Written for Autumn Funfair, the October Writing Club and the Autumn Seasonal Challenges, among other challenges, of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft & Wizardry forum.
Disclaimer: Refer to chapter one, please.
Chapter warnings: none
Word count: 11243 words
A nice, nostalgia-filled chapter for you guys. Enjoy! I teared up writing this.
Once upon a time we had it all
2.2 - In Catharsis
He leans against the doorpost, taking a moment to drink in the sight of Sirius stretched out on the brand new lilac couch. The man's dark hair is pulled up in a loose high bun, the shorter chin-length strands framing the sides of his pale face. He's wearing one of the old Led Zeppelin t-shirts he'd found lying around in his bedroom, untouched and abandoned—the dark grey of the fabric is stretched and faded, slightly loose yet a perfect fit for Sirius' now-slender frame, and with the lean figure and familiar curled up sprawl, it's nearly impossible to distinguish the man before him from the teenager hogging the red and gold couch in the Gryffindor common room twenty years ago.
He constantly has moments when the present blurs, overlapping with the past. It confounds him, playing tricks on his susceptible mind, and each one leaves him reeling and feeling impossibly weaker. This one is no different.
Which is why it takes him as long as it does to notice the conspicuously thick leather-bound book grasped tightly in Sirius' broad hands.
He takes in a sharp breath. He can catch a glimpse of the rich brown spine with it's golden swirls. The book is still closed, and Sirius is staring hard at the cover—brown leather, with the same swirls at the edges, and what he knows are the stars and moons and Cherished Memories hand painted by Lily with her special gold glitter paint, with the shimmery gold smudge at the corner of the lettering.
Their album.
There's a slight rustle and a muffled scuffing of a booted foot, and he belatedly realises that the sounds come from him.
Sirius looks up over the back of the lilac couch, and his eyes tighten when they settle on him. Sirius shoots him a quick, brittle smile, and shifts, pressing his back harder against the side of the armrest.
"Thought I should try to look at these again," Sirius says, voice hoarse. "Don't think it's paid off. I haven't exactly made it past the front cover."
He shoots Sirius a wry smile. "I noticed."
Sirius smiles back with a sardonicism to rival his own. "Wanna join me? We can be useless together."
He shrugs. "Why not? One more time wouldn't hurt."
He knows first-hand the experience of going through the album—he owes a majority of past sleepless nights to depressed guilt-sessions induced by the phantom memories held within its pages. One more try certainly couldn't make a difference. Besides, sleeping besides each other, for the nights he allows himself to spend here, has opened up a whole plethora of nightmares, dry-sobbing, touch-resistance and subsequent awkward conversations between them. This can be yet another experience for them to cringe over. He cannot possibly sink any lower in Sirius' eyes, not by his estimates.
It's troublesome to lift his weight off the doorpost. He focuses on putting one foot in front of the other as he crosses over to half of the couch where Sirius' legs rest. As much as he doesn't really want to go through this vicious cycle again, he cannot bring himself to say no to Sirius, to let Sirius deal with the pain alone like he did all these years. He'll deal with the dreams and flashbacks when the time comes for them to be dealt with.
Sirius shifts, sitting up straight to give him room to sit, then scooting closer to him once he's made himself comfortable. Sirius flashes him another tentative, brittle smile and takes a deep breath, but makes no move to open the book.
"I picked the perfect environment for this, eh?" Sirius says to the room with a caustic smirk. There's a dangerous bite to the hoarse voice, and he feels the barest hint of a shudder at the accusation in the tone.
"Sirius, we did the best we could. At least the place is clean," he tries to placate the glaring man.
Sirius' gaze is fixed on the left of the two ornate glass-fronted cabinets flanking the fireplace. The showcase doesn't hold much—they had cleared out and tidied up everything in the room over the summer, including the cabinets, and now all that is displayed within are harmless little trinkets, of which there had been far too few amongst all the lethal artifacts.
"Sirius?"
Sirius' hard stare seems to go right through the glass, and he doesn't quite know whether the man is seeing the shiny silver tray placed front and centre on the middle shelf, or the ashen-looking shrivelled hand that had stood before in its place.
"Sirius!"
The man startles, then looks around, blinking himself back to the present. Sirius turns to him as if noticing him for the first time.
"Sorry, Rem," he runs a hand over the pulled-back strands of hair. "Like I keep saying, I never thought I'd be back here. Always hoped to leave this place for good, you know?"
"Yes," he sighs, "I know, Siri."
"And it's—it's—I don't know," Sirius continues, his focus now on the carved mantle above the fireplace. "We've all tried our best to change it up a bit, and the difference shows. But no matter what we try, it will never change the feel of this place. You know? It feels like the wretchedness of this house has been absorbed into the walls. This place has far too much history to cover up."
"Sirius."
Sirius glances at him, and he takes the opportunity to rest a hand lightly over white-knuckled fists. The tenseness in Sirius' wrist relaxes, and he automatically loosens his tight grip over the book in his hands.
"I know how hard this is for you," he says softly. "Sirius, I know. I remember what it was like for you when you ran away from here, and I haven't forgotten the number of times you swore you'd never come back. I—I don't fault you for being bitter. Not one bit. You're right about this house. The gloom of this place seems to have seeped into the walls, and it's leeching happiness from every room, even when there isn't any."
"Like a Dementor," Sirius nods, his whisper faint as a breath. He stiffens when he hears those haunted words, and his throat closes up.
"Like a Dementor," he echoes, his voice tight and choked.
They sit there in silence for a while. Sirius doesn't move a muscle, and neither does he. Physical contact between them has been awkward for the past few months, but somehow, the way his hand rests over Sirius' feels right. The skin of his palm doesn't feel stretched tight, and Sirius' skin doesn't feel searing hot. His senses aren't heightened, and his mind isn't working in overdrive, and the touch feels as it should be, warm and comforting.
He doesn't feel heartened knowing that it is just when Sirius is hurting that things have this illusion of normalcy.
Sirius is right. No matter what they try, they might never be able to fully conceal the echoes of unhappiness lurking within this old house. Decades of pain and misery have been etched into its walls, and this place is far past redemption.
Grimmauld Place is beyond saving, but they've done the best they can.
So much work has been put into this room itself. When they had first commandeered the house for the Order's headquarters, the drawing room was hit the worst of the lot. It truly was in a contemptible state, and most of their cleaning work over the summer was dominated by this room itself. Molly had enlisted Harry and his friends to scour the large room from top to bottom. He'd gotten rid of the boggart in the writing desk, and helped the children clear most of the blood vials, snakeskins, toxic potions, shrivelled body parts, chained books, and the dainty little snuff boxes with its deadly powders.
