grimmauld place has always been dark, dreary, shadowed. cold lingers in the wallpaper, secrets existing in hidden corners, ghosts haunting the abandoned halls. never corporeal, of course, because that would be too easy. ghosts of this sort exist in the deepest recesses of the mind. they taunt, torture, mock. remus lupin’s ghosts cannot be seen.
twelve grimmauld place is home to none. sirius black no longer resides here. regulus black is absent. walburga and orion black are but an echo on the history of the house.
the house has been stripped of all remnants of family history, bare bones exposed by sirius nearly two years before. all that remains of the black legacy is a portrait depicting the disinherited heir and a bedroom left untouched and waiting for the spare child.
naturally, remus stays far from regulus black’s bedroom. there is nothing for him there — not anymore. there’s a whispered memory of dark curls, silver eyes, muttered poetry. merely an echo of what had once been life. regulus black has been dead for nineteen years, and sirius for two, and walburga and orion for seventeen. there is nothing left in the home. no remnants of the horrid family that once roamed the empty halls.
there is a portrait. an unmoving, lifeless portrait in the drawing room. sirius is — was a creature of vanity, a man so in love with himself that he’d hung his own portrait in the place his mother’s had once resided. cruel, bitter bitch. remus stands in the room now, the cold hands of loneliness clawing at his bones and dipping into his marrow. sirius black, his final friend, the only piece of family left in this morbid world, is dead.
remus is alone in the room, fingertips trembling against the brass frame of his best friend’s portrait. grey eyes, hued a gentle blue, cold and detached, gaze at him. lifeless. lifeless eyes, lifeless portrait, lifeless sirius. he’s younger in this portrait, likely painted before his departure from the noble house of black if the length of his hair is anything to go by.
it hangs far past his shoulders, nearly to his waist if remus remembers correctly, riddled with delicate ringlets weighed by heavy length. bronze skin paled by years of sunlight deficiency. full lips, rounded cupid’s bow. slanted eyes pointed at the ends, sharp and cold and calculating. sirius was beautiful in his youth, nearly the spitting image of his mother and uncannily identical to his younger brother.
vanity had come easily, and rightfully so, because all of the black family was hauntingly beautiful in their lifetimes. even walburga, a bitter old witch with a sour heart and a heavy hand. she’d raised two lovely sons, though she hadn’t done much raising at all, since sirius had spoken many times of his responsibility to nurture his younger brother. sirius was a father before he’d turned two, gifted with a little brother and cursed with the expectation of nurturing him.
there’s a layer of dust on the canvas, thick from lack of cleaning. this is clearly the only portrait in the home kreacher neglects to clean, seeing as every other corner of the house is sterile and polished. it’s almost amusing how disdainful the old house elf is toward sirius. remus tugs the sleeve of his blazer over his hand and carefully brushes debris from the portrait’s surface, fully exposing the delicate brush lines his best friend’s unmoving face.
he’s alone in the room, until he isn’t. he feels the presence before he sees it, a gentle brush in the depths of his cognition. a stroke of his mind’s tenor, the scent of lavender and parchment, and finally, the gentle shuffle of clothing. remus wraps deft fingers around the hilt of a wand, drawing it quicker than he can spin on his heel. there, with a wand pressed to his throat and a disgruntled frown on his stubbly face, is regulus black.
the shock is immense, startling, leaving remus frozen in his step. regulus is still gorgeous, is his first thought. black ringlets falling to his hips, sharp eyes framed by long lashes, rounded cupid’s bow and honey skin. he’s grown, is his next thought. no longer is he the sixteen year old boy remus had fallen for all those years ago. no, this is a man. he’s grown into his cheekbones, his jaw, his build. he’s slender, a small waist and narrow shoulders, but it’s clear he’s filled out. lean muscle visible beneath the tight fabric of a black tunic, strong thighs straining the fabric of his dark trousers. he’s filled out, sprouted another five centimetres or so, more a sturdy man than a lanky boy.
remus drops his wand. it clatters to the floor just before his hands are delicately cupping the lovely face he’d adored and missed for years. decades. he feels the soft skin beneath his fingers, silky and smooth, and the warmth beneath his palms, molten honey and dripping magma. tendrils of dark hair brush his knuckles, ever so soft and familiarly smelling of peppermint. it’s been nineteen years, and yet, it’s been a day. remus is seventeen again, relishing in the heady ecstasy of his lover’s divine presence.
regulus sniffles. remus’ thumb brushes the tears from his cheeks. the nostalgic sensation of home rushes over him, expands in his bones and leaves a trail of blossoming flowers in its wake. remus is home, clutching it desperately in shaking hands. he’d lost his home, and now it’s here again, and he’ll be damned if he lets it slip away again. death eaters and the order be damned, regulus is here and regulus is home and remus refuses to leave again.
