The Promise

It’s by far the worst they’ve been in a very long while.

They had been good, great actually, all things considered. They were talking more, sleeping better. Though still not nearly as handsome as he had once been, Sirius’ cheeks looked a little less hollow and his skin had regained a bit of color. For Remus, battered though he was, the moons seemed to take less of a toll for the simple fact that Sirius was waiting for him to return after each one. Both, it seemed, had begun to rebuild some of the health (be it physical or emotional) that they had lost over the past decade.

And then, it all went to shit when they hurled themselves into the Department of Mysteries with their hearts in their mouths, dropping everything because Harry, Harry was in danger. Nothing else mattered. How could anything else matter?

Yes, it all went to shit when Sirius was dueling with Bellatrix Lestrange, throwing a mad slew of offensive curses, not a single moment spent trying to block himself, to keep himself safe.
“Nice one, James!” Sirius had said thoughtlessly, cheerfully, a manic glint in his eye, continuing to goad his cousin with reckless enthusiasm. He was happy, but it was such a wrong, twisted happiness, it made Remus’ stomach sick. This is not his Sirius, the one he has come to understand and care for over the last few months, the one he may even understand better now than the friend of his youth. This is some kind of desperate, vicious, frenzied thing, with all of the passion of his teenage self but none of the joy or hopefulness. This is a Sirius that’s breaking under the pressure, drinking in adrenaline like poison, and while he isn’t aiming to kill, he’s aiming to hurt, and he’s loving every moment of it. Why the hell did Remus let him come here?

“Something is wrong,” Remus’ brain demands urgently. “Something is wrong, something is wrong, something is WRONG!”

Then Sirius is hit. He’s hit hard in the chest, and Remus feels all of the breath expelled from his lungs. Someone yells “stupify!” And Bellatrix is grounded, but he’s falling. Sirius is falling. He’s falling into the veil hesfallingintotheveilohgodnononoSirius

“Confringo!” A shrill voice screams. It’s little Hermione Granger, her wand outstretched, her face a mask of horror. A burst of orange light, impossibly large and strong, erupts in the center of the room. The arch, the veil, flies in a thousand different directions. The room shakes, the ground is leveled. Convulsing, it heaves itself into pieces, rippling outward in a wave of broken stone. Everyone finds themselves on the ground. Several scream in pain as the blast flings them to the edges of the room like dolls.

The room finally stills. Lupin finds his feet quickly, shakily, and sprints to the center of room.

Sirius is still there, in a heap on the ground. But how with Hermione’s spell…? Then Remus understands with a sickening lurch. Sirius wasn’t destroyed by the blast because, even if only for a moment, he wasn’t there. He went beyond the veil.

Remus throws himself down on the cracked stone dais and drags Sirius over until he’s face up. His eyes are closed. His chest is still. Remus doesn’t have time to fear this. He raises an encircled hand and fist and brings them down as hard as he can on Sirius’ heart. He does it again. Nothing. He does it again. And again. Again. Again. Sirius is so still. Again, Remus slams the other’s diaphragm with all his might. There’s a choked gasp and Sirius sits up fast enough to knock heads with Lupin, who holds his aching forehead in one hand and stares fixedly at the other with an unreadable, solemn expression.

“Professor?” Comes a terrified, panicked voice. It’s Harry. Oh god, Harry. Harry almost lost his-.

“He’s okay. He’s okay, Harry,” Remus reassures the boy, but he’s also repeating the mantra for his own sake. Sirius was hit, Sirius fell, Sirius’ heart stopped beating. He’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay, he’s okay.

Chest heaving, Sirius’ eyes dart around the room in unadulterated terror.

“I’m back?”

Remus looks up sharply.

“Back?” He asks.

Sirius is as pale as death. He doesn’t answer. He’s trembling. He looks terrified.

Remus wishes he could say he preferred the manic, electric light that had haunted those silver eyes only moments ago to the fear that’s so abundant in his lover’s eyes now. But he doesn’t. Not in the slightest. In fact, it’s Sirius’ petrified, broken stare that finally convinces him that the other has returned to him. And that shakes Remus to his core.