They had cleaned out the fireplace, cleared out the pests, washed the big window, and neatly arranged the remaining sparse ornamental decorations in the big glass cases. He'd taken vindictive pleasure in rolling up the hideous tapestry of the Black family tree with Arthur and Tonks' help, and he'd himself carried the unwieldy thing and dumped it in the filthiest corner of the attic upstairs. Albus convinced Molly to bring over a set of curtains from the Burrow, and the thin, pale yellow curtains framing the window made the room look brighter and more airy.
The pale lilac couch is a new addition, one Tonks had chosen and brought on a whim. He'd brought in the coffee table as soon as the drawing room was set up, and the dark stained wood with its glass table top perfectly complements the heavier furnishings of the room. The little table had been the only furniture he'd been able to take with him when he moved out of his and Sirius' apartment after Azkaban, and he's been carrying it from flat to flat with each subsequent move since. He's uncommonly attached to their old table, the connection to their old life too strong to ignore, and the look on Sirius' face when he had first spotted the table was priceless in its sentimentality.
The room is near unrecognisable from what it was, and he's sure that it is far different from what even Sirius was used to when he lived here. It's their space, one they designed and made for themselves, and yet, the overhanging feeling of death and misery still clings to the air, reminding him every damn second that this place is wretched and uncomfortable to be around in. He envies Sirius for his strength every day, because he's not sure he'd be able to suffer through what Sirius does were he in his shoes.
Because the fireplace is warm and burning, and he's close enough to reach out and touch the bright flames, but his skin is pebbled from the phantom cold. The large window overlooking the street offers a lovely view of the sunset, the sky done in shades of blinding yellow and soothing orange, but the room is dark and haunted. The glass panes are shut, keeping out the biting winter chill, but the air still feels drafty around his neck and arms.
And he's uncomfortable enough sitting so primly on a brand new couch in this old, old house, without having years of painful memories to back up his discomfort.
What must it be like for Sirius, to live in the present and relive his past? What is it like for him to look at the silver tray in the glass case and imagine the shrunken hand in its place, to stare at the fireplace and see the remnants of his old Muggle posters burning within its flames, to glance at the ornate desk in the corner and remember his mother sitting there, answering dozens upon dozens of letters of invitations to the pureblood gatherings he detested so passionately?
He squeezes the hand under his without thinking. The hand flexes, then twists itself at the wrist till they're touching palm to palm. Sirius looks at him, just for a second, accepting his comfort with the barest hint of a smile.
"I can still see the broken glass there," Sirius says, whisper soft. He points to the entrance of the room with a tilt of his head, gesturing to the part of the wall they had found conspicuously blank. "There was a vase, ugly green thing perched on the glass stand. She kicked over the stand and threw the vase at my head."
He hears the sharp intake of breath before he realises that it's coming from himself.
"Sirius—"
"And that section of rug there," Sirius points underneath the window, "Charred to bits. Blackened the hardwood floor too. Don't know how she repaired the thing."
"Sirius—"
"And I keep feeling eyes boring into the back of my skull when I'm here—never mind that the bloody tapestry's gone, it's like I'd still find those creepy blank stares looking back at me if I turn around. All the ancestors, mocking me for bringing shame to the family."
Sirius turns to him, and he feels his throat close up. He hates to see the pain reflected in those grey eyes, hates that he knows just how much it's eating Sirius up inside. He hates that there's nothing he can do, not even after all this time.
"I remember," Sirius says, and he finds it hard to breathe. "She slashed at my name. Burned my face right off the tapestry. I'd be happy to join my favourite cousin out with all the filth, she said. A—And Regulus—Reg—he—"
He squeezes Sirius' hand again, but it takes a few seconds for him to get himself together.
"That was the day I knew I'd lost him. Forever. Even if I'd tried harder, done more, he—he wouldn't walk away with me. He—his eyes—he hated me, Rem. I saw it in his eyes. He hated me."
He instinctively reaches out for Sirius, and Sirius leans into him instantly. There's a zing of static where their skin touches, but he doesn't let himself pull away, not now. He can't stand to see Sirius hurting, and this is all he knows to make Sirius feel better.
So he wraps his arms tighter around the shaking man, and in turn, Sirius clutches the leather-bound album tighter in his hands. He closes his eyes and lets himself melt into the hug, and with the unassuming blackness behind his eyelids, he can all too easily let himself believe that the past decade didn't happen, that this is just him and Sirius being themselves, and the sparks along his skin feel welcoming and familiar again. Just like old times.
He didn't know how much he needed this till this very second. He's been on edge for far too long lately, tiptoeing around the one person who's always felt like home before, and he needs the comfort almost as much as Sirius does.
Sirius—it helps Sirius too, he can feel it. The muscles beneath the skin of Sirius' neck relax under the feel of his palms, and his tight shoulders loosen and broaden to its usual wide span. There's a huff of breath against his collarbone, and he knows the exact second Sirius falls into the same dreamscape as him—memories of them younger, in this very position drawing comfort from the other, too many to count on two hands.
After a few, drawn-out minutes, he deems the silence comfortable enough to press forward again. He tries to keep his voice soft, and he hopes Sirius can hear him.
"Would you change it? If you had to do it over again, would you stay?"
Sirius is silent for a long while, and he's about to repeat his question, louder this time, when there's another huff against his neck.
"No, I wouldn't." He can feel the brush of lips against the hollow of his throat, warm breath cooling over his heated skin. "Wouldn't change a damn thing, Rem."
"Not even for Regulus?" he persists.
Sirius looks up at him, and the top of his dark head brushes firmly against the underside of his jaw as he does so. Sirius' eyes look troubled, warring with emotion; he looks to be fighting against himself, over and over, before something settles into his dark eyes. Sirius sighs, and he knows that Sirius finally understands, is finally able to admit what he'd spent decades avoiding.
"I—it wouldn't make a difference, would it? Reg was lost to me even before she disowned me. It was already too late."
He nods, clenching his jaw. He hugs Sirius tighter, waiting for the inevitable onslaught of emotions that is sure to come with his admittance. And then, after twenty-seven beats of his pounding heart, it comes.
He can do nothing but hold Sirius as years of guilt, pain and loss wrack his body with unceasing ruthlessness. He can feel silent tears seeping into his worn shirt, he can feel Sirius' grip on the leather album grow tighter and tighter where it is pressed against his chest. He pries the long fingers away from the cover as firmly as he can without hurting Sirius, wiggling the book out between them and setting it to his side, away from Sirius' desperate hold. There are impressions of Sirius' thumbs set into the leather, rising back up slowly as he looks away.
He feels stoic, utterly incapable of emotion, as he watches Sirius fall apart within his arms. Sirius is crying like he's never seen Sirius cry in his life, and he, the unfeeling, terrible person that he is, cannot do anything but watch Sirius' walls crumble around himself while he sits here like a—like a monster.
