate's eyes was not anything even remotely close to affection. And yet, he cannot dissuade himself from seeing it as such — even as the two boys had started to argue between themselves Sirius' gaze still held that warm glint.

He shakes his head. Proof Remus… Just look at the proof… he thinks firmly as he slides off of the recliner and onto the floor. He sits down resolvedly and pulls the photo album towards him. You're becoming a nutter, Remus. Just — just look at the other pictures of him and James… His eyes will hold that same glint. And why wouldn't they? Friendship you depraved, grieving fool… It's friendship…

He turns with slow deliberation through the age-worn, and disheveled pages. For a moment, motions within the images blur his vision while pages crinkle in feeble resistance. After a few moments of searching he stops, finally finding a picture of only Sirius and James.

The two were in the courtyard, probably after lessons — Knowing them, probably during lessons, he laughs slightly in slight reminiscence — sitting beneath the great Beech tree near the lake. James was playing with an ever-present golden Snitch, catching and releasing the small golden orb every few seconds with one hand, the other was characteristically running through his permanently untamable hair. Sirius was watching the Snitch's progress with mild interest, and when he shot a sidelong glance to his companion he could not find the same warm glint in his gaze.

He's just annoyed… that's it. James was being an arrogant berk, always playing with the Snitch… Of course Sirius got tired of it… We all did, he tells himself firmly, turning to the next page, still determined to prove himself wrong.

Another picture — not one of the two of them, but it would work. From the backdrop he can tell they were on the grounds, their backs facing the Forbidden Forest. The three of them had lined up for a picture. Sirius stood in the middle, James standing to his right, he standing to his left. Sirius was grinning sheepishly, his arm swung around his very neck. James stood off to the side, with a putout look adorning his features.

And, wouldn't you know it… again with the glint.

Somehow, despite what he could see with his very eyes, he just would not allow himself to believe it. It couldn't possibly be true. There was just no way. No way…

The leather-bound cover slams roughly over the frail, aged pages, a small dust storm rising into the air at the upheaval and a few loose photographs slipping from their weak restraints and slipping to the dusty floor. His hand lies atop the cover trembling slightly. His fingers clench against the hardbound surface, almost as though seeking to cling to something though there is nothing left to cling to with merely withered memories.

"I should have said something," he breathes quietly, his voice steeped in silent grief. "Merlin knows I had time… and umpteen opportunities… Why didn't I just tell him?"

Yes, I would just tell him… And then, miraculously, he would not be repulsed by the very fact that one of his best mates had just confessed his undying love for him — more miraculously still, he would also admit to the same feelings! Ha. You're being an unreasonable git, Remus. Do you really think it could have turned out that way?

"But…" a small fire ignites in his chest, "…what if it had turned out like that?" Within another fraction of a second, the small fire burns out and he is stuck staring the truth down again—

What if… doesn't cut it, and it is too late for them now. Sirius is dead. Dead — Gone — Never coming back.

A gentle rapping brings him from his reprieve, forcing his thoughts back to the present from a past to which he could never return, and leaving him alone to face a future he would rather never live to see. As another knock follows he turns his gaze toward the door tiredly, yet bemusedly. Who would come to call on him at this time of evening?

Perhaps Dumbledore… He thinks to himself, recalling the Headmaster mentioning being in contact with him shortly, following the events in the Department.

Another loud knock ensues in quick succession of the two prior so he pushes himself up staggering slightly as he attempts to maneuver around the countless pictures, now scattered pell-mell across his entire floor. He brushes off his robes lightly, in a feeble attempt to remove idle dust and straighten out the deep creases that had set themselves into the fabric.

As he sets his hand on the doorknob a cold sensation pulses over his body, almost making hem reel back from it. He closes his hand around the cold metal and turns, listening to it creak in resistance as the catch gives way and the door swings upon on its weathered hinges.

For a long moment he stares out numbly, not sure what to make of the man standing on his foyer in the middle of the evening, in torrential rains. There is something — something very familiar about the figure and part of him knows who it is — the more rational, logical part of him just cannot believe it.

A warm explosion erupts in the pit of his stomach, pulsing through him with each increased beat of his heart as he croaks a barely audible: "Dear Merlin…Sir—" Before he can bring the name past his lips they are captured in a harsh kiss by another's as Sirius closes the distance between them in a quick succession of steps.

He gasps in slight surprise, giving Sirius just enough of an opportunity to take full control of the situation. Hungry lips press against his roughly again and an eager tongue slips deftly between parted lips. Remus' eyes flutter, willing themselves shut, willing to welcome and embrace the sensation and yet, he is more off-put by the bitter tang of blood now residing on his own lips.

"Sirius… wha—?" he begins to ask, pulling away slightly breathless as he tries to squirm some distance between them. But again the sentiment goes unfinished as their lips meet again, this time more gently. Sirius had snaked his arms around his waste, pulling him closer.

