chrysalis
“That was him.”
“Yes.”
“Really him.”
“Yes.”
“And it can’t be- I don’t know, a polyjuice? Or… a hallucination? A mass-hallucination? Like those Welsh kids with the aliens?”
”No.” Remus says, with his elbows on his knees. He takes another shaking breath. It’s not deep enough.
“This whole time!” James exclaims, pacing the corridor in another endless line. Like an ant, following the trail of a hundred others, or a furious circus act, stuck to their one tightrope. “Right there! This whole time! We should have stormed the place a year ago. We should have- I don’t know, blasted in there, got him out.”
”Not even Dumbledore could find Serepent’s End.”
“Fuck Dumbledore!” James cries, startling a passing witch. He doesn’t even seem to notice. “He’s Sirius. Loyal as a damn dog. He would’ve done it for us.”
Remus nods. Quietly, he says, “Fuck Dumbledore.”
”And when we were pissing about in that carnivorous rug- he was right there. Just down the corridor.”
“Yes.”
“This whole time.”
“Yes.”
“He’s alive.”
“James,” Remus says, still talking down to his knees, “this isn’t helping.”
Footsteps approach his heavy-breathing tent, bordered by his white shirt and his curdoy-elbows. Both are soaked in blood. It stinks of copper. A strange, gasping noise escapes the shoes in front of him. “How bad was it? I couldn’t really see-?”
“Bad.” Remus sniffs. “Padfoot was missing his foreleg, James. Toes. His nose was this white-pinky colour. Only opened one eye, and only a little bit. Could feel how weak he was.”
James thumps down, heavily, onto the bench beside him. “Fuck.”
“All this time,” Remus wheezes, softly, through the copper tang, “and he never told.”
“Stubborn bastard.” James murmurs, fondly. Then, he seems to uncrumple a little. “They said they’d be a couple of hours. I’m going to try to reach Lily- I left her with Harry all night.” Remus says nothing. He keeps forgetting James has a kid. An honest-to-god child, whilst Remus still feels sixteen, scouring books for butterflies. Gaining speed, James continues, “And Peter, he’ll need to know. Maybe in the morning. And my dad too. Dorcas.”
“It’s not a fucking party!” Bursts out of him, suddenly; it’s so violent that it even startles Remus himself. “Jesus, James, let’s see if he lives through the hour first!”
James says nothing, now. Remus doesn’t have it in him to apologise. He breathes. He stinks. He chokes. The bench creaks. Footsteps retreat. James leaves.
He should get cleaned up.
But what if the healer comes out now, whilst he’s gone? What if Sirius, after all this time-
A soft hand lands on his shoulder. “Hi, Remus.”
He escapes the tent. A curtain of choppy red hair greets him. “Lily.”
“Hi!” She bends down and yanks his limp body into a hug. “Godric, are you growing lichen on your chin? Is that the fashion out here these days?”
He runs a self conscious hand over his stubbled face. Although exhausted, he tries to smile. “I was thinking I looked a bit wise, no?”
“Nah.” Lily smiles. “Just daft.”
As she charms the blood from her cardigan and his front, he glances back at James, baby pressed tight to his front, watching anxiously over her shoulder. Lily has barely changed. She’s softer, perhaps. The curves of motherhood contrast strangely with her sharp, knife-point personality and over-clever eyes. “Forget you were a wizard again?”
He shrugs and averts his eyes. “Happens.”
“Yeah, I still do it too sometimes.”
They’ve always found solidarity in their upbringings. Away from his three spoilt pure-blood prats for friends, Lily was a good reminder that driver licences and council flats and pound coins and bin men and toasters and street pigeons all still existed. She was from a small outer suburbs town, Ham-something, (he can never remember the name and neither can anyone else) and she loved Stevie Nicks and Kate Bush. They met up and went to concerts in the summer a few times. It forged a little secret connection between them- the roll of the eyes when James mentioned his new broom, or when Sirius asked where he was ‘summering’. Muggleborns and werewolves. Miss-Suburbs and Mr Provincial. Miss Solider and Mr Solider. Mrs Potter and a widower.
”This him, then?”
James nods. Hesitantly, he steps forwards with Harry. He’s still tiny. Are one-and-a-half year olds meant to be so fragile, still? “Say hi, Haz.”
Harry can’t say hi. Harry is asleep, pressed tight to James’s body. His hair is soot-coloured and his skin tan. A James-in-miniature. Their James-in-large is trembling. Lily presses a kiss to both of their foreheads and brings him over to sit down. “It’s going to be a big change for him. Never seen any other babies before, or talked to any other adults. That he remembers, of course.”
Remus won’t ask to hold him. Not in this state. Not a baby as delicate as that. “If he’s anything like his Mam, he’ll be tough as nails.”
Lily smiles. “Flatterer.”
”Oi.”
Remus is relived to see their easy dynamic remains. He thought it might have changed them, so long cooped up together- he’s always secretly worried about the two of them, although never dared to mention it. James was fifteen when he fell in love with her, not quite seventeen when they started dating. He’s never had another girlfriend. They got married at twenty, Lily got pregnant a year later and even by crisis standards, they moved fast. But, now twenty three, they’re just as sweet and secure as ever. Maybe they just knew. Maybe they were sure. Maybe deer have simpler live cycles than butterflies.