Sirius is mumbling now, between strangled gasps and quiet shudders, and slowly, gradually, he can pick out words and phrases within the unintelligible whispers. He tells himself to stay strong through the too late, it was too late's and all the it was never enough's and the why's spilling from Sirius' raw throat, but it is the everything gone, all lost which breaks him, and the dam falls.
And then he's the one in tears, crying and shaking and clutching Sirius like a lifeline, joining the litanies of why's and I'm sorry's as they entangle in limbs and bodies till he cannot tell where his arms end and Sirius' begin. He'd promised himself to be strong for Sirius, but he isn't strong enough to succumb to the regret, not in the face of Sirius' own.
He should feel embarrassed at this display, the sense of detached shame he's prone to experiencing in times like these, but strangely, it feels cathartic. He's no stranger to grief—he's done the rounds, twice, thrice, numerous failed attempts to stave off the torment, to escape it. Isolation, drinking, nights at seedy bars, working overtime, avoidance, crying jags in the dead of night—he's done it all. And each night he's been left with but the clothes on his back and the pain of his burden a physical deadweight across his shoulders.
He had let the pain consume him, consume him and gnaw at what's left of him inside, because he had seen no way out. And yet, twenty minutes wrapped in Sirius' arms, talking and crying out to the silent ghosts of this old house, has him feeling impossibly lighter, and now he's left wondering if the past fourteen years had all been a chilling dream.
He's needed the reprieve for so long, too long, and Sirius—he's quite positive that Sirius has never properly grieved for the ones he loved before this. It's just like Sirius to bottle up his pains, and were his mind able to comprehend the gravity of Sirius suppressing his emotions for so long, he knows he'd alternately be horrified and relieved that Sirius hadn't had to go through it alone like he'd been forced to.
The concept of time feels foreign to him—he can feel the minutes flying by as he distractedly watches the sun go down on the horizon, but time is also travelling slow as molasses, dragging him kicking and screaming from one second to the next. He feels like he's floating, light as a feather, and yet, the pounding of his head right between the eyes has never been more prominent. His eyes burn, and his nose feels stuffy and too big for his face, and he's tired himself out more by staying sedentary on the couch for less than an hour than the exhaustion he'd felt walking through the door after his gruelling weeks out on the field.
He watches the last sliver of the dark orange ball of sun fade as it sets, now obscured by the tall red brick building blocking his view, and he turns to see Sirius' eyes tracking the sky too. His face reflects the orange and red of the fiery sky before them, but Sirius looks just as miserable as he feels. And for once, he doesn't think about the shine of his black hair, or the set of his mouth, or even the look in his murky grey eyes. Because all he sees is the stubborn jut of a square chin and the resigned thrumming of his long fingers—all he sees is someone he used to call a friend.
It hits him then, a realisation he should've known at the start, and he feels utterly foolish for forgetting it all this time. Yes, he and Sirius were lovers, and yes, before that he was a Marauder, but that hasn't been the extent of their history together. Because between the phase where they were part of the Marauders and the phase where they were one half of a whole, they were friends. They hadn't just been part of the same group. No, the two of them had their own special bond, their own history and their own quirks and a whole era of them just learning each other and being together—because they had been best friends.
All this time, he's been under the impression that it's all or nothing. Subconsciously, maybe, but he's been terrified that if he lets go of what they have, if Sirius stops being his lover, he'll turn a stranger instead, or worse, an enemy. He's been clutching so desperately to Sirius lately, acting erratically and irrationally, and only succeeding in pushing Sirius further away. He'd lost faith in their friendship, to the point that he'd forgotten that there had ever been a Sirius and Remus in the first place.
But it had been their friendship that had caused him to fall in love, their friendship that caused him to put so much trust in Sirius. It was their friendship that let him reveal so much of himself to Sirius, and learn so much about him in return. And it was their years of history and their closeness which got them the support of his parents and their friends and all the people they had respected and admired at a time when a relationship of their kind was still so frowned upon.
And, he realises with a start, it is that which had just helped him find the release he's been desperate for, for the past decade and a half. He had tried everything under the sun and moon to escape his grief, to lighten his burden, but he had done it all alone. He'd had blankets and bottles and photographs marred by tear stains, bills and eviction notices and application rejections, Sirius' old watch and Lily's old letters and little Harry's favourite stuffed dog, but never the company of someone who understood.
But right then, when he'd wrapped his arms around Sirius and let him sob into his chest, and when Sirius had returned the favour, it had been the simple, satisfying occurrence of two old friends bonding over the shared grief of shared experiences.
It had been exactly what he'd needed, he realises. And it had worked.
It feels like a pivotal moment, this flash of remembrance. He doesn't know what it will hold in store for him—something wonderfully good or something disastrously bad—but he knows that this change in perception will soon change the direction of their relationship. And he's desperate, so desperate, aching to keep Sirius around as long as he can, in whatever measure Sirius can spare for him. He knows in his bones that even if the consequences of his actions might be glaring, he won't hesitate to take the chance, because he has to try.
There are so many new possibilities now, ones he'd never thought of before. He needs time to think over them.
He doesn't know how the album comes to be in his hand. He vaguely remembers saying something about how knowing what we've lost will help us look at these memories in a new light, and seeing Sirius nod silently, boneless and exhausted and without a hint of argument. He remembers tracing the glittering letters on the cover, going over the curl of the M with his finger and recalling seeing the same dips and swirls in Lily's sprawling script, all neat lines and sharp angles in the many letters she'd sent him. He remembers mouthing the words, Cherished Memories, and imagines them spoken in Lily's soft, high voice.
He's gone through this book a thousand times, and he knows the smiles and shadows and colours captured in these photographs the way he knows the exact shade of Sirius' eyes in different lights.
So when his eyes blink back into focus and his gaze falls on the picture of Pettigrew snoring on his rumpled unmade bed, upside down and with his head hanging off the edge, he instantly knows that this is the first picture of Peter Pettigrew in the book so far, and the only reason he's been pulled out of his thoughts so early is because Sirius is shaking beside him.
He can't see Sirius' eyes fully at this angle, but they look to be glinting madly. Sirius' left hand is clenched into a tight fist, and his right hand is inches from the picture, fingers twitching as if they itch to rip the page right out of the book. He'd be afraid that Sirius is having a relapse if his first, instinctive thought isn't to calm him down.
He quickly rests his hand over the spasming wrist, and it settles under his touch. Sirius blinks once, then three times in succession to get rid of the itchy burn of staring unwaveringly at the photograph for so long.
"He was just a boy, Sirius," he finds himself saying. "He was as innocent as us. With everything we lost, we lost him too."
