Word Count: 6938


i.

It's cold, but Kingsley doesn't dare light a fire in the fireplace. He's learned his lesson the hard way. The infected–the Death Eaters–are drawn to any hint of life, including heat. Only a month before, he and his traveling companion, Nymphadora had stopped for the night and started a fire. She had taken the first watch as Kingsley slept. It hadn't taken long for her screams to wake him. Helpless, he had watched her slowly get torn to pieces by the bloodthirsty monsters before managing to put a merciful bullet in her head and running. He'd left all his supplies except his trusty pistol.

He shivers, dropping his backpack to the floor of the abandoned farmhouse. The place smells like death; he doesn't bother looking upstairs because he can imagine the massacre perfectly. Either some poor bastard was killed by the infected, or he had the guts to end his life on his own terms. Still, Kingsley doesn't think he can stomach anymore carnage tonight. His trek to the farmhouse had been laced with mangled bodies and peppered with blood splatters and bits of organs.

His stomach growls. He unzips his bag, digging through it. His rations are getting low; he makes a note to raid the pantry in the morning. For now, he settles on a meal of beef jerky and canned pears. It isn't warm or filling, but it will keep him alive a little longer.

Not that being alive is a good thing. At least, it isn't now. The world has gone to hell, and he thinks it might be wiser to put his gun in his mouth and pull the trigger.

A dry, bitter laugh escapes his lips. He's always been told that suicide is coward's way out, but he isn't so sure anymore. God knows he's spent night after night, fantasizing about it. Maybe it's the easy route, but it sounds so much better than this hellhole.

The country has fallen into anarchy. Many of those not infected have turned into cities into war zones. His own hometown had been overrun by a group of young and stupid university students who somehow managed to get their hands on military-grade weapons. Kingsley's hopes of laying low and riding it out in the comfort of his own home has been destroyed the moment the tear gas canister had broken the living room window.

It doesn't matter now. He's left that town behind him, and he has to focus on what's ahead. Sticking to tiny towns and following backroads has worked for him so far. With a little luck, he'll be able to make it to Wales. He's heard whispers of a sanctuary city near Cardiff. Maybe those whispers won't amount to anything, but he has to try. At the very least, it gives him a sense of purpose. When everything else has been taken from him, he needs something, anything to keep from breaking down.

Kingsley tosses his bag onto the coffee table, obscuring old issues of a farming magazine. With a heavy sigh, he collapses onto the couch and examines the afghan that's draped over the back. It's dusty and smells stale, but he smiles at the array of color crocheted into neat squares. Granny squares, he remembers. His bibi had made one for him when he was younger. Kingsley had laughed then and said it was for girls. He would give anything for that blanket now, or his bibi, or anyone else in his family. But they're gone now, and Kingsley is hopelessly alone.

Salty tears burn his eyes. Kingsley sniffles but doesn't bother to wipe him away. Instead, he grabs the afghan and drapes it over his body. It doesn't cover him completely, but the subtle weight of it and its warmth are more comforting than anything else has been in a long time.

He's tired, but he isn't sleepy. Heavy eyes fix upon the ceiling overhead, and he lets his mind wander.

The first time they hear about the Riddle Virus, they're sitting around the dinner table. His father has the TV on, though his mother insists that British news is bad for the appetite, that her native village in Africa would never air such misery while families are trying to eat. For once, she doesn't complain. She is far too happy to have Kingsley home for the weekend.

"Are they feeding you at that university?" she asks, adding an extra scoop of rice to his plate before pouring more stew over it than Kingsley could even think about eating. "You look so thin."

Kingsley resists the urge to roll his eyes. She means well, but she always frets. Still, he can't complain. He's missed this more than he'll ever admit.

"In other news, a new virus seems to have popped up in London," the news reporter announces before Kingsley can tease his mother for worrying too much. "Called the Riddle Virus, this mysterious illness doesn't seem serious at the moment. The two infected have reported fever, chills, and muscle ache. Though these symptoms are common with the flu, tests have come back negative."

"See?" His mother rounds on his father, lips pursed and hands on her hips. "What did I tell you, Percival? English news is dreadful."

