IX
Chapter 9
Sirius awakens to a deep shuddering breath and an incredible fucking headache that radiates into the roof of his mouth. The headache belongs to him. The breath does not.
There’s a firm, anchoring weight at his side. It smells like coffee and leather and clean, spiced cologne. It clears its throat quietly, like it’s trying to remain undetected, and pulls a long, watery sniff in the same discreet way. Despite never having heard the sound before, Sirius knows exactly what it must be.
“Good God,” he mumbles. “If you’re crying, someone’s died. Who is it then?”
A warm, dry hand thumbs at his hair, but it feels stiff and mechanical.
“Nobody’s died, Padfoot, you morbid shit- and I’m not. Crying, that is.”
Sirius sighs. He knows it’s useless to argue this point. He’d seen Moony break an arm and his eyes hardly misted.
Sirius hauls himself gingerly to a seated position, and breathes deeply, waiting for the dizziness to subside.
Remus is sitting on the bed, one foot on the floor. Freshly clothed and shaven, it’s clear he’s been awake for some time. A yellowing paperback lies forgotten in his weathered, carpenter-like hands, and his face is a mask, bright blue eyes trained forward and square jaw set. Still, there’s a redness and irritation to his eyes and cheeks that stoicism can’t conceal.
“Why is it that you’re ‘not crying’, then?” Sirius asks with an innocent look that is somehow both dry and genuine.
Remus chuckles, sighing.
“Because if a Scottish bloke cries, he has to commit honorable suicide.”
Sirius raises a dubious eyebrow.
“You grew up in England though, right?”
Remus snorts.
“The thought never seemed to occur to my dad. The shame probably would’ve killed him if he realized he had raised an Englishman. Besides- you’re still plenty French, aren’t you?”
“Oui, malheureusement,” Sirius says, grimacing and scratching an eyebrow.
Remus gives a noncommittal chuckle, but his face falls quickly. Does he look… angry? Sirius had anticipated anger, but Remus’ earlier treatment of the situation had lulled him into a false sense of security. But this look- Moony is almost definitely upset with him. Are they still fighting?
Sirius wishes, not for the first time, for even an ounce of Lily’s emotional intelligence. Even before Azkaban, he had had only a crude sense of how relationships were supposed to work. A product, he supposed, of his upbringing, where being referred to as ‘my heir’ was the closest thing to an admission of love, and ‘crucio’ was a word used to describe a multitude of displeasures ranging from minor inconvenience to rage. Overall, it had been an environment not remotely conducive to identifying the painful look now lingering in Remus’ true blue eyes.
Luckily, Sirius doesn’t have to wonder long.
“That was too close, Padfoot,” Remus says quietly.
“Which bit?” Sirius croaks, knowing full well.
“All of it,” Remus nearly snaps with a disapproving look. It brings Sirius back to Remus’ prefect days and despite the solemn circumstances, he has to suppress a smile.
He risks a comforting hand between Remus’ shoulder blades.
“Turned out alright though, didn’t it? Unless I’m much uglier right now than you’re letting on.”
Remus doesn’t laugh. Instead he stiffens under the other’s hand, and Sirius removes it with an undulating stab of hurt. He isn’t laughing now, either.
“It only turned out alright because Molly can apparently grapple a full-grown man better than some professional wrestlers,” Remus growls, meeting Sirius’ gaze furiously. Still, his eyes soften almost instantaneously and he redirects his gaze out the window, swallowing hard like he has a throat ache.
“He wasn’t going to stop, Si. You easily could’ve died. What the hell compels you to-.”
“You said yourself, the locket-!” Sirius begins indignantly, but Remus won’t be deterred.
“No! No no no, not just this time. Always,” He says hotly.
“Why does your recklessness always come before- before- any instinct of self-preservation?”
To an extent it’s true, but it still feels unfair and Sirius throws up his hands in frustration.
“I was angry!” He snaps. He’s not sure which action he’s justifying. The fight with Severus? That goddamned prank? Getting himself kicked out by his parents? Going after Pettigrew instead of taking care of Harry- taking care of Remus?
“Your anger is not worth your bloody life!”
It’s when Remus’ voice breaks on the last word that Sirius feels realization flood through him. Remus isn’t angry or ashamed of him, not really. He’s afraid- and good lord, he is crying; Real, honest-to-god tears.