…

The second that they’re safe at Hogwarts, Remus grabs Sirius by the collar and throws him, hard, into a wall.

“EXPLAIN TO ME WHAT THE FUCK YOU WERE THINKING.”

Remus doesn’t care that everyone else is still there, that they’re watching him with wide eyes, unsure whether or not they should stop him, soothe him, or just leave the pair in privacy.

Sirius’ voice is cracked, raspy and halting.

“Reems, it’s fine, everything is-.”

“DON’T. DON’T YOU BLOODY FUCKING DARE.” His greying hair hangs limply over his forehead, soaked in a cold sweat, and his spit is flying with every other word. He must look mental. Funny, to think that in this situation, Sirius could possibly be the sane one. Except that Sirius isn’t sane. He’s a reckless bastard and Remus is sure in that moment that he hates Sirius Black as much as he loves him.

All the strength leaves him, but none of the rage. His voice is an icy whisper that makes Sirius wince.

“You were this fucking close,” he says indicating with his fingers “to dead. Because you were acting like a reckless fucking child. So don’t you dare tell me it’s fucking fine.”

Sirius is staring at his feet. Distantly, he hears Molly Weasley ushering the children to the hospital wing to be looked over, and several of the adults follow suit, until no one but Dumbledore is left to spectate.

“But I didn’t. I didn’t die, Moons.” Sirius whispers miserably. He’s never looked so afraid and Remus can feel his own heart tearing itself to pieces at the sight of him.

“No thanks to any bloody effort on your part,” Remus snarls. “You can thank Hermione Granger for counteracting your fucking death wish.”

Sirius opens his mouth to reply, but nothing comes out.

“Remus.” Intones a steady, calming voice.
All of the sudden Remus is aware of the tears pricking his eyes, and he runs a heavy hand over his two day stubble, squeezing his eyes shut and nodding with a silent sob.

“Remus, we have been remarkably fortunate,” Dumbledore says gently.
“To have come face to face with Voldemort today and leave with our number unaltered is more than I could have hoped for. However, yourself and Mr. Black are both in need of immediate medical attention. I understand the gravity of your concern, but perhaps… at a later time..?”

Dumbledore sweeps a hand toward the staircase leading to the infirmary. His eyes promise that all will be addressed in due time, and to Lupin his soothing influence is annoyingly inescapable.

“Right,” Remus says shortly, breathing hard. His hand loosens on Sirius’ shirt, which he had been tightly gripping. Sirius says nothing. He’s still staring down at his feet, but under his curtain of silky, wavy hair, his eyes are wide, confused, and impossibly guilty.
“Right,” Lupin says again, with a deep steadying breath.

He turns around and stalks away without another word.

…

They return home the next day. Funny, to think of Grimmauld Place as home. Remus has not addressed Sirius once, and his mouth is a straight line, his brow furrowed, apparently in deep thought. Grimmauld Place is eerily silent without their mutual banter or the Weasley children or the order’s terse, strategic conversations. There’s nothing to rile Walburga, who stays sleeping peacefully in her frame. Small mercies, Sirius thinks bitterly. There’s also nothing to distract him from the deadly looks Lupin shoots him on the rare occasions that they’re in the same room.

Sirius had recently become accustomed to the tired, wry look in those amber eyes. He had even grown resigned enough to tolerate the concern, pity, and guilt reflected so frequently in them, despite Remus’ best attempt to hide such things. But he found he could not cope with this new hollow, searching look. He was half-convinced he could see hatred in Remus’ gaze, or at least bitter, bitter disappointment.

A week passes, then another, and they have spoken only once. The longer the silence had been maintained, the more difficult it felt to break, like a stew developing a thick skin after sitting on the stovetop.

It had happened in the library. It was a Tuesday, as far as Sirius could recall (it scarcely mattered when stuck at Grimmauld), and a wet, cold one at that. The rain didn’t allow itself the catharsis of pouring and pounding against the pavement, but instead leaked from the sky all day, morose and dissatisfying, causing anyone caught in its throes to be abjectly miserable.