His father laughs. "It's just a little virus, Hawa," he tells her. "What's so dreadful about that?"

It takes less than a week to learn exactly how dangerous the virus is. The news reports new symptoms. The infected have shown signs of aggression. One nameless patient managed to bite three nurses and a janitor before being restrained and sedated.

"Doesn't sound good," Kingsley notes as the TV cuts back to the news desk.

His father shakes his head. "You sound like Hawa," he says, shaking his head. "Always worrying."

Kingsley wants to point out that this does sound worrisome. The country isn't prepared for a new epidemic, and that's exactly what this seems like. He doesn't argue. His father is a stubborn man, and it would do no good.

Another week passes, and his father starts to look concerned. The virus has spread through bites. Unfortunately, so many have been infected that they can't keep track of them all. Only a small few have willingly turned themselves in after being bitten.

"It's going to be okay," his father says. "London is a ways away. It won't reach us."

Kingsley wonders if his father is trying to convince himself or the rest of them.

"I think we should leave," his mother tells them, pushing the noodles around absently on her plate. "Siti would happily take us in until this blows over."

"Leave the country?" his father asks incredulously. "Leave the continent? It's nothing, Hawa. We're safe, okay? Besides, I have a shop to run."

Kingsley wonders if it would be best to leave. Auntie Siti is a rough woman, and the idea of living with her makes him shudder, but maybe it would be safer. Still, if his father says they're safe, he will believe him.

.

Kingsley wakes with a start. He shivers as he sits up, the blanket sliding form his chest and pulling into a rainbow pile in his lap. His breathing is unsteady, and his heart hammers painfully in his chest.

Nightmares again. He hates it. It seems like he wakes up in a panic every morning, and there doesn't seem to be anything he can do about it.

With a sigh, he illuminates his wristwatch. The neon green numbers tell him that it's four in the morning, which means it's too late to go back to sleep. He sets the blanket aside and climbs to his feet, stretching with a groan. It's been over a month since he's found a proper bed to sleep in, and it's really taking its toll on his body. His bones shift, and he hears a faint pop in his back, but it brings very little relief.

It doesn't matter if he's sore and aching. He has to keep moving. Staying still for too long is a death sentence.

He grabs his backpack from the table and makes his way to the kitchen. There's stench in the air from the pile of dirty dishes–now overtaken by mold–in the sink. It barely even fazes him. By now, Kingsley is so used to the smell of dead bodies and gore that the scent of rotten food is almost a relief.

He doesn't waste time. There's no use checking the fridge; anything perishable has long since expired. The pantry provides a nice bounty. He wishes he could take it all with him, but his bag is small, and he doesn't need to be weighed down too much. He grabs cans without paying attention to what they contain. Food is food, and that's all that matters. He drops the can into his bag, filling it partially before moving on.

A quick sweep of the kitchen and living yields fairly good results. There's a dim torch in one of the drawers, and a pack of batteries stashed away beneath some bills. He finds a pocket knife and a small first aid kit. It isn't much, but it gives him a better chance of making it out alive.

He slings the pack over his shoulder, studying the couch for a moment. The afghan isn't practical. It only provides a bit of extra warmth, and it won't fit easily in his bag. Though it isn't too bulky, carrying it could prove quite difficult.

And yet he can't put it out of his mind. It's ridiculous and illogical. Why should he feel sentimental over the afghan? Because it reminds him of his bibi? It isn't hers, and he shouldn't have any emotional attachment to it.

Even so, he grabs the brightly-colored blanket and folds it carefully and drapes it over his shoulder. Maybe it isn't his bibi's work, but it doesn't matter. The world is crashing all around them. It only seems right that he has something that reminds him of home.

ii.

James watches him. Sirius tries not to hate him for it, but it makes him feel like a naughty child who can't be trusted.

Maybe it's valid. Any man in Sirius' position would be just as fucked up in the head. Losing his brother had been a nightmare; the swarm of Death Eaters that had separated them had been too great. In the end, Sirius could only find the locket Regulus carried around for luck. No body, no funeral. No closure.

And now his world continues to crumble. Remus… His Remus is gone.

"Sirius?"