“say something, rem,” regulus chokes, a heavenly timber voice lilted by a thick mixture of three accents. hearing it again, all these years later, leaves remus’ blood singing and his skin blooming. his heart chants away in his chest, a steady stream of regulus, regulus, regulus. it’s a prayer learned ages ago, hidden in the recesses of hogwarts and carved into his ribs. whispered promises and soft humming, fingertips carding through delicate curls and novels opened in warm palms. he knows this prayer better than he knows the creases of his palms, better than he knows the craters of the moon or the blinding light of the sun.
“you’re as beautiful as the day i lost you,” remus breathes, stroking the pads of his thumbs against damp cheeks. regulus cracks the smallest possible smile, disbelieving and adoring, before the careful mask on his face crumbles. and with it crumbles regulus. weeping and clutching desperately at remus’ corduroy blazer, never daring to break eye contact.
holding regulus black again is cathartic. feeling his warmth, the shaking of his shoulders, the softness of his skin is bittersweet. it’s homecoming. remus uses the pads of his thumbs to brush away tears, presses gentle kisses to the crown of regulus’ head, cradles his quivering jaw in trembling fingers. it’s only by sheer force of will that he’s managed to keep his own weeping at bay, holding back the floodgates with weakening arms and unsteady footholds. his heart is pounding, beating in his chest, clawing its way from his sternum to burrow beneath regulus’ skin. it’s never been his heart to keep, he supposes. it’s always belonged to regulus, merely waiting in his chest for the day it can rip itself out and nestle into regulus’ palms.
“you have no clue,” regulus whimpers through his tears. “how long i’ve waited to see you. how long i’ve spent missing your laugh, your touch. i’ve forgotten the sound of your voice, the smell of your clothes. i’ve missed you, rem.”
remus is crying now, too. curling into regulus, blanketing regulus in his warmth. he’s grown, too, no longer a mess of long limbs and clumsy footwork. he’s tall, broad, grown into the framework of his physique. regulus may have developed, may have gained a bit of height, but remus gained more. he’s easily able to wrap himself around regulus and overlap, and he does. his arms loop around a waist so narrow his fingertips touch his own hips. he leans over a small, lithe body and easily loses an entire head of height in his effort to rest his chin on a heaving shoulder. he’s enveloped in lavender, and parchment, and the scent of boyhood. regulus, regulus, regulus, his heart chants with every beat.
“i thought you were dead,” remus sobs, crushing his lover with the force of his embrace. regulus doesn’t seem to mind, as his hand splays over remus’ bicep and his other burrows within sandy curls. remus is sure he could probably crush regulus and receive a proper thanks.
“i’m so sorry, rem. so, so sorry. i’m here now, mon cœur,” regulus whispers. remus hangs onto his every word, grips it with white fingertips and wild desperation. every syllable, every intake of breath, every despairing sound, he commits to memory. this is a dream, he reasons. a beautiful dream, a haunting echo of his best mistake, that he’s bound to wake from any moment. regulus can’t be here. regulus is dead. regulus is gone. regulus is warm. he’s so warm, burning through remus with lively heat and molten yearning. remus is determined to remember every second of this fleeting moment. determined to carry it into wakefulness.
“you aren’t here. you’re dead,” remus wails. regulus adamantly shakes his head, furiously grips at every piece of remus he can find. and remus lets him. because he’s going to wake up, and regulus will be dead again, and he has to remember this. every soft touch, every shuttering exhale, every whispered word. everything. he has to remember everything.