The words fall out of his mouth before he can take them back, but he finds that he agrees with what he says. He doesn't know why he's sticking up for Pettigrew, but he cannot deny the truth in his words. The snivelling adult falling at You-Know-Who's feet, wherever he may be right now—that man is a traitor and a coward, and he values the dirt under his boots more than he cares for the man. But the boy in the picture—he had been just as young as the rest of them, young and stupid and reckless and dumb. That boy had been loyal to them, and he'd been their friend.
Sirius swallows, hard, then forces himself to look at the photograph again. "Yeah," he says hoarsely, "I—I guess you're right."
His eyes trace over the young boy's sleeping form, over the moustache sketched over his face and the pants hanging off his forehead, and he finally lets himself call the boy Peter again.
"How long have you been staring at this?" he asks, never taking his eyes off the photograph.
"A while."
"I could have helped you sooner."
Sirius snorts softly. "Whatever was going on in that head of yours, you seemed to need it. Didn't wanna stop you."
He smiles. "Thanks, Siri."
When Sirius looks at him again, there's a shadow of a smile on his lips.
"You want to go back? Start again?"
Sirius points to the album, but he shakes his head. He doesn't need to turn the pages to know that the first photograph is the one of him and Sirius smiling in third year, the very first picture taken on James' very first camera. He knows that the second is the one of him holding up his potions essay, the first O grade he'd received all year. The third, of course, is of James' birthday, when they had celebrated in their dorm with the cake Mrs. Potter had owled and the treats they had snuck out from the dinner table. The fourth is of the same night, Sirius' arm over James' shoulders, James' hand in Sirius' hair, cream smeared all over their faces.
He knows each and every photograph in this album like the back of his hand.
He turns the page over to the next, and a sudden, quick laugh is punched out of Sirius when he sees the two photographs on either page. It's the ones he had captured, first James', then Sirius' photograph as they did a push-up each, in a circle of space cleared out on their cluttered dormitory floor for them. It was taken early in their fourth year, and both Sirius and James had taken great pleasure in boasting, with complete sincerity, to the witches in their year that they could do a hundred push-ups, when all they had really done was watch the photograph rewind a hundred times the night before.
Sirius turns the pages now, and they observe each photograph in complete silence. He watches the pictures unfold before his eyes with complete detachment. He's far from overwhelmed, like he usually is—he's so far from overwhelmed, that he actually feels quite numb. He almost doesn't believe that some of the pictures he's seeing are of him.
They must be about a third through the book, when suddenly, a particular snapshot catches his eye. It hasn't particularly stood out to him before, but for some reason, this time he's drawn to it. He stills Sirius' wrist when he's about to turn the page, and lets the memory wash over him.
He still remembers James, Sirius and Peter at the entrance to their dorm, standing side by side like the three Stooges, dripping and sticky with orange slime, honey and mustard. He remembers snatching the camera in a daring move completely unlike himself, snapping a quick photo while they were occupied with their sulking and groaning. The boys were shocked at his boldness, and he still recalls the awkward way he had stood by his bed, wondering if he had made a mistake, right up till James' surprised face widened into his typical slow grin. He and Sirius had clapped him on the back and hugged him in delight, proclaiming him one of them and getting him just as sticky in the process.
"This is why you should listen to me."
"But it had almost worked, Remus!"
"I told you—we needed the time-delay spell! If you had just given me two more days to research it instead of rushing off to make a mess, it would have gone off perfectly!"
"You're right, you're right, we're sor—Rem, did you say 'we'?"
"What?"
"You said 'we'! Not 'you needed the time-delay spell', but 'we needed it'! You finally admit you're one of us!"
"Sirius, I don't know what you're talking about."
"Siri, you're right! Rem did say 'we'! Rem, you berk, you just accepted that you're just as much involved in our pranking as we are!"
"Of course I'm right, Jamie! Rem, come here, we gotta celebrate this."
"Wait, no, guys, get off. Argh, you gits, you're getting slime all over me! Sirius, stop that!"
"That's what you get for giving in to their madness, Remus. I expected you to hold out longer."
"Peter, shut up, you're just as bad as they are. Peter, stop hugging me!"
"You were right," Sirius says beside him, "We should have listened to you. We'd have gotten into trouble a long time ago if it wasn't for you."
He smiles, huffs on a laugh. "Had you make sure you didn't get caught. Who else would I room with if you all got sent home? I'd have to hide my secret all over again."
Sirius smiles back, but his eyes are serious. "We wouldn't have let that happen. We wouldn't leave you behind."
"Oh? So you'd find a way to get me expelled too?"
"No, Rem," Sirius laughs. "We'd have found a way to stay."
He blinks, and lets out another breathy laugh, shaking his head at Sirius' earnestness. He lets go of Sirius' wrist, lets him turn the page, settles back against a sharp angled shoulder and lets himself sink into the memories.
Now that the floodgates have opened, with each new photograph revealed, his mind flashes back to the moments they had captured. James with his prized Quidditch broom, Sirius dancing around like a loon, him reading his favourite book by the window, Peter surrounded by his breakfast foods smuggled from the kitchens.
With each new picture, his mind takes him back, and he once again finds himself drifting to the past, floating between dreams and reality, and he's tethered to the present only by the constant touch of Sirius' strong hands along his skin.
James is talking to him in the next photo, the both of them sitting on his bed. James has his hands fisted in his wild hair, and he looks utterly exasperated—which hadn't been new to him, what with the company he kept—and he can recall the exact words of their exchange, syncing up with the frantic movement of James' lips.
"I'm allowed to be upset!"
"Of course you are, James, but that doesn't mean you get to blame Snape for it!"
"But it is the greasy git's fault! I just know that he's the one feeding my darling Lily flower with all those nasty lies about us. Why else won't she go out with me?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you tried to take off your shirt to get her to 'preview the merchandise'? James, your methods are completely unorthodox, and frankly, they aren't going to get you anywhere. You don't charm a girl with nudity, not if you want an actual relationship with her!"
"Fine, I'll try a poem next time. Remus, you'll help me write it?"
"Oh, please don't."
"Shut up, Sirius, you weren't invited to this discussion."
"Sirius."
"Oh, come on, Rem, you know his poems are terrible! Peter, come on, help me out here."
"Nuh, uh, don't you drag me into this."
"Yeah, Sirius, this is between me and Remus. Peter wasn't invited. You weren't either."
"Petey, c'mon—"
"My hands are over my ears, I can't hear a thing you're saying. I don't wanna know."
"I'm surrounded by idiots, I swear."
"Aww, don't pout, Rem, we're your favourite kind of idiot."
Then there's Sirius whooping in triumph near the lake on the patch of grass and mud where they held all their impromptu picnics, Peter stress-eating in the corner of the frame.
