(The Anatomy of an) Accidental Necromancy

Chapter summary: In adversity and in the fits of murdering rage. 

“The highway is full of big cars

going nowhere fast

And folks is smoking anything that’ll burn

Some people wrap their lives around a cocktail glass

And you sit wondering 

where you’re going to turn

I got it.

Come. And be my baby.

Some prophets say the world is gonna end tomorrow

But others say we’ve got a week or two

The paper is full of every kind of blooming horror

And you sit wondering

What you’re gonna do

I got it.

Come. And be my baby.”

The unmentionable that happened at Privet Drive was better than Remus expected. This time, Sirius could hold himself back from actually killing muggles despite the muggles in question were being absolutely fucking rotten.

They had Harry in a cupboard under the stairs, for fucks sake. 

After that, it was a swirl of uncertainty and a unanimous decision made at once. They were going to raise Harry. Merlin and Morgana and Medea. They were going to raise Harry. Together. At a cottage up north right on the cliffs of some moor facing the freezing cold North Sea, no less; because that was where a mass murderer thought was a suitable place to raise a two-years-old. 

Remus couldn’t be very picky, though. If it were up to him and his nonexistent galleons, their little family would be living in some back alley. Or worse, on the forest floor somewhere because that would be all he could afford. At that, Remus digressed.

* * * 

The cottage, or as Sirius had always affectionately called it (if he were capable of doing so), the Hut was their home. It had been so, as a matter of fact, for almost six months now. Harry was just a couple months shy of being three now. Signs of him being a terrible three had started popping everywhere. 

The most recent and auspicious instance was when he refused to join them and eat dinner at the dining table. Instead, he wanted to have it in his room, for some reason that was only unbeknownst to toddlers and mythical creatures alike. So he stood at the doorway of his bedroom rather defiantly, hands crossed over his chest and a pout on his lips that was so similar to James when he was concocting elaborated pranks or plans that Remus didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. 

Sirius, to his credit, remained steadfast as the strict parent throughout the commotion and refused to indulge in Harry’s whims. Instead, he calmly plated dinner that Remus made on the dining table. It was mushroom soup and garlic bread night. Remus had even gone the extra mile and served the soup in a bread bowl. However, it was getting soggy throughout the commotion, and he didn’t really know how to proceed. They have reached an impasse, unfortunately. 

Harry did know what to do, though. In an impressive feat of underage and wandless magic, he had managed to vanish and rematerialise the entire dinner, dining table, and chairs included in his bedroom. 

He stood there, mouth agape, having been bested by a wandless three-year-old. Sirius was not doing any better; he looked so blindsided, hand still clutching that ladle and pot, with mushroom soup dripping all over their cottage floor. Remus was certain that they were setting a precedent they would one day regret, but they did end up having dinner in Harry’s room that night.  

Afterward, they put Harry to bed, which was an easy task considering the logistics of the situation. That was when it dawned on him; Harry was about to be four soon. Remus didn’t realise that so much time had passed. His knees felt weak. 

Was he really going to continue to do this? For Harry, of course. But what about him? Soon Harry will be old enough to start asking questions. He would begin to notice Remus’ monthly disappearance. He would start wondering why their lives consisted of the Hut and nobody else. He would question why he wasn't allowed to play with the other kids in the village. He would no doubt catch on to the fact that they were different different, even as wizards. For fucks sake, why do they have to be fucking werewolf-and-mass-murderer-dads? This has got to be more trouble than it's worth. 

Harry had already proven himself to be as brilliant as his mum and as devilishly clever as his dad. So were they really going to keep up this whole little family charade until …? Remus didn't even know how to finish that sentence. 

What was he to do? They couldn’t exactly send Harry to Hogwarts when he turned eleven. It would raise so many difficult questions from the Wizengamot and Azkaban. These bastards would never let a werewolf and a mass murderer continue to raise the son of the Wizarding World martyrs. Even if that would work, fat chance, what was he to do? Play house with Sirius until Harry’s old enough to move out? Or disperse and come back to the Hut every holiday? Pretend everything’s fine?