Sirius recalls a conversation between Peter and Remus on the train heading to their fifth year at Hogwarts. Remus is trying to explain why he didn’t mind locking up the wolf in the Shrieking Shack.
“If you’re going to hurt someone, might as well be yourself,” Remus shrugged seriously.
Peter had frowned then and shook his head, nonplussed.
“But that’ll just hurt the people who care about you, won’t it?”
James turned from the window (where he was checking his artfully tousled hair), looking suddenly thoughtful, sad even.
“I know I don’t say this often, but I actually agree with Pete,” he says, ignoring the indignant sputtering from the aforementioned.
“Better to look after yourself, for their sake.”
It’s a surprise when James looks pointedly, not at Remus, but at Sirius. He feels strangely naked under that green gaze and shrugs a bruised arm further inside his sleeve.
“Doesn’t matter does it?” He says cockily, stretching his hands behind his head.
“Moony won’t be alone anymore.”
Smugly, he gauged their shocked expressions as he slid into the shape of a great, glistening black dog.
It feels so long ago now, like ancient history, and Sirius is surprised he even remembers it. But that exposed feeing, like being under a magnifying glass, has stuck with him all the way through Azkaban. Because James knew. James knew Sirius would end up hurting the people he loves. No- that’s not right. James knew Sirius would end up hurting himself.
Suddenly, sitting dumbstruck beside Remus, Sirius feels a number of things all at once. Shame, surprise, affection, fear. He blinks owlishly. Gently, he brushes a tear away from Remus’ cheek.
“I’m sorry, Moony. I wasn’t thinking,” he whispers, stricken. Remus gives a wet laugh and the look Sirius receives is hopelessly and infinitely caring.
“Which time?” He asks.
“Any of them. All of them,” Sirius replies with a chuckle, torn between misery and relief.
“But I’ll start trying to- be careful, I mean.”
“I don’t know if I believe you,” Remus says not unkindly.
Sirius closes his eyes and exhales deeply. His head, still pounding, comes to rest on Remus’ shoulder.
“Keep me safe, then?” He suggests in a nearly inaudible whisper. Even to his own ears, his voice sounds impossibly small and vulnerable.
Remus chokes back a sob and Sirius feels it shudder in the other’s chest.
“Of course I will,” he says raggedly. It’s not quite a kiss, but he presses his face and lips firmly into the crown of Sirius’ hair.
“Of course I will.”
…
Sirius makes a valiant effort to stay awake, but his eyes slowly close as dusky six o’clock turns to sunny seven, and Remus lets himself out of the room, quieter than a ghost.
Grimmauld Place always seems more dismal during the day, but the stairs creek merrily with his every step, indifferent to the brooding atmosphere around them.
On the landing, Remus hears the muffled baritone of several voices in relaxed conversation. He crosses the foyer and descends the few flagstone steps into the basement kitchen.
“Morning, Remus!” Says Tonks cheerfully, and “Ouch,” when her waving hand collides with the low hanging table chandelier.
Across from her sits (to Lupin’s mild surprise) Dumbledore. Tall and majestic with his illustrious silver hair and dusky, rose-pink robes, Remus thinks he looks too awe-striking to be permitted in the bleak, unassuming room. It makes him momentarily more cognizant of his own worn trousers, ratty cardigan, and ten-year old oxfords. Remus looks like he belongs here, and it’s a strangely encouraging thought as he steps down into the room.
“Tea, Remus?” Molly asks, bustling around the kitchen. Remus wonders if she ever allows herself to sit down.
“Please,” he says gratefully.
“Good morning, Remus,” Dumbledore says serenely. He sounds neither cheerful nor perturbed. In the face of such measured calmness, Remus feels more like an eleven year old student than a teacher formerly in the elderly wizard’s employ.
“Morning,” Remus manages. It sounds polite but stiff. Molly places a cup of hot liquid in his hands, which in Remus’ opinion had been readied with unnatural speed and efficiency. He takes it appreciatively, murmuring his thanks, and gingerly lowers himself into a chair beside Tonks. He places his elbows on the table and, still impossibly sore from the last moon, feels his bones settle into place some five seconds later. He faces Albus with a solemn expression.
Albus leans back in his chair thoughtfully, as if surveying a large map spread across the table.