Sirius felt peculiarly sedated since since the veil. Agitation still overtook him at any given moment, and anger and confusion still led to destructive episodes of trashing rooms, screaming at the pictures on the walls, and some nights, drinking more than a little Ogden’s fire whiskey. Yet his restlessness had abated somewhat, much to his surprise. He had always been the man of action, in times of peace or times of war. In fact, in Sirius’ youth, he could scarcely sit down long enough to read a newspaper or finish a meal.

It had only gotten worse after Azkaban, to the point where Sirius was filled with constant tension, like a teakettle about to burst into whistling. After all, this was his childhood home- there had been a time where he would have sawed off a limb to escape from it, happily. How could he be still and content in such a place?

Now it’s different though. He wants to leave, of course, he wants to see the 1990’s and look after Harry and observe with his waking eyes the world that had left him behind. He wants to catch up with it. Of course he does. Of course… and yet.

He’s so tired. And the aching, shadowy stillness of Grimmauld Place lulls him into a state of half non-being, a dreary but welcome escape. It courses through him like heroin until he’s blissfully numb. In this state, he can sit on the sofa with his hands in his lap for hours, watching the rain, scarcely even blinking, and more importantly scarcely even thinking.

It’s in this same state that Remus finds him in, looking absolutely miserable to be seeing the other. “I was here first,” Sirius thinks grumpily. Privately, he wants Remus to go away (wants him to stroke his cheek and whisper things and place a large, rough, warm hand against his ribcage-), but he’ll settle for looking away. There’s an abrasive, vindictive look in those eyes he loves so much, and the shame and alcohol are convalescing to make Sirius feel bitter and angry.

“Was there something you needed?” He asks sharply, finally meeting the other’s gaze coldly.

Remus purses his lips. His gaze is frustratingly unreadable. It’s a moment before he speaks, and Sirius is desperately hoping that Lupin will say something scathing, something hurtful, because at least they would be speaking. Even the bad part of their relationship is better than having none at all. But the other remains insufferably impassive.

“There’s an order meeting tonight,” he informs Sirius blankly. Sirius waits for him to continue but he doesn’t.

“And?”

“And Dumbledore’s asked me to come away. Like last time. I expect he’ll be announcing it tonight, so I thought I would warn you.”

Sirius’ heart throbs, and he feels ice in the pit of his stomach.

“Oh,” is all he can muster.

For a moment Remus seems to be searching his face for any sign of pain, worry, and most of all love. Whatever he finds there, it doesn’t seem to satisfy him. He nods grimly, and turns on his heel.

Sirius listens to his footfalls fade down the hallway, longing for simpler times.

But when had things ever been simple? When they were thirteen fucking years old?

Sirius isn’t entirely sure how or why, but he finds himself hopelessly inebriated by the time the order arrives that evening. No one seems to notice this except Minerva, who gives him a pained, pleading look, and much to his surprise, she takes his hand in both of hers and squeezes it tightly.

“Why don’t you go upstairs and clean yourself up Mr. Black?” She suggests in her brusque, Scottish manner, but it’s in an undertone so that no one else notices. It’s not the suggestion itself, but the gentleness with which it’s delivered that infuriates him and he stalks up the stairs without a word.

…

Remus is sitting at the old oaken table, his ears ringing with the chatter around him. Nymphadora Tonks is on his left, a sweet and charming girl a decade or so younger than himself. She clearly admires him, but she’s only ever friendly and respectful- and more than that, she’s wildly observant.

“How are you and Sirius getting on then?” She asks brightly. It takes him a moment to remember that Sirius is her cousin, which might explain her interest. Except…

“Fine,” he says carefully. “Why do you ask?”

She blushes, smiles, and then as of thinking better if it, presses her lips together in a neutral sort of grimace. Her eyebrows raise only ever so slightly,

“Oh. No reason,” she says, and her voice is a little higher than usual.
“I just thought you were… never mind- just curious is all- oi, Moody!”

She quickly turns away, but he can still see the tips of her elf-like ears, which are bright red.