“i’m not dead, rem. i’m not dead,” regulus rushes out. remus feels the tender touch of a hand in his, and his palm guided to a firm chest, and a heartbeat under his skin. a heartbeat. a heartbeat. regulus has a heartbeat.
remus is no longer crying. he yanks his head back, eyes flitting over every curve of supple skin and flush of blood in living veins. regulus has a heartbeat. regulus is alive. he’s here. he’s alive.
remus can hardly hold himself back from pressing their mouths together, licking into the furnace of regulus’ jaw, tasting the life off his tongue. he kisses regulus, and kisses him, and keeps kissing him until he’s lightheaded and hardly able to stand. and only then does he smile. he smiles, he laughs, he holds the love of his life in his palms.
there’s a knock on the open door of the drawing room. remus’ head swivels to the sound, gaze catching on the amused figure of nymphadora tonks leaned against the doorframe. he flushes under her gaze, pressing regulus’ face into his chest. mild panic sets in. regulus is a death eater, and one thought to be dead. he’s a major target of the order. kill on sight. armed and dangerous. and remus has discarded his only weapon and snogged the enemy.
“i didn’t pin you as the type to snog strangers, lupin,” tonks says, mirth dancing in her gaze. she inclines her head to the man he’s trapped against his chest, hair forming a vibrant yellow to convey her humored observation. “though, i assume you’ve met him before, yeah? sirius’ little brother.”
“i’ve met him, yeah,” remus utters, eyeing his wand on the floor. he spots regulus’ tucked into the waistband of his trousers, rigid against his spine, and debates how angry regulus would be if he used it in their defense. not very, he imagines. he could probably take tonks out in a few well-aimed hexes and apparate to his home in wales.
“relax, rem,” regulus muffles into corduroy, voice lost in the fabric casing remus’ chest. “the order knows i’m here. you missed the last meeting, i’m assuming.”
remus flushes, warmth racing into his cheeks in splotchy pockets. that’s embarrassing. the only order meeting he’s ever missed, and they’d given information about regulus. it’s even more embarrassing how quickly he was willing to betray his closest friend amongst the order, the only friend he’s been willing to make since sirius passed, in the name of a man he hasn’t seen in two decades.
he sobers fairly quickly. there’s a war waiting, a rendezvous at the castle orchestrated by harry. there’s a lot waiting for them, and not a lot of time.
“everyone’s waiting, i’m assuming?” remus inquires. he reluctantly tears himself from his lover’s embrace and dips to pick his wand up, flexing his fingers around it as anxiety quells in his belly. he’s ill with it, the contents of his stomach threatening to spill from his throat. bile eats away at his chest, stings on his tongue. the end all be all. the final battle. a graveyard in waiting. regulus’ fingers curl into his, squeezing and comforting.
regulus’ hand is still cradled within his when they breach the great hall. the stony archways and floating candles are nostalgic of simpler times. of dungbombs and invisibility cloaks, a stag and a dog and a rat and, in the final two years, a black cat. textbooks and parchment, dittany and healing salves, train rides and petty duels. four years since he’s touched the air of the castle, and remus is still haunted by the memories sealed into the looming walls.
and there, in the middle of it all, is the son of a stag and a flower. he’s grown taller in the months since they’ve crossed paths, more into the form of james at his age. and glimmering fiercely behind round spectacles are the striking green eyes of lily. remus unconsciously tightens his hand around regulus’, who tugs it to grab his attention. they lock eyes, remus losing himself in silver. he brings their hands to his mouth, presses a soft kiss against satin skin.
“where will you be?” remus asks breathlessly. regulus smiles, a soft curl of lips dedicated only for remus’ eyes. he doesn’t have to say it, because remus already knows. wherever you are, mon cœur. the message twinkles in his eyes and in the touch of skin and the fierce square of shoulders.
“wherever you are, mon cœur,” regulus says anyways, because he’s always spoken his mind with remus. remus’ hand tightens for a moment and he can feel the smile on his face. “i’ll follow you right into the depths of tartarus itself, if you so wish it.” he knows it’s true, because regulus has never truly lied to remus.
they find themselves confronted by a trio of teenagers. hermione granger, ron weasley, and harry potter skid to a halt amidst the chaos of the great hall. harry catches remus by the arm, tugs harshly, and it’s hardly enough to stop him.