"She said yes! Meadowes said yes! Take a good look, mates, because three dates down the line I'll be a man remade. Yes!"
"Oh, gross, Sirius! Don't talk about Dorcas like that!"
"Unbelievable. Sirius is obviously only in it for the shagging, and he gets a yes? What about me? I've been tagging Evans for years! Why don't I get a yes?"
"That's because you, Jamie, are a half-wit."
"Oi!"
"I, on the other hand, am a sexy, sexy beast who has a date with Dorcas Meadowes this weekend because I am just that—"
"Peter, what's wrong? You're too quiet."
"Oh, um, it's nothing, Remus. I'm fine."
"Hmm, yeah, Rem's right, you've been too quiet, Petey. What's up?"
"There's nothing the matter, James, I'm fine—"
"No, you're not, Pete. You sure you're alright? You look pale."
"Sirius, I—"
"And you're stress-eating. Tell us what's wrong."
"I—Fine, I just—I may have fancied Dorcas a little, just the tiniest bit. But you're going out with her, Sirius, and that's fine! It'll be alright, I'm used to it."
"What? Why didn't you tell me? You've been hearing me plot to ask her out all week!"
"I didn't want to cause a riot. You like her, Sirius, and she's more likely to go for you than someone like me anyway, so there was no point in saying anything."
"That's a load of bull, that's what it is. Someone like you. Hah!"
"You're a good guy, Peter. Why would she not like you?"
"Yeah, Pete, you're awesome!"
"I'm gonna go cancel right now. And you know what, Petey? I'll try to get you a date with her."
"What! No, Sirius, you wanted—"
"Shut up, Pete. My manly status can wait. First, we need to get our boy here a date."
Peter had looked ecstatic when he had left for his date. He remembers helping Peter pick out the perfect shirt, James doing his hair, and Sirius pinching his cheeks, beaming just as broad as Peter's wide grin. The date had gone terribly, and Dorcas didn't speak to Peter again, but he still offered to do Sirius' Charms homework for the entire week.
"How can a boy who offered to do your homework without being asked go on to betray every one of his best friends?" he questions aloud.
"I don't know," Sirius replies quietly. "What changed him? What made him do what he did?"
His gaze falls on Sirius. "Do you think it was us? That we somehow pushed him to it?"
"I don't know." Sirius breathes deeply. "Maybe it was a little of everything, including us. You remember how people treated him. They called him stupid and useless and undermined him at every turn. Merlin knows I haven't always been good to him. James could be cruel too, sometimes. You're the only one who always treated him right."
"You were a good friend where it mattered, Sirius. You always did stand up for him."
"I hate that he hurt you," Sirius mutters. "You were always good to him. If he should have fought for anyone, he should have fought for you."
"Sirius—"
"Wish I knew what pulled him to them. What they offered him that we couldn't."
He smiles sadly. There's a lot he wishes he could change, and the regrets keep piling up every day.
"Guess we'll never know."
Sirius laughs, a sharp, recrimating sound, and together, they turn the page again. Peter's anxious wide eyes are covered up now, hidden, but he'll always remember the innocence in them, and he'll always remember this moment, asking himself what he'd done to mess things up for his friend.
Guess he'll never know.
Pages keep turning, the photographs keep changing. There's James in the common room, staring with a love-sick expression into the distance, Peter playing the banjo, Sirius surrounded by Gryffindor girls out on the grass, yet staring longingly where he sits a few feet away, reading under the shade of the tree's wide branches. They weren't together back then, and when Peter had shown him the snapshot he'd clicked so expertly, he refused to believe the expression on Sirius' face for what it was.
Then there's him, on his uncharacteristically messy bed, with library books scattered all around him over the untucked blankets, scribbling frantically on a wrinkled parchment. That had been the first and last time he had ever slacked on a potions assignment, and he'd yelled at his friends for an hour straight for distracting him with their pranking problems when he was supposed to be doing his research.
"Never again! You hear me? Never again!"
"Rem, we're sorry, okay? Geez, mate, lighten up. We've been apologising for an hour already!"
"No, I will not 'lighten up'. Do you want to know why I get these assignments done and out of the way as early as I do? Do you? Because I'm bloody useless at potions, that's why! My written work is all that gets me through Potions class, and I can't afford to bring down my average! So the next time you dolts muck up a spell and end up talking in riddles or spilling truths, go bother someone else!"
"We really are sorry, Remus. We feel bad. We didn't mean to make you worry."
"Thank you, Peter. This is why you're my new favourite."
"I tried searching through the texts in the library myself, but I couldn't find anything to help."
"I know, Peter. You did your best. I'm not mad at you; I'm mad at these two imbeciles who thought it'd be funny to test an experimental prank spell on themselves!"
"Sorry, Rem."
"And you! Don't think I haven't noticed that you haven't said a word so far, Sirius! I've spent night and day scouring the library to get you off those damn limericks, and what do I get from you? Nothing! Not a sorry, not a thank you, nothing! I can't believe how ungrateful you are, you selfish, reckless prat!"
"Oh, Merlin, that's so sexy."
"I have a good mind to—what?"
"We should have done this sooner. Damn, why didn't I think of it before?"
"What are you—"
"Aaand, that's our cue. C'mon, Peter, let's give these two some room to talk."
"Wait, you can't just leave! I wasn't done! James Potter, come back here!"
"Godric, you're hot when you're mad."
"Right, I'm coming, James. Remus, Sirius, you two had better get your act together. And Sirius, for the love of Merlin, please don't start snogging him when I enter this room again. I don't need to see that yet."
Of course, the next picture is the one where Sirius grabs him and snogs his face off, with Peter covering his eyes at the door, because Sirius was a git who loved to rile Peter up, and James was the pervert who wanted to get it on reel. He still doesn't know how to feel about seeing their first kiss captured on parchment, but now, he appreciates it.
The arrangements in the pictures change then, vaguely discernable, easily unnoticeable. He and Sirius stand closer together, close enough to hold hands if they wanted to. They look more comfortable together, they have more physical contact, and their group looks more tight-knit. When James is enacting their game to Sirius in the Hospital Wing, all flamboyant gestures and excited voices, he's there two beds over, laughing at James and scolding him for hitting Sirius' broken leg with his propelling arms. When he's in the common room teaching Transfiguration to Peter, there's Sirius in the back, smiling at him goofily.
Soon enough, their relationship becomes more evident in the photographs. There's him and Sirius, curled up on his bed, his head against Sirius' chest, Sirius' arms around his waist. There's him and Sirius, fighting over the last cracker on the floor of their room, and Peter's hand sneakily reaching out for the cracker and the last of the cheese cubes in the corner of the frame. There's him and Sirius studying together, him and Sirius walking along the edge of the lake, him and Sirius arguing, in James' words, like an old married couple.