Sirius doesn't even realize he's crying until James pulls him out of his thoughts. His cheeks are slick with tears, and he can't seem to stop now that it's started. All he can do is sniffle and swipe his palms miserably over his face, trying to dry the tears as best he can.

"I'm fine."

James laughs, but the sound is dry and hollow. He adjusts his glasses. "You're not fine," he says, sitting across from Sirius and taking his hand. "You know you're not. But it's okay to not be okay."

Sirius resists the urge to roll his eyes. That's the sort of nonsense his school counselor told him when he was young and Uncle Alphard died. Maybe it's a nice sentiment, but it doesn't make him feel better. He doesn't tell James that. James has spent the past two days as close to Sirius as possible. The least Sirius can do is pretend that it's helping, that the company is keeping him from going over the edge.

It isn't. For the past month, he's woken in a cold sweat, throat raw from screaming. Honestly, it's a miracle the infected haven't been drawn in by his nightly panic.

Regulus is gone. Remus is dead. Maybe it's selfish, but Sirius can't help feeling like he has nothing left. Even if he knows he has James, it isn't the same.

"Chicken," James asks, pulling out a can from his bag, "or ham salad?"

Neither sound appetizing. Sirius can't bring himself to think of food. He shrugs before leaning back and resting against the tree trunk. "I'm not hungry."

"You've got to eat," James says. "Remus wouldn't wouldn't want this for you."

Sirius signs heavily and closes his eyes. Unfortunately, James is right, but that doesn't mean Sirius can force himself to change. It isn't that easy. Nothing is simple anymore.

.

Regulus rushes in, eyes widening. He's covered in blood, but he doesn't seem to be injured. When he bursts through Sirius' door, he drops to his knees and hunches over, throwing up.

"What the hell happened?" Sirius asks.

"Mother… Death Eater."

Regulus doesn't have to say anything more. They've seen the news and heard about the Riddle Virus. When their mother had fallen ill, something told Sirius it was only a matter of time.

"Did she bite you?"

The younger boy shakes his head. "She tried. I grabbed Father's cricket bat and…"

"Go wash up," Sirius says, sparing his brother from having to rehash the details. Sirius hates their mother, but he knows Regulus had been close. He does not share his brother's grief, but that won't stop him from looking out for him. "Put some clean clothes on."

"Where are we going?"

Sirius wishes he had an answer. They have a summer home near Glasgow, but he hasn't been in years and can barely remember where it is. Hell, he isn't sure what city it's in. All he knows is they can't stay here. The virus is spreading so quickly that two hospitals have been quarantined. There's no hope left for anyone.

"We have to get out of the city," is all he can say. "Pack light. We're leaving in half an hour."

James Potter is a necessity. He and Sirius had been best friends in school, and Sirius doesn't hesitate to stop by his house. There's little convincing to be done. His parents passed away a year before, and he has nothing to keep him here. "Probably for the best," he says, ruffling his dark hair and leaving it messy.

Remus Lupin, on the other hand, is a pleasant surprise. They find him in an abandoned petrol station, camped out in an aisle and nibbling a chocolate bar. Regulus says they should leave him. Too many people in a group can be dangerous. Sirius suspects the other man's scars also unnerve his brother.

He can't just walk away. There's something about him that draws Sirius in.

"He's coming with us," Sirius decides.

It isn't the life he thought he would live, but he finds himself content. Everything is falling apart, and death seems to hang over their heads, taunting them without mercy, but he is okay.

He has his best friend, his brother, and a potential love interest. If this is what the apocalypse is, he's ready.

.

He doesn't realize he's dozed off until he wakes, screaming. He's always screaming, it seems.

Sirius wipes his hand over his forehead, wiping away the beads of sweat. He looks over and sees James bundled up and appears as little more than a silhouette in the moonlight.

"I'm keeping guard," James says, glancing over at him. "You can sleep."

James has kept guard ever since Remus… Sirius shakes his head. He doesn't want to think about that, not when sleep is so close and he's prone to nightmares. James has taken over guard duty lately, and Sirius wonders when's the last time he actually slept through the night.