“remus,” harry calls breathlessly. there’s a glint in his green eyes as they bounce between remus and regulus. a glint he recognizes as lily’s sheer determination. “we need your help. yours and… his.” regulus’ hand flexes, and then disappears altogether. remus feels the absence like a stab wound, sudden and aching and incapacitating.
“the horcruxes, yes?” says regulus, because regulus is a genius and he simply knows things without being told. “have you gathered them all? all seven?”
“seven? there are seven?” harry guffaws. remus is utterly lost. horcruxes? it’s an unfamiliar term. he looks to regulus in an effort to find the answers, yet he finds only an immeasurable sadness buried in their depths. silver snaps to the granger girl, searching, analyzing, and remus watches in real time as regulus’ heart shatters in his chest.
“oh,” regulus punches out. his slender hands fall upon harry’s shoulders, thumb stroking along the vein of his neck. “you’ll know. when the time is right, you’ll know.” a pause. “the diadem. have you found it? i’ve hypothesized that helena may know where it is.”
“helena? helena ravenclaw?” hermione interjects. her eyes light up, and she grips harry with an unforeseen strength. in a flurry of shouted information, the three teenagers disappear. it’s remus and regulus, stood still in the great hall. shouting voices and flurries of magic clog the air, a suffocating mixture of power and pain. remus can hardly breathe through it, but he does. for regulus.
“we’re expected in the west wing, mon cœur,” regulus whispers against his lips. he’s all too eager to comply, to kiss the love of his life like it’s the last chance he’ll ever have to do it. and it might be. the world is burning, the first flames sparking, smoke billowing into an uncertain sky. there’s a war waiting, a castle to defend, a mass of people to protect. there’s a lot waiting for him just beyond the heavy double doors of the great hall, and against his better judgement, he complies. with his hand in regulus’, remus marches his way to the west wing, wand held in trembling fingers.
the wards are an easy feat, tendrils of magic colliding and warping the night sky. it’s a thin barrier, shimmering under the light of the waning moon. nearly a week past the full, nearly a week since the last shift, and he’s enduring another horrible night. he has regulus, though, and it’s a bittersweet feeling. because he has regulus, but for how long? how long will he truly have regulus, the love of his life, when an entire army is waiting to rip them to shreds. an entire army, a buildup of numbers, itching to rip and tear at everything remus holds dear. including regulus.
there was a time, long ago, when he’d questioned his taste. never whether it was impeccable, because he’s always known himself to be sensible in his romantic pursuits, but rather whether his standards were too high. regulus was everything, still is, and remus was a nobody. a half-breed, a monster, a danger to society. and regulus was a pureblood, a work of pure divinity. he’d shot high, pursued a sky bound deity from the depths of hell itself, and somehow, he’d succeeded.
there would always be the argument that they were too similar, but that’s exactly why they work, in his mind. appreciation for silence, for comforting moments of quiet shared in hidden alcoves. an affinity for old novels and tales of tragic romance. feral possessiveness rooted in primal urges. they work, they meld, and seamlessly. it isn’t surprising that they’d wound up together, regardless of the vastly opposing social standing. regulus is on a pedestal, untouchable, unreachable, and remus is a peasant writhing on dirt for scraps. and even so, regulus is a reaching hand, an invitation to a better life. there has never been a doubt that regulus would gladly join in begging for scraps if he were doing it by remus’ side.
regulus is doing so now, hands joined under the waning moon, nervous glances exchanged over the short space between the two of them. remus can feel the anxiety, swelling in the night air, a tangy taste on his tongue. it’s not his own anxiety. never his own. only regulus’.
the first pelts of magic fall upon the shield like rain on a window. hardly any damage is done, even with the following two rounds of ammunition against the silvery wards. it isn’t until a brighter beam strikes, a spell cast by a much stronger adversary, that the wards crumble. and with it goes remus’ heart, falling straight from his arse to the stone beneath his feet. the first wave of protection is gone, vanished by a single spell of the dark lord’s, and it’s only a matter of time before the rest are dissolved.
regulus meets his eye for a brief moment, presses a kiss to the back of his hand. and then he’s gone, hand wrenched back and body disappearing in a plume of black smoke.