All the while, his Sirius, alive and in the flesh, is sitting right beside him—holding his hand, arm around his shoulder, breath on his neck. He didn't imagine that going through this reminder of their past, of their seemingly perfect relationship, would feel so relaxed and easy; not with the way their current relationship feels like it is falling apart.
Then comes the Animagi success, and the next picture is the one of his three animal friends in their dorm—Prongs, standing tall and proud, long antlers entangled with the remnants of his favourite lavender blanket, Padfoot, stretched out placidly on the scratched wood flooring, chewing on the torn remains of his white sheet, and Wormtail chasing his own tail round and round, smack dab in the middle of the two large animals. He'd flashed this photograph at them every time their attitudes got too overbearing, and it had always worked like magic. Sirius used to say that he was getting payback for his ruined bed covers, but in truth, he liked to see them silent and squirming too much to let go of his leverage.
The pictures and memories fly by after that. Him and Padfoot, playing catch on the grass with a makeshift disc. Wormtail, riding on Padfoot's back as he runs round and round in their tiny dorm bathroom. James, jumping up on the table and announcing to the Great Hall that he's planning to take up deer rights and that anyone who even touches venison can fight him, thank you very much.
They're older now. Clean cut lines, sharper angles. There's a photograph of him and Sirius perched on one of their narrow dormitory windows, facing each other with their legs tangled together in the middle. They're watching the dark sky, a book in his hand and a sketchpad in Sirius', entranced by what he knows is the shooting star streaking into the night.
"Padfoot, look. Make a wish."
"Don't need to make one, Rem. I have everything I need right here."
Sirius is serenading him for his birthday, drunk and loud and purposefully off-key. His boyfriend is viciously mutilating his favourite George Jones number to the audience of James' cackling, Peter's desperate begging for the safety of his ears, and his fumbling, stuttering attempts to get Sirius to stop, blush bright cheeks and fond, besotted eyes.
"And now that I've fooound you—"
"Sirius, stop!"
"—new horizons I seeee—"
"Sirius, my ears are about to bleed out!"
"—come take my hand, Moony—"
"Pads, you don't even like country music!"
"—and walk through this world with me."
"Okay, okay, I get it, you don't like George Jones. For the love of Merlin, Sirius, stop!"
Lily turns up in the pictures slowly, starting off at the edge of the shots, working her way to the centre of their little group. Lily and James, curled up in the Astronomy tower in broad daylight, Lily and Sirius, arguing over the best way to block a spell, Lily hugging Peter when he gets rejected by Judy Griffith, Lily and him, studying together in the library.
Their last week at the castle—him and Sirius out by the Black Lake in their corner, slow dancing in the moonlight to the sound of his heartbeat and Sirius' soft humming. Only their silhouettes can be made out in the long-range shot, but there's no mistaking Sirius kissing his cheek.
"Moony, I love you. I couldn't imagine my future without you now that I have you."
The morning before they leave, the four of them grinning, arms entangled and leaning into each other, as Lily takes their last ever photograph of them as students of Hogwarts.
Then they're out in the real world, and it's all sporadic pictures of them at bars and each other's apartments. Lily, grinning broadly as he gulps down a tumbler with more Firewhiskey in it than any of their glasses. Sirius and James, with their acceptance letters to the Auror Academy clutched tightly to their chests. Peter, smiling at his old mother, holding a box of cookies for her.
There's James, standing surrounded by shiny rings, his shirt untucked and hands fisted in his hair as he rants about finding the perfect ring to Sirius, who's behind the camera. Him, sipping tea and reading the morning paper in their kitchen on a random summer bright day. Lily, eyes wide and excited as she shows off the back of her left hand to him proudly, the studded diamonds on her ring glinting against the light. James and Lily sleepily hugging on the couch in his and Sirius' flat, their legs resting up on the glass and wood coffee table he still cherishes.
They join the Order, and it shows over time. They look tired and haggard, him especially so. Peter stands further away from the rest of them in the pictures now, never quite looks them in the eyes. He starts to show up less and less in the photographs, most of his time spent away on recruitment missions.
James and Lily's wedding. Sirius, taking his role as best man very seriously, had organised everything from the officiator to the flower decorations. There's red and white everywhere—the small arch, the little bands of flowers on their wrists, the coral red and silver tie knotted neatly at Sirius' neck. James, with his hair smoothed back properly for once, gold watch at his wrist gleaming bright in the sunlight, and his adoring hazel eyes which shine even brighter. Lily, wearing her mother's old wedding dress, resplendent in satin and lace and ivory beads, walking down the aisle on his arm as he leads her to James. The five of them, later at the reception, arms around each other and exuberance in their grins.
He's never been past this page, though he does know what comes next. Harry. He never could bring himself to look at the memories of Harry when he was alone, because while he could choose to work past his ignorance and his friends' deaths and Sirius' betrayal, he couldn't look at the memory of his unofficial godson and ignore his failings in his attempts to find his cub. But Sirius is here with him now, and Harry is safe, relatively safe, and he can push away a problem only so much before he gives in.
Sirius squeezes his hand once, twice, before he lets go. Sirius smiles at him, soft and nostalgia drunk, and he has no choice but to smile back. Sirius turns the page over, and he has to choice but to look.
And he sees everything. Lily announcing her pregnancy, James spinning and twirling her round and round and round, Sirius beaming like an excited child. Lily at various stages of pregnancy, smiling and frowning in alternate moments; the two of them messily eating pizza on the couch with pineapple and mushrooms and all the works while James stares at them, equal parts gobsmacked and disgusted. Lily handing Sirius the ultrasound, James declaring Sirius the godfather. Lily opening presents of cribs and baby blankets and rattles on her birthday, pouting dramatically because none of them are for her.
James, at the hospital, holding a little blue bundle delicately in his arms and cheesily mouthing it's a boy. Sirius leaning over the baby, the first one to run to James, looking as excited and awed as his best friend. Him, with his smudged clothes and clean hands, rushed in from his latest field mission, stroking Harry's tiny cheek tenderly.
Baby photos, with James and Lily in each photograph. Him and Sirius, when they visit or babysit. There's bottles and cribs and Snitch-themed chimes, Harry's bright green eyes against his own amber ones, Harry's chubby little fists clutching at Sirius. The baby sleeping on his chest on the couch; Padfoot's large frame curled near the fireplace, with Harry's tiny body sprawled against his side.
The pictures continue till Harry's six-month birthday. Lily had given them the album on their anniversary, which had been a few weeks after the party. His eyes and hands trace the last photograph in the book, Sirius and him holding Harry in his new fluffy onesie. The little stuffed antlers sewn on the hood poke at their faces, and Harry's gummy smile had never looked so bright. He wonders when Harry lost that innocent, easy grin. Was it the day his parents died? Was it when his Aunt and Uncle started to treat him like he was less than human? Was it when he gave up on making friends? Was it when people started trying to kill him?
