The Promise

Outside number twelve Grimmauld Place, a lazy snow drifts through the evening-blue sky, accumulating slowly but surely on rooftops and drain pipes and vents dripping with exhaust, the droplets in turn rapidly becoming chains of wet icicles. There’s a stillness in the air, like the quiet world is moving in very slow motion.

Sirius imagines how the snow would feel in his face, or the cold wind on his bare skin, or how the downy snowflakes would look caught in Moony’s brown eyelashes. He inhales deeply to loosen the tight feeling of longing (for fresh air or for Remus, he isn’t certain), in his chest. The dusty indoor air carries the scent of butter and rosemary and roasting meat, and though it’s richness makes Sirius somewhat queasy, his mouth waters all the same, and he feels a flutter of excitement that would have sent Padfoot’s tail wagging.

Something in his movements must belay his jitteriness, because Remus gives a soft huff of laughter from his fireside seat on the sofa.

“Come sit down, Padfoot,” He says, making room beside him by tossing a throw pillow to the old maroon armchair nearby.

“They won’t be here for hours. And in any case, you’ll catch your death hanging ‘round drafty windows like that all day.”

“Yes, Mum,” says Sirius, loping over with the easy grace of a Labrador. After two long days of rest in bed (enforced by a hawk-like Molly and Remus) nearly every broken bone and battered muscle has healed. It feels almost as if his encounter with Snape never happened, but Sirius’s appearance betrays him. For all the swelling has gone down on his pale, drawn face, it’s still a mask of colorful bruises (in a frankly eclectic range of hues) and sore to the touch.
Remus smirks as Sirius drops unceremoniously onto the couch beside him.

“Not going to circle a few times?” Remus asks.

“Oh, fuck off,” Sirius laughs, but he does pull his legs up after him in a manner that suggests something ever so slightly canine.

The space between them is, for now, perfect, Sirius tells himself. Any farther from one another and they might risk a return of the wedge that had separated them for so many years; Any closer together and they would be exploring barely charted territory, and in this, the cold light of day, the thought of touching Remus, kissing Remus, fills Sirius with a mortifying thrill of nerves.

So, he doesn’t edge closer. It suffices to soak up the familiarity in their warm casual silence and feel the edge of the heat aura Remus throws off in waves. It’s always been like this, as far as Sirius can remember. Cool, calm, and collected Remus with his hot blood, and fiery, rash Sirius with his skin as cold as ice.

“Cold?” Remus asks. Sirius’ heart leaps and for a split second he’s convinced that (to his horror) Remus can read minds.

“What?” He blurts unimpressively.

“I asked if you were cold. You’re shivering,” Remus explains gently, and without warning, warm heavy fingers grasp Sirius’, assessing their iciness. Suddenly feeling horribly like a teenager, Sirius’ stomach ties itself into knots, and he silently berates himself for the blush creeping onto his cheeks. He wonders if Moony can feel his pulse throbbing in his awkward, sharp wrist, which Sirius is painfully aware leads to an arm that’s gangly like a child’s, lacking all of its former sleek, slender muscle.

“Here,” says Moony. His voice is strange, gravelly and low like the fiery logs snapping in the grate. Remus is easing his own thick fisherman’s cardigan off of his shoulders, and as his biceps contract with the movement (pushing alarmingly against the sleeves of his pencil-striped button up shirt- when did scrawny little teenage Moony become this strong, filled out, so very… something man before him?), Sirius thinks he may very well be dying.

But he doesn’t die so much as float, his body a live wire, as the cardigan comes to rest on his own shoulders along with the heavy, anchoring weight of Remus’ hands. The sweater smells just like him, of course it does, and it carries all of the heat of its owner too. Dumbstruck, Sirius stares at Remus, doe-like, and eases his arms into the thick, cabled sleeves. He swallows, attempting to ease the tension from his throat, but this only forces it into his chest, where it reminds him sedately that Remus’ hands are still on his shoulders.

Sirius has no time to consider before Padfoot acts for him, dropping one cheek to Remus’ hand, dusting the knuckles with his eyelashes, and nuzzling it affectionately. He hears Remus’ breath hitch in his throat. He’s thankful for the frightful bruises on his face, which might hide at least a little of the scarlet flush that has surely overtaken every square inch of it.

When he lifts his head, he’s staring into the sea blue of Remus’ eyes, impossibly close, and they’re angled down ever so slightly, toward his own mouth. Remus is flushed too, and worrying at his slightly chapped bottom lip. His eyes are hungry but inviting, solemn but comforting.

The hand on his shoulder is sliding up to Sirius’ neck now, and Sirius is sure he can sense the contour of Remus’ lips, which must be only millimeters away. He’s vaguely aware that he is also leaning forward into what he hopes with all of his soul is coming next.

“Remus?” Comes a barking call from the hallway.

They break apart, chests heaving, hearts racing, and try and look anywhere but at one another. Still, a sheepish smile toys at the corners of Remus’ mouth.