* * * 

Remus was sitting in the small window nook in the kitchen, a cup of tea in hand that he had forgotten. His eyes wander about the interior of the small cottage warily. There were trinkets and titbits of Sirius everywhere he looked. There was his guitar propped against the sofa in the living room area, his leather jacket slung carelessly on the rickety coffee table, and his books. Books everywhere. There were a few things too that he did not recognise. That grey scarf on the hook behind the door, those boxes of herbal tea he found in the drawer, and he was now forced to drink. 

It made him wonder how long he had been hiding here before them and who else he had brought home with him. How long had he been squirrelling around these things that mattered to him, and why was the fact that Remus did not make the cut hurt less than the thought that Sirius might have had a life with someone when he was on his murderous rampage.

The wolf in him howled in jealousy. The thought that someone else was touching Sirius made him ripe with rage. He’s mine, the wolf growled. The mug of undrunk tea in his hand exploded to pieces. This was a rather disturbing thing to think about, he thought. But, considering not a minute ago, he was contemplating much more important things in his life.

“The tea’s that awful, huh?” Sirius said. His soft voice seemingly loud in that nonexistent distance Remus imagined between them.

Remus jumped about a foot in the air. He spun around to see Sirius casually lying across the sofa and flipping through a paperback. He didn’t even look up. Remus hated the fact of how casual and unaffected Sirius was through this whole ordeal. Why was Remus holding onto barbed edges of reality and wishing that he had the guts to let go, but this bastard seemed fine?

While Remus was busy monologuing, Sirius had unfolded himself from his absurd reading position on the sofa and started to walk into the kitchen. He shamelessly squeezed himself next to Remus on the tiny window nook, as he had done so countless times when he spotted Remus sitting at the bay window of their Hogwarts dormitory. 

Their legs tangled together, and Remus almost lost himself; his hands were almost reaching out to pull Sirius into his lap, but he caught himself just in time. Maybe not, from the way Sirius was smirking. Instead of making a fool of himself like Remus, Sirius pulled out his cigarette box and started to roll out some.

He smoked languidly, unhurriedly, took his time to inhale the poisonous plumme, and blew the smoke out; the whole thing was a series of delicate actions that seemed far too obscene in Remus’ mind. The way his left hand - his long dainty fingers absentmindedly rubbing across his left collarbone, his infernal habit when he had something on his mind. Remus’ eyes followed the way Sirius’ index finger traced patterns on his skin, the way his nails left traces of red.

It was far too much trying to Remus's delicate sensibilities and propensity for beautiful people. He wondered if insanity was the price Sirius had to pay for looking this unearthly. Surely, this beauty was haggled out of the hands of daemons and satanic rituals. Nobody had the right to exist this beautifully. It was too unfair for the rest of them mortals.

Remus had forgotten how everything about Sirius overwhelmed him. This simple gesture made him feel like he could unravel and go berserk. He felt his hands itch to press against Sirius’ skin. Particularly against his infernal collarbones. Then they would travel across the plane of his skin. Up to his neck, putting on the pressure that would border asphyxiation, the way Sirius liked it. Being held down, gasping, unravelling. Free of whatever racing thoughts that had clouded his head at the moment.

He would be lying if he said that the thought of Sirius in his arms again did not cloud his judgement, did not haunt the living daylights out of him. 

He had always been too much. 

His emotions seeped through every pore of his skin, slick and shiny. There was no way anyone could keep up when he was splitting things by the hair. Remus often felt like he was walking on thin ice all the time around Sirius. The way that he would dance on the scale of his emotions - charming, brilliant, and hilarious in a second; bordering mercurial, poisonous, and accusatory in the next breath.

It had always been black and white with him. People were either good or bad. They were either looking to get to him or love him. Things were split into two pole verses. It seemed there was no way out if you had condemned yourself to love someone like him.

His impulsive anger was all-consuming, demanding tenderness, and assurance overcooked up misery. But, just as you thought you would be on the verge of giving up on him, he would turn around to be himself again. It had been worst when Remus was away every so often for those accursed missions that dumb old fool made him go. 