it’s hard to concentrate from then on. there are hexes thrown, curses cast, and not a single one has broken through his shield. and then, there, dueling three black cloaks, is madame pomfrey. and a heartbeat passes. and then remus is there with her, firing off curse after hex after curse, his shield barely managing to survive the flurry of spells cast at him. he’s certain he’s going to lose. death eaters are circling, two more joining the original two. remus is overwhelmed, shooting off every hex his mind can comprehend.
another plume of black smoke. remus’ heart sinks. he has half a mind to give up, to surrender, to let the death eaters take him in or murder him on the spot. remus is no coward. not by any means. but this is an unmatched fight and he knows it.
and then the smoke clears, and regulus black is standing there, firing spell after spell. bodies are dropping, blood spilling from vile curses rooted in dark arts. remus can taste it. dark magic lingers in the air, charcoal and ash stinging on his tongue. regulus takes his hand, tugs, and he’s quick to follow.
bodies litter the courtyard, draped in robes and muggle clothes and cloaks. masks and blood and smoke. remus is choking on it, choking on the grief. young faces, old faces, faces he knows and faces he doesn’t. cold and paralyzed, never to smile again. someone’s son, someone’s daughter, someone’s sister, or brother, or best friend, or soulmate. someone’s someone. and there are so, so many. clear forearms or marked, these bodies belonged to someone, and now they belong to the earth. to the reaper. to the beyond.
regulus is stronger than him. he’s carefully aiming curses, flying around in a plume of smoke, carrying remus everywhere he goes. remus doesn’t protest. doesn’t complain despite the dizziness and the nausea threatening to take hold. this is war. war doesn’t allow rest, doesn’t allow a moment to breathe, to collect, to calm. this is war. unforgiving, unrelenting, brutal war. and there are children lost to it. much like they’d been lost to it when he was young. when he had his loved ones, his youth, his naivety.
there’s a sudden halt. a grimace crossing regulus’ face. a head dropped into open palms, a grunt of pure agony. remus knows without asking that voldemort is projecting his message, invading the minds of the soldiers spotting the castle. he can’t hear the voice, can’t make out the words. werewolves are immune to legilimency in any form. his mind is immune to the cold, prying hands of voldemort, an iron defense with no weak points.
“we need to get to the great hall,” regulus grits out. he looks to remus, silver eyes hardened to stone. and remus nods. he steps closer, envelops the love of his life in an embrace. possibly their last, possibly the start of many more. the foundations of their relationship are shaky, cracked down the center, threatening to break upon any sudden moves. stronger than bedrock, more delicate than a feather. one breath and it could come crumbling down. either of them could die, could succumb to the cold palms death offers. this isn’t promised. tomorrow isn’t promised. a minute from now isn’t promised. remus holds regulus like it’s his last chance to, memorizes the ridges and dips of their bodies pressed tightly together, the smell of his hair and the warmth of his skin.
the great hall is a fumbling mess. bodies are scattered, some covered in robes, others left bare. the weasley family is gathered around a body. remus sucks in a sharp breath. the weasleys are friends, and close ones at that. his heart aches in his chest, breaks into microscopic pieces. the weasleys are family. and they’ve lost one. another person remus cares for, gone like they’d never existed. he doesn’t need to see who it is to know it hurts. it’s agonizing, piercing him through the gut, severing his head from his body. the room is spinning. the ground is coming out from under him.
and then he’s standing over the body. he’s got molly in one arm, george in the other. fred is gone. he’s gone and he’s never coming back. fred is gone. fred, a young man with so much life left to live, a man so strongly nostalgic of james potter, gone. gone like he’d never been born. like he’d never laughed or smiled or loved. gone. one moment here, the next moment vanished. it hurts. it hurts more than he’d thought it could. he wasn’t as close to the weasleys as he could’ve been, but they’re family. they knew him, and he knew them, and there would always be love there. care. affection. just not for fred. because fred isn’t here.
“oh, mon cœur,” regulus breathes. and he’s got remus, supporting him in strong arms and whispered condolences. whispered support. whispered comfort. there’s so much to say, and yet nothing to say at all. fred wasn’t remus’ by any capacity. he was molly’s. he was arthur’s. he was george’s. he was never remus’ and yet his heart is threatening to crumble.