“Yes, Mad-Eye?” He calls in a slightly ragged but mostly amused voice. His hand has dropped to Sirius’ leg as if it belongs there, as if the intimate touch wasn’t equally as astounding as being moments away from snogging not three seconds ago. Moony’s thumb works absentminded circles over over his knee, and it does nothing to calm Sirius’ frayed nerves. He feels slightly dizzy, and there’s a peculiar buzzing sensation in his teeth.

“‘Bout time to pick up the ankle-biters,” Alastor calls gruffly, a little closer now. Sirius can imagine he’s checking his clunky, old-fashioned time piece.
“It’ll take us a while using muggle transit, I ‘spect. ‘Ticularly on a holiday.”

Remus sighs resignedly, and it appears to Sirius that the other nearly laughs. He turns to Sirius and his eyes are warm and glittering with affection.

“Be back in a bit, then. Gotta keep an eye on that trouble-making kid of yours,” he teases gently. They both know any mischief Harry’s ever gotten into has hardly been his own fault. Trouble follows him, not the other way around. He’s not James, after all.

With one last meaningful squeeze, the hand lifts off from Sirius’ knee as its owner hoists himself to his feet, leaving Sirius behind, still wrapped in the creamy wool cardigan that smells of spices and cedar wood and leather oil.

“What?” He mouths to the empty room, vaguely aware that his hand shakes when he runs it through his dark hair. A spurt of mad laughter escapes him and he covers his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I mean… what- what just?”

“Don’t read into it too much, love,” Suggests a portrait on the wall. The occupant is a dark-haired woman with a long, bony nose, and she sniffs through it disdainfully.
“His kind are always giving into all manner of carnal instincts.”

On any other occasion, Sirius might’ve tried to blast the portrait from its place on the wall, but now, all he can do is feel the memory of Remus’ fingers and blink bemusedly before a wide grin spreads across his face, which he covers with his hands, laughing like a school kid. He has no memories left of ever having felt so giddy, and there’s part of him that’s afraid dementors will be on their way to steal the feeling away from him at any moment- but most of him can’t even be arsed to care.

Barely charted territory, indeed.

,,,

The several long hours immediately following are filled with a strange and steady flow of disbelief, confusion, excitement, and then disbelief all over again.

Riding this emotional high, Sirius rolls his wand between his fingers, wondering if the elated feeling fluttering in his chest now would be sufficient to conjure a patronus. He’s only been able to summon one since gaining his freedom, and it had been a pitiful frenzied thing, hardly capable of relaying a message, much less exuding an aura of protection.

It’s the wrong idea though, for the moment he tries, the familiar feeling of despair blackens the edges of his vision, and he needs to sit down and convince himself to think of something else, something that will distract him from going back there. Little more than a wisp, like several fine, silvery unicorn hairs, emerges from the tip of his wand. It takes several long moments of forcing air into his lungs and listening to the mechanical rasp of his own hoarse breath to be certain that he isn’t going down the path that leads to nowhere, to darkness, to memories that make him scream at night and a twelve year sojourn into a cold, abysmal hell.

The thought of Remus isn’t enough to conjure up the silvery dog Sirius now scarcely remembers ever having been able to create, but it is enough to draw him back to the reality of a fire lit room in the gathering evening.

It carries with it all of the things that had made their last interaction almost unbearable, the musky smell of the other’s cologne, his thick, muscled arms, his worn and weathered face, still so warm and kind and utterly beautiful.

Sirius had felt attraction, yes, in a startling measure- but more miraculous, more unprecedented- he had felt safe. Safe in Remus’ sweater, Remus’ warmth wrapped around him like a charm of protection. He doesn’t remember the last time something made him feel safe. He grips the garment closer to him even now, marveling at the weight of the wool that still smells faintly of sheep. It’s an earthy smell, not sterile but not dirty either. It smells like falling asleep in the grass beneath the Hogwart’s beech tree, or pressing up against buckbeak’s soft feathers for warmth. It smells like Out There, beyond the front door that he swore at sixteen he would never reopen.

It’s not enough to conjure the dog, but it’s a start. He feels happy.

,,,

When he sees Harry, every other thought melts away. Of patronuses and Azkaban, of his mother and his time at Hogwart’s, all the good and all the bad, even (if only for a moment) Remus. Harry doesn’t need to be blood. Harry is his son, and the love one feels for their child overcomes everything.

“Harry!” He exclaims happily, striding into an embrace. He winces momentarily, afraid he’s been too rough, too eager, but Harry hugs him back just as hard. It’s been months since they saw one another. After The Veil, Sirius had remained with Harry long enough to reassure him that he was alive and (relatively) well, only to then immediately sink deep back into hiding. After being spotted at the Ministry of Magic smack at the center of London, he privately considered himself very lucky that Dumbledore hadn’t sent him to some remote corner of Russia or other. Needless to say, he had been unable to make any further appearances at Hogwarts.

Then, of course, there was the abominable fact that Harry had to stay with those twisted muggles of his over the summer. Sirius had met Vernon and Petunia on one or two occasions, and never again would be too soon, but it wasn’t their repugnant personalities that infuriated Sirius. It was the features he saw in Harry that so clearly reflected his own upbringing; Sirius knew there were only so many reasons why a child would try at all times to be invisible, and none of them were good.

