Archive of Our Own

I spy with my little eye, four friends and their secrets, lovers and spies....

The sun rose on that New Year's Day a ghost, bringing neither light nor heat to a sky that was not so much overcast as colourless. Unnatural, Remus thought, and on the heels of that he thought that truly there was no comfort anywhere.

He rolled over under the blanket, numb from the cold despite wearing his overcoat and shoes, and wrapped himself around the nearest warm body. Cold bled through the floorboards; he pressed his face desperately into human warmth.

"Gerroff me," the body said, likewise stiff in a jacket with the most amazing lapels.

"Cold," Remus said, and the word came out in a puff of white through chattering teeth. "Where the hell are we?" He paused. As an afterthought, he added, "My head's killing me."

Eyes like still waters turn on him, and for a moment Remus was robbed of speech, possessed only wolf-instinct that screamed run. But then colourless lips stretched in a familiar smile, revealing small sharp teeth.

"You're on the Titanic," Peter said, and Remus blinked at him three times before he realized that it was a joke. He smiled half-heartedly because he thought the joke might be on him. Peter sat up in one smooth movement, shoving the blanket and Remus off. "And you're going down."

Then, the cool kindliness of sheets, that soon
Smooth away trouble; and the rough male kiss
Of blankets; grainy wood; live hair that is
Shining and free; blue-massing clouds;
Rupert Brooke

"So, last night," Sirius said, and stopped. Remus pulled his knees up and rested his chin between them, hunching his shoulders so that the blanket he'd wrapped around himself formed a little tent of warmth. He looked, Sirius thought, like a disembodied head, but he knew better than to follow trains of thought like that. "You went off with Peter, then, to his friends' party. Did you have a good time?"

The blanket shrugged, slightly. "Don't really remember," Remus said.

"How drunk were you, Moony?" Sirius asked, keeping his eyes on the tiny model dirigible that he was building.

"I woke up with Peter on the floor of some Muggle girl's flat," Remus said. "I think that counts as pretty drunk. So." He shifted, wrapping his arms tighter around his legs. "Was James' party any good then, after we left? After the countdown bit, I mean. If you remember."

Sirius snorted, and then cursed as dirigible bits wafted gently around the desk. He collected them carefully. "Of course I remember. Not all of us drink to—" to forget, he bit his tongue on "—to excess." He remembered the music stopping as everyone counted out the old year, the wild laughter and the booms of Zonko's Firecracker Champagne and, and not being able to sing Auld Lang Syne for being pinned to the couch by Leslie Merrythought and snogged breathless, which had been rather good, actually. He remembered seeing Remus then, pulling on his coat and yelling polite gratitude at Lily, who was busy being snogged herself. "It was just more of the same, really. More dancing, more drinking. I came home at two, two-thirty. Didn't expect you to come crawling in at dawn, but then, you know what they say about the quiet ones." Sirius thought about making a tasteless remark about Remus sleeping with Peter, but decided against it. "So—do you still feel like death?"

Remus grimaced. "It's not so much like being hung-over as like having a hole in my head."

"Ah." Sirius nodded and levitated the balloon so that he could work on the gondola. "That would be from Muggle alcohol, most likely. I remember when Peter took James and me for a pub crawl one time. Fascinating beverages from a research standpoint, but hell the day after."

"True," Remus said dubiously. He heaved out a sigh and unfolded himself, shoving the blanket down and standing. He stretched his back, arms raised with fingers intertwined, rising on his toes with only a trace of a wobble. He twisted, and Sirius could hear his spine pop. Sirius grimaced sympathetically. "I'm going to take a shower."

Sirius was poring over the spellbook that had come with his airship and practicing manoevres when Remus banged the door to their room open. The sun had finally come out; Remus was backlit by brilliance. His towel-tousled hair shone like a halo; his face was hidden by shadow. There was an owl on his bare shoulder, Remus never being one to mind claws, and a letter in his hand.

"It's the McKinnons," Remus said, and he dropped the letter on the desk as he made for his wardrobe. "They're dead." He pulled on trousers, vest, shirt, and jumper, and sat to tug on socks and boots. Sirius stared at him stupidly. "We have to go."

"Last night, Marlene was—"

"I know, Padfoot, I know." Remus grabbed his coat from the peg and jerked it on savagely. When Sirius made no move, he threw his coat at him. "I've the portkey, let's go."

Sirius stood, stumbled, forced his arms into his sleeves. Remus grabbed his arm and held out an electrical plug wrapped carefully in a blue handkerchief. He touched together with Remus, and they both were pulled away with a rush of air that made the dirigible blow off course, drift helplessly into the wardrobe, and slide slowly to the ground, where it burst into flames.