Remus hums, tilting his head back to rest against the wall. The fact that Sirius is in the same building as him, just behind a wall, is driving him mad. James and Lily are talking about Harry in practiced, gobbledegook terms. He closes his eyes.
”How’re you feeling?”
“Right now?” He opens his left eye.
“Mhm.”
“Angry.”
“Are you?”
He tilts his head. “Shouldn’t I be?”
”Depends. At who?”
“Dumbledore. Voldemort. Myself.”
“It’s not your fault. Couldn’t possibly be. You didn’t kidnap him. If anything, it’s ours-”
“Let’s not do this.” Remus turns away. “I can’t play the blame game right now.”
“It’s funny,” Lily blurts, “I had all these fears when James told me that the two of you were going with the aurors. I thought maybe you might not find anything, and how much that would ruin you. I thought there might be some sort of grave, or you might snap and try to get some revenge. But it never even crossed my mind that he could be…”
“Alive.” James finishes, shifting Harry in his grip, who has began to stir. “Me neither. It’s unheard of, isn’t it? Anyone surviving that long when Voldemort wants something from them?”
“Completely.” Lily agrees. “Pass him here, James.”
“He’s fine.”
“You’re both exhausted.”
“It’s fine.” James repeats, as the baby squirms. He clutches him like a lifeline, fisting his hands in the tiny snitch pyjamas. “He needs his bed, is all.”
Remus watches it all determinedly without emotion. Harry turns his tiny, circular head around and begins to cry. Lily, wisely, doesn’t try to get involved and lets James pace around the hospital corridor making shushing noises. It’s so uncanny- in that moment, Remus can see Fleamont, striding after first-year James with the same warm expression, like a badly-imposed photograph.
Lily apologises as he continues to wail. A quick tempus reveals that midnight has long since ticked by. In a rush of fidgety movement, she suddenly stands and walks over to the pair. Remus can’t be bothered to listen in- it’s two weeks from a full moon, so it would take some effort. Their heads crane together like trees in a storm, Harry the little rock between them. His face is getting red from all the crying. Something decided, James breaks the arch and slinks over to Remus again. “I’m sorry, Re, Harry needs to go to bed. Do you think…?”
“You guys can head home.” He assures his best friend, numbly. “There’ll be no news ‘til the morning anyways.”
“You”ll be okay?”
“Sitting here? Doing nothing? Sure.”
“Call.” James says, firmly. He looks so worn. “Okay? If you don’t, I’ll be here first thing anyway.”
“Go.” Remus says. “Your kid’s crying.”
James hugs him, kisses the top of his head, hugs him again. “Whatever happens, we got this, right?”
It means, even if he does die before morning, at least you can say goodbye.
“And he was alright, the song went on forever,” Remus sings, softly, “Right?”
”Right.” James lets go and half-smiles, glasses askew. He and Lily take each others hand and turn the corner.
Remus leans back against the white wall and resumes his vigil. Silence slides over the room. A craving for water emerges in his throat. Sleep comes and goes in tidal waves. Unfamiliar pictures of many-legged insects await him on the inside of his eyelids, crawling over all four walls. It’s barely two hours later, as he’s finally considering finding a water fountain, that the door opens and his half-lidded eyes jolt with the first sign of green robes. In a rush, adrenaline boosts through him and he’s creaking and cracking into a more upright position.
The healer is unnervingly spotless for having been working on a patient completely saturated with blood. Two silver plaits neatly pull back her hair, each with gold rings on the end. Her wand is short and thick, as is often characteristic of her profession. “Hi there, sorry to wake you. Were you the man who brought in the dog animagius?”
“Yes.” Remus croaks. “Sirius, yes. Is he-?”
“You can go see him.” She assures him. “He’s pulling through rather nicely. I assume you know him, Mr-?”
“Lupin. Remus Lupin. He’s my-“ lover. Life partner. Widow. “-best mate. Known each other since the first year of school.”
She smiles. “Well, he’s stable now. Due to the off-the-scale concentration of dark magic that he seems to be afflicted with, however, he might be in for a little while. We are also going to have to alert the ministry as the nature of his injuries imply a case may need to be made. He’s been hurt a great many times, I should think. Never seen anything like it, Mr Lupin, to tell you the truth. Would you be able to tell us a bit about his injuries, in the name of acquiring better treatment? I’m afraid his animigry also doesn’t match with any on our database, and he doesn’t seem to have a wand, so we will need to ask you a few more questions.”
”Whatever you need.”
“Perfect. If we could just confirm your identity first, of course.”
Remus follows her without complaint. He passes over his wand and they check his magical signature. He tells them Sirius’s name, age, birthday, wand core, watches that half-familiar squint come over their faces. Whatever he knows, he gives them- Remus honestly can’t remember a whole lot of what he says; everything has become this white-light green-robe blur. His ears buzz. Somebody gives him a glass of water and he drinks it too fast. He follows another mediwizard’s instructions and wanders back up the corridor.
He stands outside a door. A scarred, inflexible palm reaches out and opens it, propelled forwards by two feet made of lead. A set of eyes, flickering, settle into the centre of the room.