Sirius would unravel, stewing by himself in the house. He would jump from one obsession to another. He’d paint the wall of their bedroom with shades of his fervent paranoia one day, and then paint all over it the next day with crisp linen coloured egg-white the next. He’d be playing his guitar for hours. Those fingers of his that Remus loved so much would be raw and red. Nearly bleeding. 

He’d cook the food he would only eat a couple of spoonfuls of and wake up every hour of every night Remus was gone, riddled with anxiety. Remus would see all of these in the way his skin waxed onto the beautiful sculpture of his cheekbones, jawline, and collar bones. The subtle hint of darkening skin under his eyes that he hid well and the fact that he’d obsessively cleaned the apartment right down to all crevices. 

God forbid if his vices made him feel worse. He’d be out there instead. Picking up fights with Order members at meetings, riding his bike too fast in the narrow London streets, and spending his blood money on any obsession that crossed his mind. 

Anything to keep his mind from succumbing to his all-consuming emotions. 

It was almost suffocating the way he loved too. The way that he would be so desperate for Remus’ skin on his, the moment Remus was home, practically begging for the assurance that he was still loved and wanted in the form of touch and tenderness. Remus could see how he hated himself, the conflicting emotion in his eyes of wanting Remus to both fuck off and never leave him again. It had been so since Hogwarts. Remus was lying if he said he ever wanted it to stop.

He hid it well, but Remus knew how desperately terrified Sirius was of being left alone. That this unfounded fear of being abandoned left him to make incrementally rash decisions, wanting to take preemptive measures of leaving so he wouldn’t be the one left behind. The worst you’d think would be when he withdrew within himself, convinced that he was unloved without even any hint of provocation. Avoiding and aggravating everyone and everything. That, or his explosive anger. 

But no, the aftermath would be worse. Picking on the pieces of barbed and venomous words he had no control of, the hurt he caused that could not be undone. What was truly worst was the way he hated himself for everything he had done when he was spiralling. 

It would be easy to blame it all on Sirius’ impulsiveness, tempting even to just leave him. But what kind of shitty-ass person would do that? Especially after he promised that he would be different, he wouldn’t go. This was the toll, the price, the detrimental effect of years of being unloved, unwanted, and abused would do to a person. So, what was Remus supposed to do even? 

Remus would be lying if he said that his amour-propre was unscatched. How hurt he was when Sirius was off in his own head, lashing out at everything and undoing the love they had laboured so hard for when he was like this. Staring into spaces, refusing to talk, uprooting everything, and engaging in increasingly reckless behaviour and self-saboteur that Remus could hardly watch. 

How do you convince someone of love unfailingly? You didn’t. Remus was only human, and Sirius surely must understand when he finally had enough. 

Remus wanted to say, ‘You were right, weren’t you, love? I’m as wretched as you. How else would we explain this - this detrimental and colossal way we destroy each other? The way I'd never stop loving you despite everything.’   

The memory of it was so painful that Remus had to close his eyes for a bit to calm down. When he opened them again, Sirius’ hand moved to toy with his necklace next. 

Remus eyed them hungrily. How was anyone meant to have a coherent, reasonable line of thought with this … deity in front of them? It never ceased to fascinate Remus how delicate Sirius’ fingers looked. They were long and dainty. They moved deceitfully gracefully as they worked to roll the bit of paper for what was already the next cigarette that he didn’t even bother to offer to Remus. Next to Remus’ grubby, scared fingers, Sirius’ looked like they were sculpted by the terrible hands of Peito, the god of seduction and persuasion for himself. Fuck him, honestly. 

"So what can I do about it, Moony? What can I do to convince you that I, Sirius Black is not an insane mass murderer, and I did not fucking commit actual murder of our supposed best friend, now a fucking traitor - Peter Pettigrew," Sirius said, derailing Remus' train of thoughts. 

"Why didn’t you ever come looking for me?" Remus said in reply instead. He felt like he was going to be sick, revealing so much of what was within him. But, this was more than about him. This was about Harry too, now. This was about what was to be.