After interrogating Remus one evening about Harry’s home life, the other had threatened to stun Sirius if he didn’t calm down. He had broken everything in sight when Remus told him he couldn’t go pick up Harry that very moment and get him away from the people who had spent so long hurting him, hurting James’ and Lily’s son, hurting Sirius’ son.

Naturally, Sirius had spent the entire summer writing letters to Harry and sulking in turns, and while he was getting to know the uncanny, brave, kind kid that Harry was, he still hadn’t seen him nearly enough. He wonders how Molly deals with it, having all of her children away at school, growing up where she can’t watch them do it.

“How are you?” He asks quietly into the boys hair as he cradles his head with a protective hand.

“Okay,” says Harry happily. He’s grown even taller, though he’s still much shorter than Sirius. Despite the stress and anxiety of the past year, Harry looks healthy and calm, with a pink flush to his cold cheeks.
“Missed you a lot.” He admits shyly, as if he’s afraid Sirius won’t want to hear it.

“You cannot even imagine,” Sirius replies fiercely, gripping Harry’s shoulders and taking a good look at him. The spitting image of James, and yet so much more than just that. He feels a rush of pride, pain, and love.

“Alright, Sirius?” Comes a jovial call from behind them. Tonks leads the way, tripping over her wet, discarded scarf only to be caught by Ginny and Hermione, who giggle good-naturedly at the older girl’s clumsiness.

He notices Harry stand up very straight, blinking and raising an unconscious hand to his mess of black hair. Ginny is a slip of a girl with all her mother’s ferocity, her father’s sweetness, and Fred and George’s penchant for rebellion. Sirius had immediately taken a liking to her- and wondered vaguely what it might be like to one day have a goddaughter.

Ginny begins to go in for a hug, but pulls up short, eyes wide.

“The fuck happened to you?” She asks bluntly, ogling his bruises with morbid curiosity.

“Ginny!” Hermione exclaims disapprovingly. Her voluminous hair is full of snowflakes.

Sirius only laughs wryly.

“Irish sunglasses, kid,” he explains nonchalantly.
“I’m sure you’ll earn a pair yourself someday, punk-ass little shit that your are.”

Ginny grins wildly, and Hermione rolls her eyes, despite looking thoroughly amused.

“Not if I’m quick with this,” Ginny challenges, twirling her wand in her fingers like a drumstick.

“Touché,” says Sirius, who would loathe to be on the receiving end of one of Ginny’s bat-bogey hexes. The girl is a menace to society.

He embraces both her and Hermione around the shoulders gently. It’s hard to make contact with people after so many years isolated from touch, but he’s managing it better every day. Ginny tries to crush him with her hug, but Hermione is more cognizant of his body language, and keeps her’s brief and unobtrusive. The girl is a genius, and Sirius has only come to marvel at her more given that he owes this child his life. He had worked up the courage to ask her at Hogwarts (though talking to anyone who wasn’t Remus was difficult) how she had known he would come back from the veil. She had blushed, looking thoughtful and a little embarrassed.

“Well… I didn’t know for sure, really. But I thought if you were between life and death, death would spit you back out to us. Since… well… you belong here, alive, with Harry. He needs you- so I had to try.”

It had made him feel infinitely more guilty, and yet a surge of gratitude had overcome him.

“Thank you,” he had said quietly. “I’ll always be here for him.” In his heart, he had known this to be untrue, sure he would die some reckless death for the Order- that is, if the veil hadn’t really killed him. It’s so hard for him to feel anything these days, so how does he know it’s not death that’s making him numb?

“Sirius?” Hermione asks. He looks up to the present day scene before him, the crowd of apprehensive teens, plus Tonks who looks not so much worried as attentive. He must have blanked out a moment. He claps his hands together.

“Right. You better not have filled up on travel snacks, because there’s a turkey in the oven that looks like it ate the rest of the turkeys.”

They groan in delight, and Tonks smiles with relief. Sirius sets his jaw, looking both stubborn and jokingly triumphant. He’s not about to ruin Christmas.

Then the door swings open for the final time as she squeezes past him. Ducking into the doorway, Sirius is entranced by the way the warm light crowns Moony’s pale hair, giving the dusty grey-blonde a band of gold. His eyes are light and he’s a little breathless, as if he had just been laughing. It takes ten years off of his prematurely lined face.

“Hey,” he huffs merrily, stomping snow from his worn leather shoes. Sirius is nearly too awe-stricken to say anything.

“Hey,” he manages, a slow, crooked smile spreading across his face.

It’s contagious. Soon they’re both standing there, five feet apart, grinning like a pair of idiots. Finally, Remus laughs and puts his face in his hands, shaking his head.

They’re shaken from their stupor by a chorus of screeching, giggling, several choice curse words, and a gasp from Hermione.

“SIRIUS, DON’T COME IN THE PARLOR, OKAY?!” Harry shouts, and his godfather is pleased to hear that he sounds like an actual child, not a young man who grew up too fast after being forced to endure horror after horror.

“That… can’t mean anything good,” Remus says, looking both amused and concerned. Sirius snorts and shrugs cheerfully.

“It’s my mother’s house, always will be. With any luck they’ll burn the place down.”