On the bed lies Most-Of-Sirius-Black. His hair is long and splayed over the white sheet, as striking as black ink on paper. It trails to the and of his shoulder blades, at least. A healer must have placed him into the bed like that- arms over the blanket, neck a perpendicular line to his shoulders- because Sirius never sleeps neatly. Remus sits on the end of the bed. Here are the similarities:
His chin. Still un-stubbled, pretty much- Sirius has always been a late bloomer to that sort of thing. He was the last Marauder to hit his growth spurt and his voice continued to crack long into his teens (privately, Remus reckons it’s why he became so insanely good at nonverbal magic). His dark, midnight hair. His forehead. The mole on his neck.
Here is what has changed:
His clothes. The shirt he has on is high-collared and velvet, incredibly old-timey. The arm hanging over the duvet, or lack of it, to be more accurate. Though swathed in salves, it’s easy to see there’s not much more of it past his shoulder. An elbow length, at most. The pinkie and ring finger on his other hand- his only hand- are a void as well. There’s a strip of a bandage across his face, bisecting his left eye like a sterile pirate. The chinks of grey in his hair. The shiny pink tissue across his nose- actually, on second glance, there’s a little of the actual tip of it shaved off. So many nicks and scars. The ones on his shoulders and forearm are words, but he can’t bring himself to read them. The drawings between them stick out to him. Runes for truth and suggestiveness. Runes for insanity and pain. One cuts elegantly over his throat, covered with a gritty healing paste.
Remus wonders what the state of him on the inside is like, if the shell is so changed.
There’s just this overall sickness hanging over Sirius. Chapped lips. Terrifyingly skinny. Gaunt cheeks. Paler than Remus ever wanted to see him- Sirius is pretty much transparent. Has he been outside once, this past year? What he feels of a magic presence is just a low, thrumming hurt, as unsteady as an elderly pulse. He can’t tell if he’s aged. It’s hidden under all the other, terrible changes.
“Ach.” Says Remus, aloud, to the intimate stranger. “You’re still really fucking pretty, Padfoot.”
He is. He’s gorgeous.
Remus feels like he ought to kneel. Make some daft sacrifice, or read a prayer. What was it they did for Jesus, when he resurrected?
Remus wouldn’t know, really. The only altar he’s ever worshipped is silent, lying prone in bed.
Various healers and appprenticies swing by in their slow rise towards morning. They don’t disturb the hagard old man in the corner of the room, too anxious to hold his lover’s hand. Sometimes they murmur things to Sirius, or tell Remus what they’re doing, but otherwise the room remains stagnant. The various leaves and herbs they bring leave an odd, complex smell in the air. One healer girl tells him it’s too dangerous to cast any more magic on him for a little while or they risk his mind becoming overwhelmed. That’s why his healing is so slow and herbology-reliant. Apparently he’s already miles better than when he came is. Remus stares at the crossed bone and wand emblem on her chest as he nods. She leaves with a pitying look. He asks the next wizard on his rounds when it’s likely for Sirius to wake up but receives only a shrug- “Nobody here has seen anything like this since Grindelwald. My best offer for you would be twenty-four hours after the first blood-replenishers.”
He thanks him. That should be about ten o’clock this evening. By his guess, James will appear at about seven, probably without a wink of sleep.
He should call his Ma. She would want to know what’s keeping him- it’s about six, now, or just past it.
Remus wanders into the corridor. The windows are strange around here- everyone apparates straight inside, but he thinks that actual physical location is somewhere in London. They almost always portray sunny weather and a view of the same square courtyard, no matter where in the building you stand. The general cacophony of grotesquely injured wizards is very much alive already, despite the breaking dawn- fellow wailing babies, splinched teenagers, half-transformed animigi. He amuses himself for several minutes trying to guess people’s various ails. Frogpox. Hippogriff lashes. Infected boils. A woman passes with hands on her kneecaps, and a man with the bill of a rather tiny duck. The scrawny little blonde boy has his finger stuck in the spout of a cursed teapot and it steams with several fantastic insults to their surrounding patients.
Anxiety bubbles in his chest and Remus finds himself unable to continue towards the apparition point. With a heavy sigh, he drags his sleepless body back up the stairs to his previous white corner, resigned to another hour of staring at the walls and wallowing in guilt, guilt, guilt.
Only this time, after he has already dragged himself over and into the chair, he glances at Sirius and chokes. He’s lying there, same as before, motionless as he’s been all night, except his eye is open. Not just open- but he’s looking right at Remus.“Hi.” Remus stammers. “Sirius. Jesus. Hi.”
Sirius makes a garbled noise. Remus rushes over to bring him water but he doesn’t take it, only coughs and tries again. Remus yanks his chair right against the mattress and holds his breath.
“Hi.”
“Hey,” Remus grins, dizzy with relief, “how’re you?”
Sirius exhales, looking exhausted. “Are you trying to grow a beard?”
His voice is completely different. It hits him like a gut-punch. Remus was always quietly drawn to Sirius’s proper, melodic way of taking. That vaguely posh cadence, like a story-book character. This- this is a rock-salt scrape, crushed and cracking.
Relief crashes over him, nevertheless. He feels faint with it. Remus laughs, grinning like a loon. “Why’s everyone suddenly so concerned with my facial hair?”
“Shave it.” Says Sirius, sternly.
“Yes sir.” He laughs again. “Anything for you, Sirius.”