Sleeping sounds terrible, anyway. Every time his eyes close, he remembers, and all he wants to do is forget. He climbs to his feet and makes his way over, stirring across from his friend. "I'm not completely useless, mate," he says, reaching for the pistol in James' hand.

James pulls away, and there's something almost apologetic about the guilt in his hazel eyes. Sirius gets it. He's a bit unhinged, and James is so afraid he's going to do something stupid. It's tempting, of course. If he ends it all, he doesn't have to keep living in this hell. He doesn't know if there's an afterlife, but, if there is, maybe it means he can see Remus and Regulus again.

Still, he knows he's too much of a coward to do it. He wants to, but something seems to hold him back.

"Sorry," James mutters.

Sirius shrugs and sighs. "Don't be."

Silence hangs between them, and Sirius hates it. He and James have been best friends since they were eleven. These moments of silence shouldn't feel so strained and tense. It's Sirius' fault, of course. He should have been better, stronger, so many other things.

"You're doing it again."

Sirius glances down at his hands. He hadn't even realized he'd been digging his nails into his palm. Cheeks burning, he straightens his fingers and studies the the crescents pressed into his skin. "I think I'm a little fucked up," he says.

James grin is bright in the starlight. "I've known that for years," he teases.

And, in that brief, blessed moment, Sirius can forget where he is. Things are light and okay, and they have traveled back in time to some distant point where the world isn't over, where they are normal and free.

It fades in an instant when they hear the growling in the treeline. Sirius sits up straight, straining his ears. "One?"

James pursed his lips, tilting his head so that he can hear better. "One," he confirms, putting his pistol away and replacing it with a hammer.

Films always show guns in the zombie apocalypse, but it hadn't taken them long to realize how wrong the films were. Guns are fine and well when there's a swarm of them and you need to take out as many as possible. Most times, something close-range is best. Besides, the noise from a gun is like ringing a dinner bell; one shot is all it takes to draw in a hoard of Death Eaters.

"I'll be back," James says.

Sirius shakes his head and climbs to his feet. "I'm coming with you."

"I don't think it's a good idea. Not after…"

.

"I'm sorry," Remus says, dropping to his knees.

Sirius doesn't have to ask why he's apologizing. The wound on his arm is too distinct, and they've become familiar with that awful pattern. He's been bitten. It's all over.

He knows what has to be done, but he can't do it. Even though he's put plenty of people out of their misery in the name of mercy, he can't kill someone he cares about.

"Sirius, please…"

Tears cling to Sirius lashes. He shakes his head. "Don't make me do this, Remus," he says. "I'm begging you."

Remus reaches out, gripping Sirius' hand. The touch is so different from what Sirius is used to. Remus is meant to be soft and gentle. Now he is desperate, and he squeezes so tightly, like he's afraid of what letting go might mean.

It isn't fair. He knows how childish that thought is, but he doesn't care; it's true.

"Do you know how much it would hurt me?" Sirius whispers.

Remus' features soften at that. His lips tug into a pained frown, and tears swim in his amber eyes. "I know." He looks away for a brief moment, sighing heavily as he returns his gaze to Sirius. "I don't want to become a monster."

Sirius sucks in a deep breath. As he exhales, it sounds more like he's choking. "Remus…"

The other man climbs to his feet once again and closes the distance between them. "I don't want to leave you, and I hate having to ask this of you." He wraps his arms around Sirius and holds him close. "I need you."

There's no way around this. Either it ends now, on Remus' terms, or it ends after Remus undergoes the painful transformation and reaches the point of no return. Maybe this is kinder; if only it didn't hurt so damn bad.

"Okay," Sirius says. "I'll do it. Do you want to say goodbye to James first?"

Remus shakes his head. "I don't need any more reasons to put this off," he answers. "I love you."

"I love you too. Close your eyes, my love."

.

Taking out the Death Eater proves to be ridiculously easy. Armed with a machete, Sirius doesn't bother waiting for James' command. He lunges forward, burying the sharpened blade into the thing's skull. It drops. Sirius isn't done.

He lifts the machete again before letting it fall. The bone makes a sickening cracking sound as the blade makes contact a second time, then a third time, and a fourth.