He still sees it sometimes, Harry shooting a smile bright and broad, there and gone like the flash of a camera. He sees it far too seldom for his comfort, and it is almost always directed at either his two best friends or at Sirius.
A pale, longer finger joins his, hovering over the photograph like it's afraid to touch. "I know what you're thinking, Remus."
"What?" he whispers.
"I know you. I know you tried your best to find him. I don't blame you for failing, and if you tell him the truth, neither would he."
His breath catches. "You don't know that, Sirius."
Sirius snorts. "I don't? Rem, he tried to give me a chance when he couldn't even be sure that I wasn't a murderer. I had mucked things up spectacularly, and I have no one to blame for my failures more than myself. But you? You genuinely tried your best, Rem. If I know you, you didn't eat or sleep till you scoured England for every possible place Harry could be. You can't be blamed for not thinking of Petunia—I certainly wouldn't expect to find Harry anywhere near Lily's wretched sister."
"I should have tried harder."
"What more could you have done? You couldn't have searched the whole of Europe, Rem. And you had no way to sort through the Muggle families. Besides, if Albus was behind Harry's concealment, there were high chances you wouldn't have gotten anywhere without his help. No one can find out anything that the man doesn't want found. Dumbledore's secrets have secrets."
He chuckles wryly, against his will. "True, that."
"And what's more, I've seen the way Harry looks at you. He adores you, Rem. You avoiding him is gonna hurt terribly. Much more than your perceived slight against him."
"Sirius, what are you even saying? He doesn't adore me. You're the one he admires, not me."
"That's not true. He likes you just as much as he does me. He's told me all about how you taught him his Patronus, you know. Saved his life, he says. And apparently, you're the first one to talk about Lily, which he's grateful for. The kid doesn't hear about his mother much, and he needed it."
Sirius looks at him in that reverent way he used to revel in, but now he just feels woefully inadequate.
"You always did have a knack for knowing what someone needs, Rem," Sirius says softly, "and you were there for him when he needed you, when I couldn't be there for him. Give yourself some credit. You did good."
He chuckles again, just as sardonically as before, and rubs his palms over his eyes, dragging them down his face.
He doesn't say a thing in reply, and Sirius doesn't push him for an answer.
"You'll be there on Friday, won't you?" Sirius asks him instead. "He'll want to see you."
He stares back, puzzled. "What's Friday?"
Sirius looks at him incredulously, and he has the vague niggling feeling that he's missing something.
"Harry's coming home! Didn't you know?"
He blinks. "What."
Sirius stares at him in consternation. "For Christmas, Rem! The Christmas holidays? In two days? Dumbledore arranged it, remember? I've been going on about it for ages."
He blinks again, growing just the slightest bit alarmed. "That's this Friday?"
Where had the time gone? How was it Christmas already?
He wonders if he's been feeling so blase about life lately that he's paid no mind to one of his favourite holidays of the year, or if it's just the sleep-deprivation talking.
"Yes, Rem. Christmas is coming up soon. How did you not realise? I decorated the house two weeks ago!"
"I—I'm sorry, Sirius, I didn't even notice. The house was dark and I didn't even look around—"
Sirius looks concerned now. "Rem, you haven't been home for two weeks. You look like you haven't even slept in two weeks. I get that you're busy, but it's not like you to forget a date. What's going on with you? Dumbledore's been working you too hard."
He sighs, turning his gaze to the fireplace and looking into the flames. "No, it's—don't blame Dumbledore. These things need to be done. I just finished up the final round of negotiations with the Perthshire pack in Scotland."
He sighs again, and it sounds bone-weary even to his own ears. "The actual negotiations were bad enough, but the pack was a nightmare to track all the time. They kept moving around, making it tough for me to find them, and their leader was—never mind."
"That sounds terrible, Rem. Did the negotiations at least go alright?"
"Yeah, they, uh—they signed the agreement Albus drew up. They're our unofficial allies now. Not much in the grand scheme of things, but… we take what we can get, right?"
"Yeah," Sirius breathes tiredly, squeezing his hand. "That's all we can do."
"It's alright." he reassures, both Sirius and himself. "It's over, and if the holidays are coming up soon, Dumbledore might just let us catch a break and send us on less assignments."
Sirius scoffs. "Do you honestly think he'll go for that?"
He chuckles quietly in reply, and that's all the answer Sirius needs.
A thought flashes through his mind, and he chances a quick glance at Sirius before directing his eyes to the fire again. "You want me to decorate this room for you? Add a few streamers, maybe a tree? I can conjure something up quick."
He can feel Sirius grow tense at his shoulder. "No—uh, no. I didn't do anything here for a reason. I can't bear to touch anything in this room."
He lets himself smile at Sirius. "I know. I just wanted you to have the option."
"Thanks, Rem." Sirius smiles back, then hesitates. "If Harry wants to, maybe you two could do it together? I can't say no to him, I don't think."
He laughs, shaking his head. "Of course I will. And before you ask again, yes, I'll be there Friday. You're not that subtle, Sirius."
Sirius smiles, pleased. "Guess I still have much to learn from you then."
His grin softens, and seeing Sirius smile at him so freely makes him feel light-headed.
"Guess so."
Sirius is leaning closer then, or maybe it's him. He can see Sirius' eyes burn, fond sweetness turning into something possessive, and he wants nothing more than to get lost in them.
It's all he sees, grey eyes and silver flecks and black, black pupils, holding reflections of burning embers in their depths, positively sinful, and he's drowning, free-falling, with nothing to hold him back, just the slightest bit closer and he can taste—
"So sorry to disturb nasty master and half-breed mongrel sir, but Great Master Phineas Black sir wishes to speak with you. Great Master Phineas Black sir is waiting."
He pulls away from Sirius, his mind spinning. They turn as one to the house-elf, both in equal states of shock.
Kreacher stands before them in his dirty tea towel, his wrinkled skin looking waxy in the firelight. Kreacher has his usual churlish look pasted on his face, and his large coal black eyes glint with smugness. He opens his mouth to speak, but finds himself speechless, his mind still utterly blank.
"Great Master Phineas Black sir should not be kept waiting, nasty Master Sirius. Oh, what would mistress say if she sees no-good lousy son Sirius disrespecting the Great Master Phineas Black sir, consorting with half-breed—"
"Kreacher, shut the bloody hell up! You will not insult us!"
"Sirius!" he exclaims, shocked. "Don't yell at Kreacher!"