“I’m going to milk James for favours for the rest of my life.” He agrees, after a stumbling silence, then pauses again when Remus winces. “Is James-?”
“He’s fine. Should be back in half an hour or so. It’s just- well, a little early for death jokes, no?”
Sirius considers this. “Did you play Bowie at my funeral?”
“I did try. Your mother wasn’t keen.”
He giggles. “I bet.”
Sirius’s eyelids are flickering. His head lists to the side, even as he’s obviously fighting it. Remus takes his hand- the strange, alien shape of it still fits comfortably in his. “Go on. Get your rest. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Sirius murmurs, “Missed’t.”
“Not as much as I did.”
“What did you write on my headstone?”
“Here lies the world’s biggest prat.”
“No!”
“Sirius Black- a die-hard ABBA fan.”
“James wouldn’t let you.” Sirius rasps, almost inaudiblly. “What’s’t really?”
Remus presses a soft kiss to his palm. “I’ll tell you when you wake up.”
When the healers pop back up again to change his bandages, Remus makes a brief exit to finally phone his mother. Leaving the room feels incredibly wrong- with every step, something gets tighter and tighter in his stomach. Whilst fiddling with the peeling paint on the phone box and listening to it ring, he considers what to say. In the end, Remus tries to go with something basic- hi ma, Sirius is alive, no, of course I’m not freaking out. She then proceeds to assume he’s having some kind of mental episode and demands to talk to James, who then makes a right mess of things by using worlds like ‘Voldemort’ and ‘Death Eaters’ which sends her into a ten-minute spiral of questions.
Really, Remus doesn’t blame her- it’s not often that people come back to life in her world. It’s not often that it happens in his, either. Still, the conversation is exhausting and by the time they manage to extricate themselves, Remus’s head is throbbing.
“Sorry about that.” He says to James, later, as they wander along, looking for somewhere quiet to apparate.
”Don’t worry.” James assures him, looking exhausted. “I’ve missed your wolf.”
Remus hasn’t. He hates sending Patronus messages- he hates anything to do with Patronuses. That constant, daily reminder of what he is in his core. He grunts, and they pull back behind a teashop to disappear. The sucking motion hurts more than usual- Remus finds himself bent double for a moment when they arrive in the crowded waiting room.
”So,” James blurts, “is Padfoot-?”
“This way.” Remus assures him, lurching onwards. His head is killing him. “Made it through, healers say he’s out of the critical zone.”
”Godric!” James whirls around, doing a small leap in the white corridor, “Are you kidding? That’s insane. We’ve got Pads back, Moony. He’s here. He’s going to be okay. He is, isn’t he? He’ll be okay?”
Remus swallows. “He’s… different.”
“Different?”
“He has lots of injuries.” Remus settles on. “They’ll take a long while to heal.”
“When do they think he’ll wake up?” James asks, anxiously, as he runs a hand through his hair. He’s wearing the same shirt as yesterday. “Do you think he’ll be… alright? I know that Frank and Alice went through something similar. It’s just been thinking, all night pretty much, about what this kind of thing does to people. He’s been- I mean, he’s been in living hell for a year. There was this guy I met on the auror cadet day, right, and he was a prisoner of Grindelwalds, and he couldn’t talk anymore. And Bellatrix! She went stark mad from her crazy childhood. I just mean, right, we shouldn’t expect him to be.. you know, right?”
”Oh,” they’re approaching the door, number 36, and Remus steps forwards to pull it open, “I had the same thought. But don’t worry- he spoke to me this morning. Seemed perfectly sane.”
“Wait, what-“ James begins, before his eyes fall on Sirius and the air deflates from his lungs. Silently, he steps fully into the room and stumbles over to the white bed in its epicentre. Remus lets the door swing gently shut and hobbles in behind him, falling into the wicker chair again, silently watching. With round, wet eyes, James collapses onto the end of Padfoot’s bed, hovering his flitting hands over his unconscious body. The fingers tremble and stutter over Sirius’s other, missing ones. James gasps when he sees the arm. Finally, as if he’s a fragile newborn, he presses his fingertips to the side of Sirius’s sleeping face. It’s so reverently gentle. Like this boy is a dream he can’t bear to risk waking. “Oh, Padfoot. Look at you. You silly, silly man. What have you done to yourself? For me? For us?”
James begins to cry in earnest. Fat, salty tears wail down his cheeks and make dark spots on the white sheets. He sniffs but doesn’t acknowledge them.
“He seems his usual self.” Remus breaks in, after a minute’s silence. “If that helps. Made jokes and all.”
James wipes belatedly at his eyes and kisses the pale forehead between them. “How is that possible?”
He shrugs. “I have no idea, but I’m so fucking grateful.”
“It doesn’t feel real- we mourned him. Proper mourned him. And now he’s just back. After all this time.”
“Like a dream.”
“The best sort.” James says, passionately. He sits back a little and exhales. “He’s really back.”
“He is.” Says Remus, with a tired smile. They just grin at each other in a silent room for several long moments, with Sirius’s whistling breathes like a strange metronome. “Don’t say he’ll be up again for a long time, though. He seemed really wiped.”
James shrugs. “I just want to apologise.”
Remus leans back in his chair. Quietly, he admits, “me too.”