He can't bring himself to stop. Again and again, he brings the machete down, an angry scream spilling from his throat. The world shouldn't be like this. Remus and Regulus shouldn't be dead. Everything shouldn't be so fucked up. It's too much, and he doesn't think he can take it anymore.

"Sirius! Sirius, stop!"

James' arms are around him, and Sirius thrashes about, trying to throw him off. It doesn't work, but he doesn't care. He continues to fight and struggle. If he can keep moving, maybe it won't hurt so much. Maybe his demons won't haunt him.

But James is stubborn and doesn't give up. He wrestles the machete from Sirius. "Get off me!" Sirius snaps, but the grip only tightens. "I don't need you!"

"Tough shit," James says dryly. "I'm not going anywhere."

The anger fades in an instant, and Sirius becomes cold as overwhelming dread sets in. Those are kind words, and be knows James means them, but he shouldn't say them. Nothing is promised, and he knows how easily his best friend could be taken from him.

He stops resisting and turns, slumping against James and resting his head against his chest. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't know what he's apologizing for, but he knows it will never be enough.

iii.

It's getting colder. Kingsley can't remember the last time he's seen a calendar, but he guesses it's probably around October or November. He pauses and adjusts the afghan around his body. It seems like a lifetime ago that he found the cozy blanket, though he knows it can't have been more than a few weeks.

His legs ache. A burning pain shoots up his calf, and he wants nothing more than to stop. It isn't an option. Stopping is a good way to get himself killed, especially out in the open. If the Death Eaters don't happen upon him, he's certain bandits will. There's no law and order left in this world, and he doesn't like his chances.

He pushes himself, wondering how much more of this he can take. There's still a part of him that wants to stop and give up, but he drowns that out by focusing on why he's still moving. Cardiff is waiting for him. He will find a home there, and everything will be okay. He just has to believe, and it will happen. His parents never raised a quitter. It doesn't matter that they aren't around now; Kingsley will not let them down.

.

His father is the first to go. Kingsley and his mother are inside the house, waiting anxiously for him to return. There's a curfew in place, and his father is cutting it a little too close for comfort.

"I'm sure he will be fine," his mother says softly, but Kingsley can hear the way her voice trembles, betraying her fear. She is good at wearing a brave face, but there's only so much any of them can take. How long before she breaks?

Kingsley makes his way closer and wraps his arm around her, pulling her into a hug. Neither of them speak. The silence between them is tense and heavy, but he doesn't know how to break it.

Movement outside the window catches his eye, and Kingsley's heart race. It's his father. Blood stains his grey shirt, and his dark eyes are wild. "Hawa!" he calls. "Hawa, let me in."

When his mother takes a step toward the door, Kingsley gently grabs her by the shoulder and shakes his head. "He's been bitten," he says. "It's too dangerous."

"Kingsley…"

"We can't."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. When she opens them again, there are tears clinging to her lashes. "I'm sorry, my love," she calls out. "Find the soldiers. They can take you to get treatment."

Kingsley clenches his jaw. He knows it isn't that simple, though he wonders if she is aware of it. There is no cure, and he's almost certain that treatments look more like something out of a mad scientist film. He imagines the infected strapped to the tables while masked doctors linger over them with scalpels.

He shudders, his stomach sick at the thought of it. He can only hope that the world is kinder, that his father will meet a bullet before he meets a butcher.

"I'm sorry," his mother says again, and she keeps saying it over and over again until Kingsley draws the curtains and pulls her away.

"I'll fix you some tea."

The Riddle Virus doesn't take his mother. Instead, trouble finds her when a woman with dark curls and a wicked grin breaks into the house.

"We don't mean you any harm," his mother says. She has always been an optimist, so desperate to believe that there is good in everyone.

The stranger is clearly an exception to the rule. She doesn't even blink before drawing a gun and pulling the trigger.

Kingsley acts on impulse. He doesn't care that this psycho is armed and that he has been taught to never hit a lady. He lunges with a scream, tackling her to the ground. His mother in his view, unmoving, dead, part of her face blown away.

Rage overtakes him. He slams the woman's head against the floor again and again, screaming as tears sting his eyes.

And then it is over and the house is silent, and Kingsley feels the weight of loneliness in the pit of his stomach.