“That obvious, huh?”, Remus wonders to himself sardonically. So what else have people noticed? That they’re mad about each other? Or that Remus has been silently contemplating beating Sirius bloody for the past two weeks? The urge doesn’t come from a desire to punish Sirius for falling off the deep end- that was to be expected, and it’s Remus’ fault for not noticing that sooner.

Remus is furious with Sirius for one reason and one reason only.

Because he’s terrified.

Because Sirius seems to give next to no fucks about his life, and Remus is going to lose him forever one day because of it. The unshakable reality of this fact sinks like a stone in his gut and it scares the living shit out of him.

Sirius walks in five minutes after the meeting has begun, and while several look up in surprise, Dumbledore graciously attempts to pay his abrupt entrance little notice.

Remus loses track of what the elderly wizard is saying, attention consumed by the new arrival. Had he looked so poor this morning? Remus can’t remember. Sirius’ skin is sallow again, and his scowling face seems to have lost even the thin layer of flesh that it had gained in the past year. He looks closer to fifty than his age, but his mopey grimace and gait are teenaged and irritable.

Remus notices, with a twinge of anger, that he is discretely sliding and empty scotch glass into the sink, but his heart sinks when he glances at the other’s hands.

They’re raw and red, as if a first layer of skin has been scrubbed off of them. Scourgify, he’s certain. It’s not a spell meant for human skin. Sirius may as well have dipped his hands in bleach. Why? Because he feels unclean? Remus wants nothing more than to stand, cross the room, take those wasted hands in his, and soothe the burning skin with spells and kisses and ointments. But he can’t bring himself to. He hasn’t touched Sirius since Hogwarts. Since pinning him roughly against a wall in a fit of horror and anger and relief, not sure whether to kiss him or to break his long, thin nose.

Funny, he can’t bear the thought of losing Sirius, but at the same time can’t even bear to touch him.

He realizes he’s been staring. Sirius is staring back from his assumed seat. His expression is somewhere between anxious and challenging, like he wants to fight but he’s genuinely afraid of what Lupin might say. Since when were words enough to hurt this man? An obvious and stupid question, but Remus can’t help but ask it of himself silently.

“-Remus?”

He’s snapped out of his reverie by what is very clearly the end of a sentence. He buries his fingertips into his eyelids and when he looks up, Sirius is looking away.

“Sorry, er, rough night of sleep.” He explains. It’s not entirely a lie.

“Never you mind that, Remus,” Dumbledore says easily. “I suspect we’ve all been losing hours here and there. But I thought you might like to explain your plan yourself?”

Oof. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Sirius’ head shoots up mutinously. “Dumbledore,” his scathing eyes seem to say, “you said it was Dumbledores’ idea.” Lupin clears his throat uneasily.

“Yes well- right. The packs are on the move, but as far as I know, only Greybacks’ lot have cast their bets with Voldemort thus far. Some of the groups I’m aware of, Yorkshire, Dundee, Birmingham, Glasgow- I think they’ll be open to hearing what we have to say. For the most part these are peaceful factions. They band together for economic security, largely. They don’t want to hurt anyone without reason, but they don’t exactly have any reason to trust the wizarding community either- and I suspect there’s a good number of scores they’d like to settle with the less tolerant of our kind.”

“Can you be sure they’ll accept you, Remus?” A gruff voice asks. “It’s not ‘81 anymore. Lot’s changed since you were running with that crowd.”

“There’s only one way to be certain, Alastor,” Remus replies, trying to sound very matter of fact. Too defensive and they’ll think it’s too dangerous, too careless and they’ll think he hasn’t thought it through. Of course, maybe he hasn’t really. Maybe he just needs out of this fucking house.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to throw yourself into the rabble, Lupin,” comes a soft drawl. Severus Snape, until now, has been uncommonly quiet.

“And why is that?” Remus asks. He’s proud of the calm in his voice, since he really has no patience for Snape’s games at the moment:

“You just said so yourself- you are one of
our kind. You don’t think you’re one of them. They’ll see that in an instant. So why should they believe a single word you have to say?”

“Because they did last time,” Remus says confidently. “Unless you’ve forgotten, Severus, I spent more time with the wolves than away from them in the final months.”