They sit in silence for a long time after that. The rise and fall of the over-thin chest between them is hypnotic. Remus wonders again about his strange clothing someone’s dressed Sirius in- so formal and intricate, with white stars dotting down the ruffled sleeves. James closes and opens his eyes, over and over, as if he might disappear from one blink to the next. The room buzzes with loud thoughts and empty voices. It’s only when Remus can’t hold back a second jaw-cracking yawn that James looks up at him again. “You should go get some sleep, Moony.”
Remus shakes his head. He doesn’t want to have this conversation.
“Just for an hour or so.” He insists. “You said it yourself: he won’t wake up for ages. Go grab a change of clothes at least, mate.”
“I’m fine.”
“Have you slept at all?”
“James.” Remus warns- he forgot how incessantly mothering his best friend could be. It feels unfamiliar and uncomfortable after so long fending for himself. Like one of his old coats, too tight over his broader shoulders.
“A snack. Aren’t you hungry?”
Remus is hungry. “I’d rather be here.”
“Go on.” He persists. “You look like death warmed over.”
“You really know how to make a man feel better, Prongs.”
“Padfoot doesn’t want your dirty, smelly face to be the first thing he wakes up to.”
“Shut up.” Remus rolls his eyes. “He won’t care.”
“Maybe I care. Maybe being trapped in this tiny room with a sleep-deprived, unwashed werewolf is affecting me. Your best friend.”
“Piss off, ta.”
“Come on,” Prongs wheedles, “Just an hour. You could even transfigure that into a bed if you wanted- just rest, for Merlin’s sake. You’re no use to anyone in that state.”
Remus hesitates. He sniffs the front of his shirt- ok it’s a little bloody and sweaty still.
James grins at him, unabashedly smug. “Hop to it, then.”
Grumbling, Remus steps out of his chair. He stares down at Sirius in the bed- so still. His fingers ache to press into that new hollow of his cheek. It pulls him, a tidal wave. Hollow guilt and intense affection crash through his body, both at war and in harmony.
“He’ll be okay, Moony.”
“I know.”
He still can’t look away.
“I’ve got him. We’ve got him now.”
Thickly, Remus murmurs, “Why didn’t we before?”
James sighs. He kisses Padfoot’s limp hand, tracing patterns on the milky skin. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.”
Pulling away is one of the hardest things he has ever done. But Remus does anyways- he wrenches his way out of the door, ignoring James’s final call to maybe shave whilst you’re at it, and spirits away.
Rose cottage is empty. His mam is out somewhere- a walk, most likely. His dad will be working, again. He inhales dry cereal standing against the counter. Remus heaves himself upstairs and showers like he’s on a countdown, then hesitates in front of the mirror. The pack of razors mocks him from the open cupboard. Thinking of Sirius, only Sirius, he supposes he can take an extra ten minutes.
“Oh good.” Lily greets him with, as he re-enters the white room some time later. She’s sat with her legs criss-cross on a large rocking chair, neatly transfigured from his rickety one. On her lap is an enormous book about healing magic. It’s wider than her head, with rows of text as tiny as thumbtacks. “You’ve gotten rid of the furry little problem.”
“Really?” Remus lifts his brows. “Nobody told me they’d found a cure for lycanthropy.”
”Hm. Very funny. I meant the one on your chin.”
He shrugs. “He asked me to.”
“I was considering asking James to grow one.” She turns a page. “But now I’m not so sure.”
“If Sirius were awake, he’d tell you that Fleamont pulled it off.”
“But he had that, sort of, wiseness to him. A rugged-ness that made it work. James is too sweet.”
The door swings open and James strides in with a tray of hot drinks and an indignant expression. Harry, although he’s probably much too old, is strapped to his front. “I’m plenty rugged and plenty wise!”
“No,” says Lily, as she kisses him and accepts her coffee, “you’re really not.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“Mary told me I was devilish once.”
“She probably found it in a thesaurus and thought she’d try it out, darling. You’re much too… buoyant to be rugged.”
“Cheerful?” James asks, with a boyish grin, “Or maybe flirtatious? Or charming?”
“Insufferable works too.” Remus comments.
“I knew you’d be here soon, Moony.” James whirls around to face him, passing over a steaming cardboard cup of tea. “Do you still take it the same?”
“I do.” Remus answers, surprised. He takes the cup. Yorkshire tea with two sugars and a little milk. It warms his hands, which he hadn’t realised were cold. “Cheers.”
“Now tell Lily I’m rugged.”
“You’re definitely athletic.”
”Alas,” James sighs, suddenly put out, “my best quidditch days are behind me. Bring on thirty.”
Remus snorts. “Seven years to go. And hey, it could be worse. At least you don’t still live with your parents.”
They both swivel back to him, obviously surprised. Remus winces. He thought everybody knew by now. Lily bookmarks her page and shuts the tome, shifting to face him properly. “Are you back in Rose cottage? Since when?”
Remus scratches the back of his neck. “Couple of moons ago.”
”And… and the flat?”
He hates this. The confession itches and burns on its way out. Picking at the string of his teabag is the only way to avoid their pitying eyes. “Sold it. Lost my job after a couple of really bad moons. Couldn’t seem to get better. All his stuff everywhere, all those reminders- I just couldn’t do it. My Ma quit the vets. I moved back in, just until I got back on my feet.”