“Now, Remus,” he begins calmly. “I do not mean to keep you from some well-deserved rest, but I wonder if you would be able to summarize your experiences over the past week-.”
“Certainly,” Remus says flatly. “After you explain to me what happened here properly, please.”
Dumbledore sighs and there’s a hint of hesitation in his eyes.
“I know you’re angry, Remus-,”
“I don’t get angry,” he protests calmly hit firmly.
“Everyone gets angry,” Albus says with infinite patience.
Tonks starts to edge out of her seat.
“Maybe we should…” she begins, but Remus sighs and relaxes into his seat rubbing his eyes.
“No. No, it’s fine.” He says, with growing resolve. He has no intention to row with his mentor, regardless of what the wolf encourages him to do.
“But Albus, honestly, what are you thinking leaving them together? You know they loathe each other.”
Dumbledore sighs wearily.
“I sensed some… agitation around the artifact, but Sirius has always been an exceedingly poor occulumens, even to the point of projecting his emotions outwards.”
At this, Remus’ stomach gives an angry, guilty shudder. The belief that Sirius had been betraying them by using complex occulumency was largely the reason he had been denied a trial. If they had used their heads, it would’ve been obviously untrue. But Dumbledore isn’t finished, and Remus tries to focus on what he’s saying.
“He was in shock, angry, and inebriated. The thought that an external force might be altering his state of mind, foolishly didn’t even occur to me, I must admit.”
“Sirius isn’t stable in any case, Albus!” Remus points out incredulously, only just keeping his voice neutral. He thinks with a twinge how humiliated Sirius would be to have his historically feeble psyche discussed without his knowledge- or discussed at all, rather. He sighs, suddenly exhausted. Not even the wolf wants to fight anymore.
“It was ill done, Albus. You shouldn’t have done it,” he says tiredly, running a hand through his hair.
To his credit, Dumbledore of course looks genuinely remorseful.
“I take full responsibility, of course, and I am most heartily sorry, Remus.”
Remus can only nod his acceptance, massaging his temples as if releasing the stress and anger that had accumulated there over the last couple of days.
“As for the packs, Albus, I… I’m really not sure what to tell you. I’m worried about a couple more than others- Yorkshire, Leeds, that whole area. They’re hungry and angry and jobless and they want to hold wizard kind responsible. Birmingham’s more neutral, but they want legislative reform, and I don’t think we can promise that, not with you only recently reinstated to the wizengamot.”
Here, Dumbledore parts his lips and holds up a polite hand.
“Despite corruption within the Ministry, I do not believe Rufus Scrimgeour will risk losing my council. I will attempt to convince him to enact some protections by executive decree.” Dumbledore’s eyes sparkle with a hint of mischievous excitement.
“What protections?” Lupin asks, tilting his head. The twinkle in Albus’ eyes only grows.
“Among others,” he says with scarcely concealed relish, “an act that forbids employment discrimination on the basis of lycanthropy.”
Remus feels an odd thrill run through him.
“You’re bloody joking,” he says dubiously, leaning forward. The other smiles.
“I assure you I am not.”
“People will riot, Albus.”
“Some, undoubtedly. But I think you underestimate, understandably so, the world’s readiness for change. Did you know, at the time of your resignation I had nearly as many owls forbidding me from sacking you and demanding it?”
Remus’ heart suddenly aches with fear and excitement. He tries to quell the hope, dismiss it as foolishness, but Dumbledore is smiling that indulgent, patient smile-.
“You can’t be saying what I think you’re saying,” Remus says.
“I am. And I intend to follow through the moment the act passes, and I mean to ensure that it does. The position is yours- if you accept, of course, professor.”
Molly gives an excited “oh!” And claps a hand to her mouth. Tonks whoops and claps him on the back jovially. Remus only sits, stunned, in his seat. He waits for an objection to rise in him (it’s too good to be true, after all) and lo and behold one reveals itself and he’s filled with the anticipated surge of dread.
“Albus, I’d love to, but- I can’t. Not with Sirius locked up here. Harry and I-.” He pauses, flushing a little under their gazes.
“Harry and I are the the only family he has,” Remus finishes, choking down his disappointment. Because Sirius is so much more important than a silly teaching position, even if it felt so right, even if it had been such a massive relief to be accepted, to be useful, not hiding away from society, punted from one measly job to the next with pay offerings low enough not to warrant asking questions or looking into his background.