Sirius is shaking, his hands spasming repeatedly, and when he gets off the couch and draws himself to his full height, his eyes glint with cruelty.
"I will not be belittled by a house-elf," Sirius states evenly, but his voice is low, dangerous. "You will keep your comments to yourself, Kreacher, and you will never call Remus by that name again. Do you understand me?"
Kreacher glares back mutinously under his hooded eyes.
"Do you understand me, Kreacher?!"
"Sirius!" he yells, finding himself standing up as well. "Stop it!"
Sirius' shoulders tighten further at his words, and he doesn't move his stern gaze away from the house-elf.
"Sirius, please."
He tries to pull Sirius away, but Sirius stands firm. He's still tugging at his hand when Kreacher drops his gaze to the floor, mumbling a quiet yes, master from the corner of his cracked lips.
"Good." Sirius' nose flares. "Now get out."
"Yes, master."
Kreacher Disapparates with a jarring pop, but Sirius still stares at the empty space where Kreacher stood.
He feels oddly frantic. His heart is still pounding in his chest, and his mind echoes the words Sirius, please like a mocking drum against his temples.
He takes a few calming breaths, and decides to move on for now. He should discuss this episode with Sirius at a later time, when he has a clear head and can pinpoint the exact emotions he's feeling. But first, they have to see what Phineas desires.
"Let's go."
Sirius stands there, still as a statue, making no move to leave. He feels his temper flare again, and he struggles to restrain himself.
"Sirius," he bites out evenly, "let's go."
Sirius surfaces from his haze, unclenching his fists and looking around before his eyes settle on him. "Right," Sirius mumbles, distracted. "The portrait."
He's the first to walk out the room, his robes swishing at his feet, and he can hear Sirius following behind him.
"You just can't help yourself, can you, Sirius?" he mutters to himself angrily as he sweeps out the door.
"I'm sorry, what?"
He halts in his steps for but a second before walking on. He hadn't meant for Sirius to overhear him, but he can't bring himself to back down now.
"You just have to hurt someone to make yourself feel good."
Sirius' footsteps speed up, stomping louder, till he finds a hand on his arm and himself turned around and facing the man in the next second.
"Remus, what are you on about? Where did this come from?"
He scoffs, folding his arms. "Don't play dumb, Sirius. It doesn't suit you."
Sirius frowns. "Is this about what I said to the house-elf? I don't get it. Why are you so angry about that?"
"Yes, Sirius, I was talking about the way you acted with Kreacher. Why do you have to be so cruel to him? Why can't you just be polite?"
"Polite? Remus, the bloody thing insulted me, insulted you. It's all he ever does. He deserved everything I said to him."
He sees red. He doesn't even know where this is coming from, but he gives into the urge to stand toe to toe with Sirius and hiss into his face.
"Don't you for one minute, Sirius Black, pretend that you don't do the same. For every insult he throws at you, you throw one back. Don't deny that you're usually the first to start it."
Sirius looks startled, but the expression isn't remotely satisfying to him.
"What happened to if you want to know what a man is like, take a good look at the way he treats his inferiors?" he continues, incensed. "Is this the lesson you want to teach Harry? Treat your inferiors well until they commit the first slight?"
Sirius' face looks black, but he's past caring. "Don't you bring Harry into this," Sirius hisses warningly.
"Then stop hurting others, Sirius! How long will you keep doing this? I've told you to be nice a thousand times, but you just never learn."
At his scathing statement, Sirius' expressive face moves past shock, anger and upset, settling into a myriad of emotions which unnerve him. He's shaking, trembling with something far more than fury, something he doesn't know enough to put his finger on, but Sirius seems to read him like an open book.
"This isn't about Kreacher," Sirius settles on saying, but it's enough to make his face shutter.
"Sirius—"
"No, stop. I know it isn't. Tell me what's bothering you."
"I don't know."
He does know.
Sirius is right—he's never had such an explosive reaction before, not to Sirius' cruel moments. He's used to them, and he knows Sirius enough to know that his harshness is a part of him, and not something that goes away. He focuses instead on acting the peacemaker, fixing problems, and stopping Sirius from going too far.
That's where the problem lies. He's always been secure in the knowledge that he's able to stop Sirius from going over the line, that he's always able to make Sirius see sense. Every time he's not around, Sirius is off doing something reckless, but when he is around, he is always, always able to temper Sirius' impulses with just a call of his name.
Except this time.
This time, he did more than call Sirius' name. He told Sirius to stop, he tried to pull him away, he pleaded with Sirius. He has never had to say please to Sirius a day in his life, not to get Sirius to listen to him. This had to have been the first time he'd said it, and Sirius hadn't listened. Not to him.
And it burns.
Sirius used to say that he listened because he loved and respected him. Even when they were just friends, Sirius always, always listened. What changed this time? Does Sirius not respect him anymore? Is he not important to Sirius now?
"I know I did something to hurt you, Rem, but I don't know what it is. Tell me. Tell me so that I can make it better."
He had one role in their relationship. One role, and he did it well. It made him feel useful, like he was contributing more to their relationship than his werewolf stigma and his caravan of issues. If he couldn't perform his only role, what else was he good for?
"I'm fine," he says, clipped. "Let's just see what Phineas wants."
He makes to turn around, but he feels a hand clutching at his arm again.
"Remus," Sirius calls to him, and his voice sounds hoarse and broken. There's something in those shining silver eyes which tempt him to spill everything, dump all his insecurities on Sirius' unsuspecting shoulders, but he cannot bring himself to further splinter their already fractured relationship.
"Let it go, Sirius," he says tiredly, and watches unprepared, as a spark in Sirius' silver eyes fades and dies. Sirius' mouth firms into a thin line and his raw expression closes off instantly, and he's left reeling, unsure of what he did wrong as he watches Sirius shoulder past him and walk away.
His last thought, before they reach Phineas Nigellus Black's portrait, is that maybe Sirius isn't the only one who excels at pushing people away without even trying.
Phineas tells them about the attack on Arthur in the Department of Mysteries.
Voldemort's own snake, he says. Three bites, he says. Being moved to St. Mungo's as they speak, he says. They should prepare for company soon, he says.
Phineas tells them about the blood loss, and he thinks, Arthur doesn't deserve it. The more Phineas describes the attack, the more he thinks, it should have been me.
Two minutes later, the Weasley children Portkey with Harry to the basement kitchen. He and Sirius are waiting, deathly silent, and he can only watch as the tears pool in Ginny's eyes, as Ron blinks out of shell-shock, and as Fred and George share stone-sharp looks.
Harry opens his eyes then, dark green and scared and confused and so, so haunted, looking like he's seen a ghost or worse, like he's killed a man and turned him into one, and while his first thought was he's too young to look like that, his second is, I wonder how much of that is in my own eyes.