“Oh, I’m sure we all remember,” Snape says lazily, but there’s a flicker of pleasure in his eyes when his gaze darts to Sirius, who’s already gripping the edge of the table to maintain composure.

“Remus is right,” Sirius snaps suddenly. At first Lupin is shocked by Sirius’ validation, but then he registers the bitter note in his voice.
“He was with the packs so often we scarcely saw him. He can take care of himself, Snape. I’m sure that’s what you’re worried about. I mean, not like you think he’d decide he liked their company better? Them being his “own kind” and all?

Sirius’ cheeks are flushed and his speech is almost imperceptibly clumsy. It occurs to Remus with an almighty jolt that the other is truly and absolutely pissed. When had he even had the time? He seemed stone cold sober just a little while ago in the library. Remus silently prays that no one else has noticed, but Snape suddenly looks extremely pleased with himself.

“Would you rather he stay here with you, Black? I’m sure with your charmed upbringing, you’re rather accustomed to having a nursemaid.”

“Oh fuck off, Snape,” Sirius spits dangerously, “Remus has given you no reason not to trust him. As we found out fourteen fucking years ago, he’s always been the reliable one.”

Snape opens his mouth quickly to retort, but he’s cut off by a even but sharp voice.

“Sirius,” it intones warningly. It’s Dumbledore of course. Remus silently thanks the universe for his intervention. He needs to get Sirius out of this room and on his way to sobriety as soon as possible without humiliating him.

“I firmly believe that no one at this table doubts the loyalty of Remus Lupin. Still, to his credit, I can assure all of you that he has my complete confidence and always has.”

“Because he’s never done anything wrong,” Sirius says archly, “Except for his- what would you always call it back then? ‘Special circumstances’?”

“Sirius,” Remus warns, gently but sternly. The other looks surprised and even hurt to be spoken too, but hides it well. He leans back in his chair with a derisive huff and glances off into the distance moodily.

Snape, appearing unbothered, raises one imperious eyebrow and continues.

“Despite Professor Lupin’s good behavior, one must acknowledge the possibility of his getting a better offer-.”

Remus feels his face go red hot with anger, but Sirius is out of his seat before Lupin can even react.

“Offer?” Sirius snaps incredulously. “He doesn’t make his decisions based on offers. Your were the fucking death eater last time ‘round, not him, remember?”

“Sirius!” This time Dumbledore sounds angry, but it hardly curbs the temper of the darkly handsome man glittering with rage at the other end of the kitchen.

“You will remain civil or I’m afraid you will have to be dismissed. Fighting amongst one another will bring us neither clarity nor resolution.”

Sirius looks like he wants to argue, but just then, the portrait in the hall begins to shriek madly. Sirius grips his forehead as if he intends to break it and retrieves his wand from his back pocket.

“Bloody FUCKING HELL!” He shouts madly, and storms out of the room. With a silent, panicked look at Dumbledore, who nods discreetly, Lupin nearly tips over his chair to follow him, leaving Snape’s smug face at his back.

“Bombardo! Reducto! Diffindo!”

“Stupify,” Remus says shortly, and casts the spell over Sirius’ shoulder and right into the heart of the painting. Sirius glares at him as if unsure whether to offer thanks or to stomp off.

“Forgot which one,” he mutters angrily, shoving his wand back into his pocket nearly hard enough to splinter it. Remus finches. Sirius is touchy about his magic and his memory, both of which were impaired after years and years of isolation. When he faces difficulty in both of these respects at once, it’s never a good sign.

“You should get back in there before Snivellus says something else to rub your face in the dirt,” Sirius suggests tartly.

“I don’t need you fighting my battles for me, Padfoot.” Remus means it well, but he can tell immediately that this was the wrong thing to say.

“Oh yeah? Well you’re certainly keen on fighting mine for me.”

Remus blinks, confused and frustrated.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not broken,” Sirius snarls.

At this, Remus is caught even more off guard.
“I never said you were,” he says quietly (and “I only thought it,” he thinks guiltily).

Sirius snorts and shakes his head, throwing the dark velvet drapes back over his mother’s horsey face.

“You didn’t need to,” he mutters furiously, and storms upstairs without a backward glance.