“I wrote to you, Moony. Anytime I had the chance to. But, unfortunately, you never wrote me back,” said Sirius with a slight pained smile.

Right, Remus thought. The pile of letters. If he would ever bother being truthful to himself, he'd admit that deep down he had known. Somehow. Call it animalistic hunch, or love, or desperation, or madness. Anything, for all anyone cares. He just didn't want to experience the hurt on the sliver of a chance that Sirius wouldn't come crawling back to him. Of course. And if he was still not, not being honest about this whole rot, the sheer emotional toll of having Sirius leave him was more significant than his betrayal. Still, he did not want to say it aloud. He did not want to tell the world and seal the truth. He’d rather let it fester in his heart, where no one could ever find out how ugly he was on the inside, how rotten, all the way down.

"Come one, Moony, say something. I’d do anything for you. You know that."

This was not the first time he had promised this. He said it so quickly and at such alarming frequency that Remus often wondered when Sirius would ever wake up and realise that Remus was undeserving of all his seemingly inexhaustible love and loyalty. Really, truly. He was just thinking about how the fact that Sirius might be fucking someone else angered him more than his betrayal. 

In Remus’ defense, it was somewhat difficult to maintain a coherent train of thoughts when he looked into Sirius’s grey, grey eyes that haunted his dreams and waking nightmares. 

Sirius had always hated his eyes, thought of them to be too plain and reminiscent of a slushy puddle of melted snow. He was wrong, plain and simple, in Remus’ opinion. They were, to him, the most beautiful he had ever seen. 

Even in the weak quarter moonlight, they reminded Remus of patronuses. Bright, encompassing, filled him with an unfounded feeling of warmth and happiness. It was unfair, the way they looked. Delicate. Gossamer, even. Framed by Sirius’ long, thick, black lashes, it was incomprehensible, the disservice everyone was doing for not worshipping them. 

These sorts of thoughts running berserk in Remus’ mind made him think about how they matched. He was shallow enough to fall for Sirius’ looks, and Sirius was far too vain to care enough about Remus’ infuriating tendencies. 

How pathetic he was to still love someone like Sirius, who was mercurial and vile and could not exist without hurting others. Truly, awfully, tragic. It made him want to vomit on most occasions when he could redirect his thoughts into something other than orchestrating his death in minute details. He knew how terrible? These all seemed. That he couldn’t still fucking get over someone that hurt him. Much less someone who had shown no sign of remorse. 

It was definitely mad to think about the fact that all he wanted to do right then was to lick the lingering taste of tobacco off Sirius’ tongue. But, of course, he didn’t even smoke anymore - for Harry. Still, he knew he was addicted to this - this specific mixture and brand of detrimental descent of lack of self-preservation. 

Something Sirius said snapped him back into reality, but that was only because he was vaguely aware that Sirius said Peter’s name and something else that rhymed with ‘trusting.’

“What?” Remus asked stupidly, mouth agape. Damn, he really should have been listening more. What happened to his werewolf gifts around this bastard. Superhuman hearing his arse. 

The silver of Sirius's eyes watched him closely. He squinted a little bit before deciding against whatever it was he was thinking of saying or doing. 

“I was hunting Peter,” Sirius said far too casually. His left hand moved languidly, making a graceful arc of movement that brought his cigarette that was resting in between his fingers on his lap to his red, red lips. The ember at the end of the lit cigarette burnt too bright it seemed against the thick electrical air of their quaint kitchen.

Remus was at a loss of words. 

“What?” he asked again. Tiny bit weakly this time, the universal language of those astonished and stunned. Genuinely, what the fuck, though. He wasn’t even sure that his voice managed to pierce through the void and chasm that had seemed to grow in the small space between them. 

He could’ve sworn that he was half hallucinating this; his jaw felt slack. Acute pain bloomed in the muscles. This was a little like when he had those empty periods of amalgamation between insanity and non-reality before Sirius returned. His jaw was aching terribly now. His right hand absently reached up to rub the (non) phantom pain away. He was still thinking about the word he managed or did not say just now. It perfectly encapsulated what he was feeling now, the only thought he has right now. The only thought that seemed to matter the most for as long as he had lived. 

