Chapter 1
Summer had begun, and Remus woke from a nightmare.
He'd been chasing a dog through tall, dry ryegrass, sharp reeds lashing at his ankles, but he hadn't been fast enough on his feet. By the time he’d reached the edge of the golden field, all he had seen was the flash of a black tail vanishing into the gathering darkness of the forest beyond. He’d known, even in the dream, to go no further.
It had been the kind of nightmare that burrowed beneath his eyelashes, and when he woke, gasping for air like he was drowning, his cheeks were wet. Remus swore and untangled his long legs from the twisting sheets, resting his forehead against his knee to take a few deep breaths of warm air.
June clung to the stilted breeze that drifted through the open window, and he could smell everything– the honeysuckle climbing the small cottage, the smoke from the neighbour’s chimney, upturned earth and the heady musk of the rabbits in the garden below.
In the days before the Full Moon, the world was like this. More than sweat and magic and perfume: tasting the bitter fear of a local boy after he’d broken his arm on the tarmac, the quiet agitation of his father as he paced the living room carpet, the odd longing and envy of strangers.
Remus’ stomach shrunk and buckled as he swung his legs over the side of his bed, mattress dipping with his weight. His thin shirt stuck to his back as he rolled the ache from his shoulders and looked up at the silver light flooding into his room. From here, the moon already looked full and fat. The skin of his neck prickled and he glanced at the crooked clock up on his wall. Four in the morning. He’d only been asleep for two hours.
Flopping back onto his pillows, Remus closes his eyes again and thinks of constellations.
At seven, Remus could hear the whistle of the kettle and his mother, talking in a sweet, soft voice to the blackbirds on the feeder outside. He yanked on a thick, red jumper over his pajamas and trudged down the stairs. As his bare foot left the bottom step, Hope Lupin looked up at him from where she sat at the kitchen table.
“Haven’t you slept?” She said from behind a steaming mug of chamomile tea, her dark eyebrows drawn together. Her thick Welsh lilt crept into her voice when she was worried, but Remus could smell it on her anyway, festering like sour milk.
Remus shook his head and poured himself a cup of his own. His hand trembled.
“Do I look that bad?” He muttered as he pulled back a chair, wood scraping against tile. “Don't answer that. Has dad already left?”
Smiling, Hope lowered her gaze to the newspaper folded against the table. His father was always working. “Business calls.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Remus’ head snapped up. There was a small, brown owl at their kitchen window. He paced over to thrust it open and the owl hopped onto the sink, perched on one of the taps. She blinked at him with wide yellow eyes, a crumpled letter clutched in her beak.
“Do you know her?” Hope asked absently, as if the bird was an old friend.
“Kimble.” Remus wrestled the scrap of parchment from the owl, who had never liked Remus on account of him secretly being a vicious monster, and so delivered a swift, stinging peck to his open palm. He winced and drew back, sucking at the welling blood. “She belongs to James.”
He edged away from Kimble, who had begun to waddle across the counter towards their breadbin, and unfolded the letter to James Potter’s messy scrawl.
Moony,
Padfoot showed up in the middle of the night. No luggage. He’s in a pretty bad way. Hasn’t spoken a word since. I think he'll need you here.
Prongs.
Heart thumping, Remus read it three more times before he set it down on the table. He threaded a hand through his tangled curls and watched Kimble peck at a scrapped sunflower bread crust.
When she caught him looking, she ruffled her feathers, her chest puffing up to twice its size. He bared his teeth and growled, low, right from the back of his throat. The owl screeched and took flight for the open window, gliding up into the blue sky.
From behind him, Hope tutted and took another sip of her tea. “Don’t be cruel.”
“I have to go to the Potters.” Remus said. “I don’t know for how long.”
“Eat breakfast first.”
“Mam–”
“Eat.”
*
Travelling by Floo Powder always messed with Remus' head. He squeezed his eyes shut against the flashing of the flames, hearths, grates, blazing heat flaring in his face until he stumbled out onto an old Persian rug.
Ash was in his lungs and he was coughing with it, bent over in front of the Potter’s old fireplace, when a firm hand clapped down on his shoulder and hauled him forwards. As he caught his breath, Remus wiped the black smear of soot from his cheek and scowled, dropping his bag to the mahogany floorboards.
“Alright, Moony?” James Potter said with a beam bright enough to blind and he pushed his fogged glasses further up his nose. “Try not to cough up a lung, we've just had the carpet cleaned. Nasty spill involving Bubotuber pus.”