“Literally or figuratively?” James asks softly, as Harry makes baby-whines.
He shrugs awkwardly. “Both for a while.”
“Jesus.” Says Lily. “Sorry Remus- you never mentioned any of this in your letters. If we’d known…”
If they’d known, it would have changed nothing.
“It’s fine.” He risks a glance up. The guilt-train is back, crushing both of their features into wallowings of shame. “It’s over now.”
Despite this, James sets Harry into his wife’s lap and gives Remus a tight hug. He holds the back of James’s wool jumper and feels the echo of eleven, twelve, thirteen. Lily casts a quick scouring charm and places their kid down on the floor to crack open her book again. His dad plops down beside him and begins pulling bricks out of his pocket. Harry toddles over with short, clumsy steps, in blue shoes with orange flames along the soles. He walks like a drunkard and it makes Remus laugh. “Walking already?”
“Oh yeah,” James grins, “Harry’s hard to keep still, most days. He’ll be as clever as you, Lils.”
“He’s got your nose, I’d say.” Remus observes, to her, “And your eyes. But the rest is terminally Potter, I’m afraid.”
“What a shame.” Says Lily, smiling.
Just then, there’s the distinctive sounds of footsteps in the hall. Thunk, tap. Thunk, tap. Somebody knocks but doesn’t wait, marching right on inside.
“Oh, hi.” James blinks, still on the floor.
Moody surveys their baby-spittle, eye-bag ridden group like a box of flea-bitten puppies. His face is even tighter than usual, although the new prosthetic eye is working cleanly. It’s already yellowed around the edges and unsettlingly piercing- where does Remus look? The good eye? The bridge of his nose? “Afternoon, Potters, Lupin.”
“Moody.” Lily greets, curtly. If she were Padfoot, her hackles would be up. She leans almost defensively towards the man in the bed.
“So, it’s true.” He swivels around the three of them, then laser-focuses on Sirius. “Tough little bugger, isn’t he? I won’t stay long- just wanted to let you know how the case was going. Is he awake yet?”
Remus unsticks his throat. “Not properly.”
“Ah, it’ll come. He’s young. Life in him yet. Good to see him, though- hell of a fight he’s fought. It seems he might have had a much bigger part in all this than we thought.”
“What’s that mean?”
“A few more things to iron out first, then I’ll let you know. Although, we brought his brother in this morning, will you tell him that?”
“Sure,” Lily says, although they often all try to forget about Regulus, Sirius’s death-eater obsessed little brother. “Are there trials? For everyone who hurt him?”
Moody sniffs. “It’ll be a long process, plenty of ‘em to sort through. Think there’s about thirty of his followers in the courtroom over then next couple months.”
“Good.” James says, viciously, handing Harry a yellow half-circle for the top of his tower.
”Well,” Alastor hesitates, still looking at the bed, “I’ll be back when he’s taking visitors. Send me an owl.”
“Will do.” Remus murmurs.
Still Moody, lingers. After a prolonged pauses, he finally sighs and adds, “You were bloody lucky you found him when you did, is all I’ll say. Another group went through the manor again today and found a grave, fresh-dug. Had a headstone ‘n all.”
The air punches out of his lungs.
“The Noble houses have always been very traditional in their burial rites,” Moody continues, lowly, “and a damn good thing for it. They consider it against the family magic to prune an heir, so he would have had to have died from blood loss, as you saw- Bellatrix most likely slit his throat when she learned her master was gone, some kind of final revenge.”
“Ah,” James says, “I was wondering about his clothes.”
Lily turns to him, brow pinched. “I thought they were odd too. What’s the significance?”
He runs his hand through his hair. “They’re, uh, burial robes. Traditional-“ he winces- “pureblood dress. For the super old ceremonies.”
“Oh,” says Remus dumbly, feeling a little sick. For some reason, the first place his brain takes him is to that cardboard box of Sirius’s things still in the cupboard under the stairs. There are clothes in there that he would like much better.
Conversation dwindles after Moody leaves. Remus feels wrung out and left in the rain, a waterlogged moth with wings that just won’t stretch.
As if some part of him knows, Padfoot doesn’t begin to stir until all four marauder return to the same room. Peter arrives just after noon, or about it, when they’ve finished their lunch pastries. He’s still in his thick travelling cloak, dusted with snow (is it that cold out? Remus hadn’t noticed), and he rambles his way into the room as if his pants were on fire. “So sorry I’m so late- I was doing media clean up at the ministry, couldn’t get away. Saw your dad as I was leaving, Moony, he said he’ll pop by with Hope tomorrow, if that’s alright. Oh! Hello James. And Lily! And Harry! Hello, all, how are you?” Thankfully, James then greets him with a long hug, and he stammers himself into silence.
“Good to see you, Wormy.”
“You too. Sorry about the tardiness.”
“Don’t worry.” James forgives, easily. “Haven’t missed much. He’s only been awake once and not for long.”
Peter hangs up his cloak and approaches the bed-bound figure. His lack of shock, barely a hard swallow, implies that the story is already well on its way around. “Hiya, Padfoot. You haven’t aged a bit- well, maybe a little.” He glances at Remus. “It’s a very old punishment, the arm- he was left handed, wasn’t he? It was an old trick to remove the wand-arm of an enemy wizard. Old, old magic. Do they think he’ll get a prosthetic, then? How does that work?”