He expects Albus to attempt to reason with him, to become disappointed and concerned or frustrated with him. He doesn’t anticipate the caring, knowing look in Dumbledore’s eyes.
“Naturally, I would never imagine you would stand to be parted from Sirius,” he says, causing Remus to blush a darker shade of red. Dumbledore’s eyebrows knit together thoughtfully.
“I had hoped Sirius would consent to assisting the order as a curse breaker, but in light of recent circumstances, I can see the error of my judgement. Still, he cannot remain here at Grimmauld Place, where he is both underutilized as a talented wizard, and I suspect, subject to relive some of his worst memories.”
He sighs deeply and Remus imagines the sound is as close to one of frustration as a tranquil Albus Dumbledore gets.
“Beyond any doubt, his name must be cleared, but with Peter Pettigrew so well protected… and of course, if the ministry catches any wind from us of Sirius’ whereabouts, they’ll administer the kiss before an appeal can be so much as mentioned…” Albus absentmindedly twirls his silvery beard around his fingers.
The thought occurs to Remus suddenly.
“Baile nan Granndach,” he says.
“Gesundheit,” says Tonks, wiping away an imaginary tear of laughter. He shoves her playfully.
“Baile nan Granndach,” he says again, slowly.
“Where my parents grew up. My uncle Hector has a cottage there, but he passed a couple of years back. I suspect it’s empty.”
“Grantown-on-Spey,” Dumbledore says, nodding. “I know the place. A small town- but almost entirely comprised of wizards.”
“That’s true,” Remus says quickly, “but uncle Hec lived outside of town. He was a bit of an outcast since… well, since what happened to me. He became vocal about wolf rights- lost him just about every association he had, except my parents. And then we moved away to escape the scrutiny, but he didn’t want to.”
Remus shrugged uncomfortably. It was a great deal more sharing than he was accustomed to doing.
“It’s quiet there, unassuming. Quite a lovely place, actually.
Albus’ brow furrows slightly.
“I’m sure Sirius would not desire to escape reminders of his childhood in exchange for you enduring…”
“Oh, no,” Remus reassured him.
“It’s not like that. The only reason I never went back is because they’d sooner board up the shops than hire me, knowing what I am. But despite that… it really is a lovely place.”
Dumbledore smiles warmly, and there’s something like admiration or pride in his kindly gaze.
“I will have Alastor look into it immediately after the holidays,” he promises.
The conversation wanders into less serious territory, and Remus soaks it up in a relaxed silence. He finishes his tea slowly, rinses and wipes out his mug, and turns to depart when Molly says “Oh, Remus, dear, I wondered if you could give me hand in the drawing room? There’s some damage in the chimney I suspect is down to gnomes.”
He nods, and follows her upstairs, but she doesn’t go to the drawing room. She stands in the foyer, looking anxious and younger than usual.
“I- I know I’ve been hard on him,” she begins abruptly.
“But he worked so hard, for you, while you were away, trying to get himself right and get the drinking under control, and-.“ she looks even more unsure.
“And I think he might be… well… you know- I think he might be in love with you.”
Remus can’t help but snort. He laughs, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Thanks, Molly. But- he always has been. Since the day we met.”
Her eyes widen comically, and she flushes an endearing shade of pink.
“And- and you?”
He realizes with a jolt of gratitude that she’s protecting Sirius, despite their constant bickering and nonsense, and laughs a bit in wonder.
He remembers the horrible feeling of betrayal when Sirius sent Snape through the Womping Willow passage and the agony of freezing Sirius out of his life for it. It had been rivaled only by the immense relief of when they had finally started talking again, when Remus had realized, despite the cruelty and stupidity and recklessness of his mistakes, that he would never be whole without Sirius at his side.
“Since our fifth year at school. Don’t worry, Molly. We’ll be alright.”
“Oh- well- right. Alright then, love.”
Still blushing, she hugs him about the shoulders awkwardly, and darts back downstairs.
He stands in the foyer alone for a moment, taking in the dusty shafts of golden light and the way the old house creaks in the December wind.
It doesn’t look like such a miserable place, knowing now that Sirius won’t have to stay there forever.