“I hate Floo.” Remus muttered as he brushed off his favourite jumper.
“You know, if you learned how to fly–”
“Never going to happen, Prongs.”
“I won’t take no for an answer.” James sighed, which made Remus think of Lily, red-hair whipping around her furious face as she aimed a wand for James’ head. Nearly six years of James not-taking-no-for-an-answer had earned him around ten hexes a term.
James squinted at him as he stooped to pick up Remus’ bag and slung it over his arm. “Listen, Moony, what exactly did you do to my bloody owl? She’s been throwing a tantrum worse than Padfoot’s since she came back from yours.”
“Your owl,” Remus said, following James out of the wide living room into the hallway. “Is a prejudiced little twat.”
“Merlin, tell me how you really feel.” James grinned, but when he stopped at the bottom of the winding staircase to look at Remus, it had deflated, just a little, drooping at the corners of his mouth. “Mum would love to see you but both Potter parents are out right now.”
The pause that floated between them was stretched tight, like something that might snap, a rubber band, a ribbon, a fraying string. Remus asked– “Where is he?”
James licks at his bottom lip. “Upstairs.”
“You still don’t know what happened?”
“He turned up here at four in the morning, half dead on his feet.” James said, and started up the stairs, socked feet quiet. Behind him, Remus stared at the framed pictures stacked upon the walls, the tiny moving photographs of the Potters, laughing and eating and waving. He almost tripped on the top step, because James had paused on the landing, his brown eyes brimming with worry. “His shirt was covered in blood and he won’t let anyone near to look, not even Mum.”
The wolf stirred. It scratched at Remus’ chest, clawing its way up his lungs to sit in his throat, snarling until he could swallow it back down. He dug his nails into his palm, fist stiffening to the point of snapping white knuckles. “No one’s come after him?”
“No.”
“It was his family.” Widowed from his tongue, Remus’ voice was rising, hardening. The wolf whispered something in his ear, something murderous but soft as butter. "It's always them."
It was not a question, and James did not answer it. His gaze flickered over towards the nearest door, its wooden face a worn pea-green, a tiny ornament of a red-nosed Reindeer from last Christmas hanging from its handle.
This was his room, and Remus knew that because he could smell him all over. His aftershave, his cigarettes, wet dog, mints, his dark, clever magic.
“He was dreading this summer.” James murmured. “He kept joking they were going to murder him.”
Remus looked away, because it had begun to feel painful. “Well, they didn't. He’s here now.”
The fury still ticked at his jaw, but it was quieter, steadier, no sudden bursts of gnashing teeth. James gripped at his arm, pulling him back around. “Talk to him, Moony."
"If he won't speak--"
"He’ll listen to you.”
“Sirius Black never listens to me.” Remus said and tried to smile.
When he ducked his head and pushed open the door, the light filtering from the bay window blinded him, burning at his irises. Golden sun cast the old dresser and stacked bookshelf in in-between shadows, half there and half not, glancing over a few faded, peeling Quiddich posters. Shrouded by the thick blankets piled atop the bed, a silhouette lay still.
“Sirius?” Remus called out, taking one step closer, than another. He could hear the rise and fall of Sirius’ breaths, and the slight stutter of his chest as Remus spoke. Once he was near enough, he could see the top of Sirius’ head, his black hair dashed across the pillow like ink, his soft mouth and sharp nose, the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheek.
Sometimes, Remus thought Sirius might have been better placed in the story-books gathering dust at the back of his wardrobe, the fairy tales about armour-clad knights and swooning princesses, dragons and diamonds and towers.
God, Remus scowled at himself, he was so pathetic.
Even as he settled on the edge of the mattress, Sirius did not stir. Remus could tell when Sirius Black was pretending to sleep.
He leaned over him to wind a thick, dark lock around his fingers, and tugged. Beneath him, Sirius huffed out a low, whining sound and his quick hand darted out to wrap around Remus’ thin wrist. His skin was warm and smooth, and Remus was putting his mouth to his ear to say that single word again, more firmly– “Sirius.”
Sirius looked at him. Opened his eyes, clear and shining like silver Remus could never touch, and looked at him. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t release his grip on Remus’ arm, though his thumb is pressing up against his flitting pulse, as if he wanted it to bruise, as if he wanted to squeeze the blood right out of his veins.
He wouldn't have minded. Loving Sirius always came with its casualties.