Remus blinks. He hasn’t really been thinking beyond the next five minutes. “No idea.”
From the bed, Sirius makes a noise. They all freeze. It’s just a croaking sort of sound, just one, before he’s still again. Several long seconds tick by. Nothing more happens. Lily exhales and lets out a breathy laugh.
“Padfoot?” James tries, with no answer, and then he laughs too. “He wasn’t doing that earlier.”
“No,” Remus agrees, feeling floating and breathless, “he wasn’t.”
“It’s my great chat, I expect. Instantly healing. Would anyone like to hear about the twenty-seven new release media campaign with security of truth forms I had to sign today?”
“I think we’re ok.” James says.
“Rather die, actually.” Lily offers.
“Right.” Wormtail conjures a chair and sits down. “What do we do now?”
“Wait.” Remus says, simply. “We wait for him to come back to us.”
And James gives him a beautiful half-smile. “Like he always does.”
Sirius stirs a handful of times over the next hour, which relaxes them each a little more every time, but it’s only whilst Peter and James are busy interrogating a poor healer that it actually moves beyond that.
“Hey,” coughs a familiar-unfamiliar voice, like the sputter of an engine, “they grew my eye back.”
Remus shoots up from where he’s slumped over the bed, head resting on his folded arms. It’s comically similar to before- Sirius is suddenly wide-awake, so quiet and so still in the transition that it was unnoticeable, and he’s patting the side of his face that the bandage was on.
“They did.” Remus manages. “You’re still as pretty as ever, Padfoot.”
Sirius struggles to turn his head and focus on his face. “I am?”
“Oh yeah.” A slow grin overtakes Remus’s lips. Just then, one of the others must turn around because there’s a startled gasp and suddenly James Potter is right in their little bubble of quiet space.
“Sirius!”
“James!” Sirius mimics, and then coughs. The healer bustles over and makes them make a little space. He gives Sirius water and vials to drink. His hand trembles and is obviously uncooperative, but he’s confident and unfettered by his stumped left arm, meaning it’s not a recent development. The healer asks a few basic questions, both mental tests and pain related, which Sirius answers with little difficulty. James is grinning like a loon.
“And your vision?”
”A bit off on the right.” He opens and closes each eye a few times. “Like, cloudy?”
“That should be normal for a little while. I’m afraid that your fingers and left forearm are far too old to completely regenerate. The ideal scenario would be for you to leave in two days or so with a prosthesis, should you want it, and return in March or April once the excessive saturation of magic fades to try some stronger healing spells.”
Padfoot hums. “Ok.”
“Sorry to ask so much of you so soon, but last question, I promise. We’ve removed a few of the scars on your face,” says the man, “which we thought might impediment your ability to express yourself. Modern magic is able to do more, if you wish- we usually ask for consent before hand, of course.”
Sirius tilts his head. “Thank you. I’d like them all gone from my arms and my chest, if you could. But my back- you can leave that.”
He nods. “Someone should be around later to discuss that with you, then.”
When the healer does finally leave, Remus can’t help it. He steps right over to the bed, Sirius watching with wide, silent eyes, and sits beside him. When he struggles to sit up, the one shaking elbow not quite able to support him, Remus hovers his hands over his shoulder and waits.
“It’s okay.” Sirius whispers, so Remus lifts him just a little, revelling in that tiny press of skin, until he can prop himself back against the headrest.
“Better?”
Their eyes meet. Something sad and hopeful twinkles in storm-grey. “Hi, Moony. And Prongs. Wormtail.”
They all obediently wave, as if they haven’t been watching him sleep all day. James takes this as permission and throws himself into the rocking chair by the top of the bed, planting a kiss on the crown of his best friend’s head. “You need a haircut, mate.”
Sirius’s hair is armpit-length. “Yeah, so did Moony.”
“Hey!” Remus protests. “It wasn’t that bad.”
“Are we talking about the beard? Godric, I wasn’t going to say anything earlier, but I’m so glad you shaved.” Peter chimes in. Even Remus laughs.
“So,” Sirius says, after a small pause to catch his breath, “what have I missed?”
James’s expression drops. The cheer falls like a veil into a stricken sort of guilt. “Oh, merlin, Padfoot- I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen. I thought I’d killed you,“
“James,” Sirius says uncertainly, “It’s okay.”
“It’s not!” He gestures wildly around the white, sterile space. “It’s really, really not. You’re missing an arm, for Merlin’s sake!”
He raises an eyebrow. “Did you chop it off?”
“Well, no-“
“Then why’s it your fault?”
“You were my secret keeper! Still are!”
“I volunteered.”
“Because you’re a good person. And an idiot.”
“No.” Sirius says, stubbornly. “Because I love you.”
“That’s worse!”
“This whole year- is it a year?” he turns to Remus, who nods, “-all I thought about was you guys. The past. What I would change. And the answer is: none of it. I’d do it for you again.”
“Please don’t.” Says Peter.
“We just got you back, Padfoot.” James adds, fervently. “You can’t go running off to sacrifice yourself for another decade, at least.”