.

"Is someone there?"

The voice startles Kingsley. He's found some houses to not be as abandoned as they look. Most people aren't happy to share, not when resources are so scarce.

"I'm just looking for a place to sleep," Kingsley says.

He hears an audible sigh. After a moment, a young man with dark hair and storm cloud grey eyes staggers in, leaning against the doorway. "Oh, thank God," he says. "Leg's a bit busted, so I would be fucked if you didn't come in peace." He gestures for Kingsley to follow him before turning and moving through the house, his leg stiff and awkward and clearly injured.

"What happened to you?" Kingsley asks.

"I was separated from my brother and his friend. Took a nasty fall while trying to escape the Death Eaters," he explains, sitting on the couch. There's a small feast of canned goods spread out on the table. "I actually think I might have broken my foot. Unfortunately, there are no hospitals anymore, so I can't be sure. It didn't heal properly, I know that much. Add that to a banged up knee…" He trails off, clearing his throat. "Long story short, I'm Regulus, and I'm not dead."

"Kingsley."

Regulus grins. "Well, Kingsley, you're just in time for dinner."

Regulus proves to be good company. He tells Kingsley about his life before the virus, about his family, his hopes and dreams. In turn, Kingsley talks about his family and his time at university. It feels strange to talk about a life before this nightmare, to remember that they ever existed in a world where Death Eaters didn't exist, and things were halfway normal.

"You haven't seen my brother, have you? Looks a bit like me except shorter and not as good looking. Would have been with a tall, skinny idiot with messy hair and glasses."

Kingsley shakes his head. He can't remember the last time he's seen anyone at all.

Regulus sighs. "It was worth a shot," he says.

"Where are you heading?" Kingsley asks. "We could partner up for a while."

"Glasgow."

Kingsley frowns, shaking head. "Met an old school teacher named Minerva from that area. She says Scotland has been overrun."

Regulus pales. "That's where my brother is heading." He swallows dryly. "I need to find him."

"You aren't going anywhere alone in your condition," Kingsley tells him.

Regulus scowls at that, folding his arms over his chest. "And where exactly are you going?"

"Cardiff."

The younger man laughs. "You're a long way from Cardiff, mate. Didn't think to bring a map?"

"In retrospect, that was a stupid decision on my part," Kingsley admits.

Regulus smirks. "Yeah. A bit. You can always stay here until you get you bearings. Whoever lived here before kept the pantry well stocked. Plenty of farm land. I'd even wager you could hunt in the woods," he says.

Kingsley considers. It's nearly winter. At the very least, he will need a place to stay until spring. He had hoped to make progress on his journey, but it's all been for nothing. Maybe it wouldn't hurt to settle somewhere. It will only be for a few months, of course. After that, he plans to be back on the road, and he won't stop until he reaches the sanctuary city.

"I guess you have a roommate."

iv.

James doesn't let him out of his sight much. Sirius knows he can't blame him. At this point, he is little more than a ticking time bomb.

"It's getting colder," James says, examining the contents of his bag.

Their food is quickly running out. They've tried to ration where they can, and they've taken to splitting most meals between them. It isn't enough. The bag gets lighter and lighter, and it's getting harder to find homes and stores that havent been raided.

If they don't find more food soon, they'll never make it to Glasgow. Not that Sirius knows if he even wants to make it to Scotland anymore. It seems rather hopeless now.

"We'll figure it out," James says, opening a can of mixed fruit and huddling closer to the small fire. "We always do, yeah?"

Sirius almost smiles. He doesn't dare to hope anymore. Still, he plays along to make James feel better. "Yeah. We always do."

He doesn't want to anymore. He's so tired of figuring it out, of surviving. Letting go would be so peaceful, but he knows James would never let him.

.

"I'm glad you have James," Regulus says as they keep watch.

Sirius raises his brows. He's under the impression that his little brother has never cared for his best friend. Why should that change now?

Regulus must see the confusion in his eyes. He just laughs. "You're happier when you're with him," he explains. "You're both a couple of chaotic idiots, but, all in all, you make each other better."

Sirius smiles at that. James had been the only to know that his parents were cruel to him. He had been the first to learn that Sirius likes blokes. In the end, he came to see James as more of a brother than a friend.