And as much as he wants to give in to the situation and relieve the burning within his chest, he steps back ever-so-slightly, in an attempt to pull away again. Unfortunately, Sirius' hold on him does not slacken, and in the movement they both overbalance, the momentum of the motion sending them both backwards and onto the floor.

Loose pictures drift into the air and fall back to the earth soft as petals.

Now, having fallen, Sirius topping him no less, he feels awkward as he tries to continually refuse his urges, but he has to appease his curiosity first. "Please…" he breathes in between another short-lived, chaste kiss. "Sirius… what hap—"

Warm breath tingles along his skin as it travels to his ear, the small hairs on the back of his neck prickling slightly as Sirius' lips brushed the sensitive flesh there, and in a hoarse whisper he breathes, ever-so-softly and with such urgency, "not now…" Then they fall back upon his own lips hungrily.

He wants to protest, insist that he get his questions answered before he allows them to continue with this… engagement… of theirs; his mind rages that he should yell at Sirius — the words form clearly in his mind: What is your problem Padfoot! Showing up on my doorstep like this and doing this after a month of being gone! How could you show up after so long, when I have already resigned myself to living with your memories! How in Merlin's name can you be alive!

And yet, at the same time, he does not want to protest; he all at once cares how Sirius came to be alive, and at the same time cares little about how it is possible and focuses solely on the fact that it is. He simply wants to get lost in the moment, fully enjoying this. It is too, too hard to resist any longer.

So he gives himself in.

The floor, hard and cold against his dully aching back is a small price to pay for this, he thinks deliriously to himself. Sirius had deepened the kiss, his lithe body pressing welcomely against him sending a warmth radiating through him to encompass his form. He slides his arms around his neck, threading his fingers through rain-drenched raven tendrils and pulling him down. The breath shared between them sears in his lungs in cold.

He isn't too surprised by this considering Sirius was drenched and perpetually frozen — at this rate he was undoubtedly already on the verge of hypothermia, which he could not tolerate. Not after just getting him back; there was no way in hell he was going to surrender him to death again. But, the way it was going it seemed he would… he was drenched, frozen and wounded…

There is only one thing to do, he decides.

His hands unthread themselves clumsily from Sirius' hair and slide down his neck, taking in the damp coolness of the flesh beneath his touch; he slips them beneath the half-frozen robes and pulls him closer, almost possessive-protectively. He works vigorously, his hands traveling over the cold flesh steadily, determined to return some semblance of warmth to it no matter the cost to him. He deepens the kisses, passion mixed with concern as he works to warm Sirius' lungs.

Sirius, it seems, doesn't really mind so much as he just surrenders himself to the will of his best mate. But, something is amiss. In light of Remus' own intentions (however noble they may be), Sirius had somehow managed to slip his hands beneath his tattered, patchwork robes, and his hands were currently roaming curiously over Remus' chest, fingers dancing smoothly over flesh, ghosting over a nipple that pebbled almost automatically at the cold touch.

At this, instead of pulling away flustered, something clicks in Rumus' own slightly backlogged mind; a faster way to warm his companion. He works steadfastly to peel away the sopping mess of robes that had adhered themselves to Sirius, leaving in their wake pale glistening flesh… such untouched flesh. Part of him longs to just run his hands over that perfectly untouched flesh but his mind turns to other things as he feels Sirius' soft lips trailing softly down his throat with chaste kisses and his own robe being removed from over his head.

He pushes closer, snaking his arms tightly around Sirius' lithe torso and thrusting his head back at the sensation as Sirius' mouth continued to dance lower and lower. He takes up sated lips once more in a passionate kiss, the tang of blood no longer much of a bother to him, and his hands roam tirelessly, wonderingly, over his exposed upper body. Over well-toned chest muscles, a slender abdomen — he was lean and a few ribs could scarcely be seen, but muscle masked the fact. A flat stomach, curving gently towards—

He stops. No. No he will not go there. No.

Not unless…

He glances almost imploringly at Sirius, who, in noticing the location of where Remus' wandering hand had stopped, cocked his head slightly to the side, a sheepish grin — trademark of the same handsome sixteen-year-old boy he had once been — lighting his features.

They exchange a knowing smile…

Then again, Remus thinks slightly bemused, Some memories were of the returnable variety…

Author's Ramblings: So, Disclaimer first of all: I don't own any of the HP concepts or characters, if I did, this is how book five's last secret chapter would look, as Sirius would never have died and he and Remus would be a Thing. Since none of that is the case, none of this, beyond the plot, is mine.

That said, this was the first HP fic I'd ever written and I'm proud of it. I re-posted this because the original was full of tense disagreements that, looking back, drove me insane.

All the same, context of the original remains unchanged so please leave your name at the door, honest opinions intact, yes?

Blackrose