Sirius stares solemnly into some mysterious point between them, eyes unfocused. “Alright.” He says, very, very quietly. His lips are chapped and sore-looking.
“Leave it now, James.” Remus breaks in, when his friend opens his mouth again. “I think we’ve guilt-tripped ourselves enough for tonight.”
James murmurs his assent and shimmies forwards into the bed again. Remus sits on the side of the mattress, just at Sirius’s waist, and Peter in a chair, but James props himself between the seat and Sirius’s elbow, as if resisting the urge just to burrow into his side. They’ve always been like that- like damn puppies, Lily had once proclaimed, unbeknownst to how accurate she actually was.
Peter clears his throat. “How’re you feeling, Pads?”
He shrugs. “Been better, right?”
“Right.”
“So, what’s the date, then?”
“December seventeenth, ‘81.” Remus answers. “About eight PM, I should think.”
“Damn.” Sirius whistles, sounding odd with his fucked-up lungs. “When did I go?”
“December first. Merry Christmas, love.”
”And you, Moony.” He settles back a bit. “So, what was my funeral like?”
Remus grins. “Hilarious. Your mother wore a massive Victorian-style dress and nearly got stuck in a doorway.”
Sirius giggles. “Did you get a picture?”
“Afraid not. Could probably sketch it for you, if you’d like.”
“I’d love it. She still alive?”
“Your mother? As far as I know.” He wavers. “Moody says they took Regulus into custody, though.”
No surprise is evident. Even so, Sirius is a perfect liar. “That stupid, stupid little boy. Honestly, I’m surprised he lived this long.”
James hums. “Dumbledore’s also still alive. And Bowie.”
“And the minister.” Peter adds, helpfully.
“And I’m assuming that Voldemort…?”
“Dead as a doorknob.” James confirms. “I’ll bake a cake, I think.”
Sirius sighs wistfully. “I’ve been dreaming about your coffee and walnut cake for months. Don’t say the word ‘cake’ unless it’s already in my hand.”
James salutes. “Sorry, Padfoot. I’ll hop to it tonight.”
Sirius cheers. Remus presses his pale hand between two of his own and brings it to his lips, which makes his love’s mouth flicker upwards at the ends. “Where’s Lily?”
“With Harry. I hate to say it, but I’ll have to go check on her soon, Pads. Not for a while though- he’s just hard to put down, lately, you know.”
Something big and sore fills Sirius’s eyes. “How old is he? Is he teething? Walking? Talking?”
James gives him a lopsided smile. “One and a half. Talking, not really. Teething, yes. Walking, yes. Crying, yes. Riding a broom, yes.”
“So,” he says, cheekily, “the big first word could still be ‘padfoot?’”
Peter cracks a grin. “You know, I think ‘Wormy’ might be easier.”
“Or ‘Moony.’” Remus adds, thoughtfully. “You know, that could be a winner.”
”Fuck off.” James folds his arms, although he spoils the effect by laughing. “No way! It’ll be Dad, for sure.”
“I don’t know, Moony does sound easier.”
“Sirius!”
“Just being honest!” He yelps as James prods him in the stomach. “Sorry, sorry!”
“You should be.” Prongs grumbles, good-naturedly. Suddenly, that bouncing, beaming smile returns. “Oh, this is great! I’ve missed this so much, mate. All of us four. Never thought I’d get to have this again. Oh, and now you’re up, you can tell Moony where our house is and he can come stay! I was meaning to ask him by tonight, Pete too, if you could. Can’t believe the spell has lasted this long, to be honest. Forever indebted, really.”
Remus doesn’t know how he knows, but he does; Padfoot is gone.
It’s like suddenly the life to his face pulls inwards, locked and shuttered. His eyes just stare. It’s not unconsciousness but something much worse- a little like when Peter went through that phase of sleepwalking in second year.
“Padfoot?” James asks, tentatively. Remus waves him away and leans almost up to Sirius’s face, enclosing them into their bubble.
“Love? Are you alright?”
Sirius doesn’t respond. The shell remains vacant. Whatever James asked of him was too much- the soft parts, the living parts, are hiding somewhere deep inside. It makes Remus’s chest ache in sympathy. How do they draw him out? Should they wait?
“Did I do something wrong? Should I get a healer?” Prongs asks anxiously.
Peter shakes his head. “Not your fault, mate.”
Remus feels wordless, untethered. It’s so wrong when he is so still. Sirius Black should be a firework, a meadow, a hundred miles an hour. Not just gone.
The thing is, as they continue their silent wait, he doesn’t come back. Remus kisses his hands, over and over, waiting for them to twitch again. The only sign of life is the pulse in his wrist, which will have to be enough for just now.
At ten, James receives a blue doe and apologetically extricates himself. Remus and Peter set up camp beds in the corner of the room and settle down for the night. After a little while, he’d carefully guided Sirius into a lying down position again but his eyes remain firmly open. It’s very eerie, those two silver moons in the half-dark. Sleep awaits them at a long distance- Peter succumbs first, exhausted from his twenty-four hour shift. Remus just stares into those grey eyes until they become moons, stars, moths, butterflies. Until he is winged. Until he is delicate. Until they live forever.
Sirius Black is somewhere far away, but his pulse beats on, like the frantic flutter of wings, crying out I’m still here. I’m still here.