What.

Remus chanced a glance. Sirius was smirking at him. 

Fucking Morgana. 

He had to look away. Look, he loved it when Sirius got cocky. But, by Merlin, this was not fair. This is too much. Pain, emotional, and phantom be damned, Remus willed himself to be present. This was not the time to wallow in his self-pity again. What was the answer? He made himself look at Sirius again. 

Now confident that he had Remus’ attention again, Sirius smiled his devilish smile and whipped out a jar from - god knows where. The thin air? They were fucking wizards, after all. Who the fuck cares. His smile seemed to be challenging Remus. 

“Watch this,” he said almost gleefully like he was finally able to show a worthy audience his final act of magic. The first was to murder his best friends. The second was all those innocent muggles. Now, this. This is his third and final act. The one that was supposed to impress. The one that was going to bring the audience to their feet. This is the prestige, as they say.

Remus forced himself to look. 

It was a skinny rat. Lying on its side in the bottom of a tightly sealed jar.  Skin barely clung to the bones like it had been starved. It was alive alright, its chest rising and falling almost hurriedly like it was suffering. 

“Good,” Remus thought. He had made the executive decision to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach. It is high time someone else suffer. He ignored the bile that rose up to his throat, threatening an unpleasant scene. What has become of him? What has become of them?

Suddenly, aware that it was under scrutiny, the rat tried to get up and failed miserably. It tried again and failed. It gave up. From the filthy bottom of the jar, it raised its head slightly, and it looked at Remus right in its eyes, pleadingly. 

Remus did not want to look anymore. He knew. He knew that if he looked closer, not that he needed to, he’d find that the rat was missing a toe. He knew exactly who that was. A glance was enough. How could he not know? This was someone that ran with him every full moon for three whole years. They shared a dorm room for seven fucking years. Its someone he had known for the better part of a decade and more. This was someone he thought he could trust. This was someone he thought was his brother.

Instead of following that thread of thoughts that would unravel the carefully (re)knitted sweater of his sanity, Remus chose to be practical. Mechanical. This was war, Merlin fucking dammit. People died. Didn't he know that?

“Unbreakable charm?” he asked Sirius.

Sirius nodded in response. His face was grim again. Maybe this wasn’t the response that Sirius was looking for. 

“How long had he been in there, Sirius?” Remus asked next. Again, methodical.  

“Not long enough,” Sirius said easily, not even with an ounce of remorse. Sometimes Remus forgot how easily cruelty came to Sirius. Naturally, almost. Nature vs. nature had got nothing on the Black family. 

Remus thought that he had had enough. He turned to look at Sirius, and their eyes locked. 

Without even saying a word, both of them drew out their wands together and aimed them at the glass jar and its pathetic occupant. Eyes still on Sirius, Remus watched as Sirius’ face turned from ease to unreadable. 

Remus realised that he didn't even care whether they agreed to murder Peter or torture him first. Remus thought of the years where he had suffered, which started long ago with Lily and James and Sirius not trusting him anymore. He was not even welcomed at their little cottage, even for little Harry’s birthday. Sirius must have suffered the same, albeit in his own way.

At that thought, the grip on his wand tightened, and his fingers almost turned completely white. So maybe this was what they meant to do. What they agreed on with the look and everything earlier. They were going to murder Peter Pettigrew. 

Fuck it, in sickness and in health, Remus thought. In adversity and in the fits of murdering rage. He took a deep breath and aimed his wand straight. Both he and Sirius had their wand cocked. The syllables of the killing curse flowed freely from their lips, the green lights from the curse bright and blinding, filling their kitchen with cruelty and gruesome intent.

“Avada Keda-” 

“Moony?” 

“Paddy?”

Harry’s timid voice sliced the debacle open.  

Remus and Sirius stopped in their tracks and looked at each other. 

FIN