“i wish i’d been there,” remus gasps into regulus’ strong shoulder. “i wish i’d been there to save him, somehow. i could’ve saved him. i could’ve saved them all.”
remus isn’t sure who he weeps for. students from his year of teaching. children he never knew. fred weasley. parents. brothers. sisters. friends. lovers. he weeps for them all, weeps for the life they could’ve lived. the life pried from grasping fingers and begging lips. unnecessary life lost.
where’s harry?
panic strikes. he’s on his feet, following a crowd out of the great hall. regulus is on his heels. an army marches toward hogwarts, led by the dark lord himself. the tall, bulky form of hagrid sways in tandem, approaches the castle with unsure feet and a crestfallen sorrow on his face. there’s a body in his arms. remus’ heart falls to his feet.
please, don’t let it be harry.
please, don’t let it be harry.
anyone but harry.
not again.
anyone but harry.
“harry potter is dead!”
harry.
harry is…
harry isn’t.
he isn’t.
he can’t be.
regulus vanishes. his palm is gone from remus’, and his warmth is dissipating. regulus is marching forward, wand in hand, shoulders squared. bellatrix’s cackle echoes in the still air of the stale castle. regulus is there, standing tall, shining bright, strutting to the dark lord. harry has rolled away from hagrid and chased off in pursuit of bellatrix. it’s a shock, seeing harry very much alive and well after having been declared dead.
harry is alive.
harry is alive.
harry is alive.
“pick on someone your own fucking size, riddle,” regulus spits. remus is weak in the knees for multiple reasons. “slaughtering an innocent child over a bout of paranoia? fuck you. fuck all of you. you’ll die today, riddle. you’ll die a painful fucking death at my hands. at the hands of a son born in july.” a cold, detached laugh.
“the prophecy wasn’t about harry.”
a curse flies. it’s met with another. all hell breaks loose.
remus has taken down six death eaters in the span of four minutes. he’s kept count, marked the time of each murder. he’s a flurry of hexes and curses and fatality. three more. regulus is losing. two more. regulus is winning. one more. regulus is winning. two more. regulus is winning. one more. regulus is gone.
a plume of black smoke streaks through the air, followed closely by another. curses fling from each dark mass, and then regulus is there again.
two more. regulus is winning. one more. regulus is winning. four. regulus is winning. one. regulus is-
regulus wins. regulus is alive, and voldemort is not. voldemort is crumbling to pieces, and regulus is standing in victory.
regulus survived. voldemort did not.
regulus is alive.
remus has his face between his palms in seconds. lips connecting, breath coming in gasps. his heart is beating out of his chest, every thrum singing for the life held in his arms. the life clinging to regulus’ skin like it has nowhere else to run. it dances in the air, fills his veins, sings in his lungs. he’s alive, and regulus is alive, and they’ve won. they’ve protected the world, protected each other, protected all those lives refusing to be snuffed out.
“i thought i was going to lose you,” remus gasps against regulus’ lips. he’s chasing the taste of him, the feel of him, the scent of him. every piece of regulus is devoured by chapped lips and trimmed facial hair.
“i’m not going anywhere,” regulus utters. remus swallows the words, clutches him in trembling hands. he’s weeping, tears salty against his tongue. regulus is alive. harry is alive. regulus is alive. harry is alive. “i wouldn’t go anywhere you couldn’t follow, mon cœur.”
remus can’t breathe. he can’t speak. he can’t move. every piece of him is tangled in every piece of regulus. every ounce of his soul lives in regulus’ skin. every inch of life within him exists for regulus. everything for regulus. all of it for regulus.
years later, when it’s all said and done, remus will tell the little potter spawns all about their great uncle reggie. he’ll tell them stories of war, stories of novels and chocolate frogs, of werewolves and black cats. he’ll tell them all about grandpa james, and great uncle sirius, and great uncle peter. he’ll tell them every story worth telling. and regulus will laugh from the kitchen, and he’ll drape himself across remus’ lap, and he’ll tell the little ones all about great uncle remus.
because now, there’s nothing but time. there’s a future. there’s grey hair and wrinkled skin, promises fulfilled, minutes lived and years cherished. there’s regulus, and there’s remus, and there’s forever.