"He's my best mate," Sirius says, shrugging.

"Good."

James will never let him down. Even on the roughest days, he knows James will be there for him, and that his presence is enough to make things feel halfway normal as the world falls to pieces.

.

When morning comes, Sirius is tired, but he doesn't complain. James spends so much time worrying about him; Sirius can't bring himself to make it worse.

They split a can of pineapple chunks between them before packing their things. Sirius feels so weak, but he isn't going to give up. Not now. Not when James is counting on him.

Sirius is all that James has left in this world. Honestly, it has been like that for a long time, since before the virus broke out. Now, though, when the world seems so barren and empty, the reminders are so painful. They are alone in this world, but at least they have each other.

"Wonder if that little chippy is still up and running in Glasgow," James says, grinning. "Remember when we went? Reg ate so many chips that he… Oh. Fuck, Sirius. I'm so sorry."

But Sirius just smiles because he knows James didn't mean anything by it. Besides, isn't that how Regulus would want to be remembered? Smiling and alive, shoving so many chips into his mouth that he nearly chokes. Not the way Sirius last saw him. Not bruised and bleeding and screaming as he struggled to fight against the sea of Death Eaters that enveloped him.

He wraps an arm around his friend's shoulder. "Let's go," he says.

It still hurts. He doesn't think the pain will ever fully heal. But he is moving on; he is learning to live, to mend his wounds as best as he can. It's what Remus and Regulus would have wanted, and he will find a way to honor their memories.

Time will heal him, and he will be okay.

He doesn't know how long they've been waking, only that the sun is beginning to dip behind the trees and the air is growing colder. They have stopped to rest twice, but they both know the importance of moving. Staying still for too long spells out death. Death Eaters aren't the only enemies in this new world. They've met their fair share of survivors, and most of them haven't been particularly friendly.

There's a farmhouse in the distance. James points it out, grinning. He adjusts his glasses. "We can probably find a real bed," he says. "Do you remember the last time we had an actual bed?"

"Too long," Sirius says. "I think I've forgotten what beds feel like."

It's a risk, of course. Even though the place is overrun with weeds, and there are no telltale signs of life behind the walls, the house may not be as abandoned as it appears. For all he knows, they could be walking right into a trap.

Sirius wants to believe. Surely there is hope to be found behind that door. If they're lucky, looters won't even have touched it yet. Maybe there will be batteries and food and water and other things that have started to feel more like luxuries that he once took for granted.

His legs ache. His whole body is tired and on the verge of collapse. Despite it all, he doesn't care. A house means shelter and security. This would be the safest he has felt in so long.

James leads the way, climbing over the weathered fence and dropping onto the field. It's a miracle the wood didn't break under his weight; it doesn't look like it will hold up much longer. Sirius is more hesitant, but he climbs it with enough ease. His ankle rolls when he drops, and he swears loudly as fire shoots up his leg.

"It's just twisted," Sirius says before James can fuss over him.

Just twisted. Nothing is ever just anything. Even the smallest injuries can be life or death.

James shakes his head, offering Sirius his arm. The support isn't perfect, but Sirius can move with a little more ease. They're slower now, but they're making progress and the house is closer.

By the time they reach the porch, the first handful of stars have come out overhead. Perfect timing. At least they won't be out when it gets too dark.

Sirius hobbles up the first few steps, still gripping James' arm for dear life. His movements are awkward and clumsy, and it's a miracle he doesn't fall back and take them both down.

"I get the softest bed," Sirius tells him. "I'm injured."

"You're really gonna milk that, huh

"I'm wounded, James. Don't be rude."

As they finally step on the porch, the door bursts open, and they find themselves staring down the barrel of a fun.

v.

"Wait! Kingsley, no!" Regulus staggers to the door, eyes wide. "That's them! That's… That's my brother."

Kingsley can see the resemblance now. The one with longer hair has the same eyes and nose. The taller one with glasses must be the friend Regulus mentioned. Kingsley relaxes, but he doesn't lower his weapon. "How do I know you haven't been bitten?"