Somehow, Sirius was sharper than when Remus last saw him, stepping off the Hogwarts Express, his cheekbones were now honed, his temple blemished with a yellowing mark.
“No hello?” Remus raised an eyebrow. “No nice-to-see-you-Moony, my, my, what a surprise that you happen to be here at the Potter manor this morning?”
When Sirius only stared and stared and stared, Remus frowned. He had never seen Sirius this silent before. Sirius Black, who could not go more than a minute without babbling about something ridiculous like the singing prowesses of a mandrake or what David Bowie’s favourite hex would be if he were a wizard, was so quiet that Remus could hear the birds croon outside the window.
“Have you still got your tongue?” asked Remus with some alarm, and the first twitch of a smile pulled at the corner of Sirius’ bitten mouth, before he’s parting his lips and poking out his pink tongue from between his teeth. Remus' stomach twisted, drawn out taut.
Before he could ask another question, Sirius turned over his hand, the pads of his fingers ghosting over the faint red slit marking his palm.
“James’ bigoted bird.” Remus supplied, and a deep, biting shiver trembled up his spine for a single, dizzying moment. Blinking, he snatched his arm back, even as Sirius' smile widened.
Something metallic, iron, wrong, lifted from Sirius, caught on a draft through the room. Remus began to pry at the blankets that covered Sirius’ chest, who scrabbled to hold onto the hem. Narrowing his eyes, Remus hissed at him– “I know you’re hurt, you fucking dimwit. Let me see before you get blood all over the Potter’s sheets.”
More than anything, Sirius just looked tired. And Remus knew he was, knew the heavy, familiar scent of him in the air and on the covers was entwined with an exhausted terror, simmering hot underneath his overcast eyes. So Remus was not surprised that after two minutes of glaring at each other in fierce, stiff silence, Sirius’ grip finally slackened and he shifted up onto his pillows.
The blanket slipped down his bare chest to settle at his waist. The blood had dried, but the two dark gouges slashing across his ribcage were clean and stark against his tan skin. Remus swallowed, pressing a hand to his waist, just beneath where the gashes cut, and the wiry muscles of Sirius' shoulders tightened. Magic sparked under Remus' fingertips, humming, deep, twisted.
“I’ll get the dittany.” Remus said, and rose to his feet.
When Remus shut the door behind him, he leaned back against it for a moment, catching his breath against the tightness of his throat. The lingering ghost of the spell that had torn Sirius open still trembled up Remus' arm, writhing its way into his bones. He squeezed his eyes shut, knowing that James was still standing there in the hallway, staring at him.
“Is he talking?” James asked once Remus could look at him. He was scratching at his brown cheek, a funny little habit, and it struck Remus that James was scared. James Potter always had a solution, but Sirius was a whole different problem.
“No.” Remus muttered, wiping a clammy palm on his jeans. “I need dittany.”
Ashen, James blinked and nodded, once, tightly, before hurrying for the stairs. Remus had decided he wouldn't tell James anything else about the wound, lest he perform a full body jinx to stop Sirius from going anywhere ever again. A moment later, James reappeared to push a small, amber bottle into Remus' hand. The label reading Essence of Dittany had nearly been worn from the glass.
Remus glanced up at James. “Have you told Wormtail?”
“Planned to owl him this evening.”
“Good.”
“The Full Moon is tomorrow.” James said before he could leave again. “You should stay.”
“I can’t–”
“It’s better than being chained up in a basement.” James' mouth was set in an all-familiar line, the kind of line he wouldn't let anyone cross, the won't-take-no-for-an-answer line. “Let us go with you this month. There’s a forest at the back of the house we can use.”
Remus shook his head, thinking of the wolf's hoarse voice in his ear, its sharp, dirty claws sinking into his heart. “I’d rather be chained up than kill someone, Prongs.”
“We’re the only place for miles and miles. I’ll even ask Dad to place wards." He jabbed a finger into Remus' chest. "Come on, Moony.”
And Remus did fucking hate the basement underneath his parents' cottage, hated the damp, shadowed corners, the freezing, rotting walls, the heavy chains, leaving sore welts for days afterwards.
He would have to send a letter back home. He swallowed, rubbing at his wrist. “I don't know if Sirius is in the right state for that.”
"It will be good for Padfoot to run around again. You know how he gets, he’ll go berserk if he’s trapped inside for too long.”
"I know." Remus mumbled as he reached to push the door to Sirius' bedroom open once more. "I'm still going to ask him."
James called after him-- "He'll say yes!"