He's just being cautious, but he knows it's the only way to stay alive. Trust is a dangerous thing. He got lucky with Regulus. Over the past week, the two of them have become closer than Kingsley could have ever imagined.

"They're not," Regulus says. "Sirius would be much more distressed if James was bitten. James would have already performed a mercy killing if Sirius was.

Kingsley shrugs. He will trust Regulus. After all, he knows the newcomers better than Kingsley does. If he says they're good, Kingsley won't argue.

Satisfied, Kingsley lowers the gun, sliding it into his holster. "Come on in, then," he says, stepping back over the threshold. "We were just about to have dinner."

The others follow them inside and into the kitchen. Kingsley and Regulus have been trying to make this feel more like home. No more meals in the living room. No more letting the darkness get them down. Kingsley has even found the last of the flowers, not yet killed off by the morning frosts, and placed them in a vase on the kitchen table.

It isn't home. Not really. Home is his mother smiling up at him as she prepares traditional meals from her native village in Africa. Home is his father looking up from his newspaper and offering Kingsley advice that Kingsley never asked for but will treasure anyway. Hell, some days home is even Auntie Siti lecturing him on becoming too European and calling Asim, his middle name, to remind him of his roots.

But this is close enough. It is warm and comfortable. Regulus has become family, and this beaten up old farmhouse in the middle of nowhere has become the closest thing to home.

"Is that meat?" James asks, licking his lips. "Actual proper meat that isn't from a can?"

"Deer," Regulus answers. "You should see it. There are so many of them out here. Kingsley shot one this morning."

"We're going to salt the rest so it will keep," Kingsley explains. "It seems the man who lived here before did that. There's so much salt in the cellar."

"And food," Regulus adds, grinning as he lifts the jar of green beans. "Oh, man. There's a strawberry jam. Beautiful. That was my breakfast this morning."

Kingsley chuckles, pulling down the necessary dishes. He fills their glasses with water as Regulus serves the deer.

"To hope," Regulus says, lifting his glass.

"To family," Sirius says.

It's late, and Kingsley cannot sleep. They don't have to stand watch. The house has enough little traps set so he will hear anyone who approaches at night.

Still, he makes his way outside, only to find Sirius already on the porch. The other man looks up, offering Kingsley a tired smile. "Nightmares," he explains.

Kingsley sighs. He knows the feeling all too well. Nightmare isn't the right word. He's always considered nightmares to be a work of fiction. This is something different. The things he sees when he closes his eyes are memories, burned into his brain from the trauma.

There's a term for it. PTSD. He thinks everyone alive now probably has some form of it. Anyone who doesn't is lucky.

"Wanna talk about it?" Kingsley asks.

Sirius shakes his head. "Not really. Talking means it's real."

Kingsley's lips twitch. "It's real whether you talk about it or not," he points out. "But I respect that. We all cope in our own ways."

"Thank you for looking after Regulus," Sirius whispers.

"I assure you, he looked after me too," Kingsley says. "He's a good kid."

Sirius smiles at that. "The best. I thought I lost him."

"Are you staying?" Kingsley asks. "Regulus said you were going to Glasgow, but, from what I hear, you're as good as dead if you step foot in that place."

"This is where Regulus is," Sirius says. "Where my heart is. That means this is home for as long as you'll have me." He stretches, yawning. In the moonlight, Kingsley can see how heavy his grey eyes are. "I suppose I should probably try to sleep again."

Kingsley sighs, nodding. Sleeping is the worst part. He wonders if the memories will ever fade. Surely they have to. Eventually. One day. It can't stay like this forever.

The two of them head back in. The house is so quiet at night that Kingsley can hear the snoring from upstairs. "See you in the morning," he tells Sirius.

Sirius offers him a mock salute. "Sleep well," he says before climbing the stairs.

Kingsley sits on the couch, wrapping the granny square afghan around him. He likes sleeping down here. It makes him feel like a protector, and there are three valuable lives above him that he will give his life for. He hasn't known Regulus for long; James and Sirius are still strangers. And yet they are all he has in this cold, cruel world. They are his family, and family is everything.

He stretches out on the couch, smiling. "Goodnight, brothers," he murmurs. "Goodnight."