There were camellias blooming in the McKinnon's garden: a wall of well-tended dark green foliage and pink blossoms rising above the drifts of snow. Sirius tried to keep his eyes on the flowers and not on the evil that had bloomed in the yard: the horrible stains of blood on the snow, the mud churned up by too many boots along the path, the sickly green remnant of the Dark Mark that still swayed in the biting wind.

He was not sure why he was there, aside from being one of the last people to see Marlene McKinnon alive, but that included all forty or so people who had squeezed into the Potter's flat. He thought about the commemorative photo that he had propped up on the mantelpiece, taken at the Christmas meeting of the Order, and then he made himself stop thinking about that, and also stop thinking about Marlene's partner Gerda and their two little—stop it—boys and the—stop it—new baby girl, she'd been so happy.

Camellias, Sirius thought. Camillia Sasanqua. He pictured his herbology professor. The oil, he recalled, was good for something—curing dragon hide, perhaps. There was so much that he had forgotten. Remus would know.

He looked over to where Remus and Dumbledore were strolling through the yard, linked companionably arm in arm, for all the world as if what they were gesturing at were snow blooming flowers and not... pieces.

The stamens of oukan camillias, pride of the samurai, Sirius recalled, were used to make a golden hair dye that had been popular with German witches in the 17th century. There had been some kind of scandal, or perhaps a war.

Stupid to fight over flowers.

Alastor Moody came out of the house, and Sirius repressed a shudder as Moody raised a hand and limped over.

"Black," he said, nodding. "Nasty business. Reckon somebody followed her home and then tipped off the other side. So." He smiled up into Sirius' face, but his magical eye slid off to the side. "We'll be checking alibis, nothing personal."

"Marlene—after the party, she had to—"

Moody made a chopping gesture with his hand. "Vigilance, boy. Not here." His magical eye settled on Dumbledore, bending down in the snow amongst shattered blossoms. "There are spies everywhere these days."

I spy, with my little eye, cold New Years murder and some dubious alibis....

"What you need," Dumbledore said, settling down comfortably on the threadbare sofa of the Order's safe house, "is a nice hot cup of tea. And perhaps a digestive biscuit."

Remus had just come back from being ill, again. He wrapped his hands around the chipped pink tea cup as if it were a life preserver, breathing in the steam, and shook his head carefully at the box of biscuits Dumbledore held out. Sirius had a blue tea cup, and he took three biscuits in lieu of breakfast.

Dumbledore was drinking his tea out of an enormous beer stein with a dragon for a handle, alternating sips with nibbles left crumbs in his beard.

"A bad business," he said finally. "We have to assume that whoever killed the McKinnons knew, or discovered, the charms work Lily and Marlene were doing."

"With the Mirror," Sirius said, half in question, half in defiance.

"Elphias has already moved the Mirror," Dumbledore said. "The guard will have to be doubled."

"There's a spy," Remus said, and Dumbledore and Sirius both turned to look at him. He kept his eyes down on the convection currents that kept the tea leaves of the future moving in uncertain whorls. "There has to be. Moody said so." He looked up, looking at Dumbledore from behind his overlong fringe. "What do your spies tell you?"

Dumbledore drained his tea and stood, walking to the window and looking out at the stone church, the iced-over river beyond. "I'm sorry, Remus, but I'm going to have to send you north again. I need some questions answered."

Remus gave a pained laugh. "Moody'd prefer that I stayed there, you know. You think it was werewolves, don't you?"

"What do you think?" Dumbledore turned his head and raised an eyebrow. "I'd be glad to hear otherwise." Remus sipped his tea, and the sharp blue gaze fell on Sirius. "Have you heard from your brother lately?"

Sirius barked a surprised laugh. "As much as I ever do, which is to say not a damned word. Do you think he—?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I need to... talk to him. You need to talk to him."

"I'll get him a two-way mirror for a late Christmas present," Sirius said, and stood, setting his cup down and shoving the biscuits in his pocket. Remus pushed himself up gracelessly, looking as bad as he ever did after a transformation, and Sirius resolved to look up Reenergizing Potions when he got home. He glanced into Remus' cup out of habit. "You've got the Grim again, Moony."

Remus sighed. "I always do, you know." He raised a hand to Dumbledore and Apparated away nearly soundlessly.

Beneath a night no longer May,
Where only cold stars shine,
One glimmering ocean spreads away
This haunted life of mine;
And, shattered on the frozen shore,
My harp can never wake,—
When will this night of death be o'er?
When will the morning break?
William Winter, "The Night Watch"

Remus Lupin hated being in Azkaban. He hated the damp walls and the corners, none of which were at right angles and which made every room and corridor skewed. He hated the way it smelled of nothing at all, the way the seeping wrongness of the place made the wolf in him snarl to the surface, scrabbling for purchase in a sand-trap. Azkaban had neither outside nor inside, like that peculiar flask that his Arithmancy teacher had once allowed him to touch. Too long within these walls and Remus felt himself turning inside out.

He focused on the man smirking at him, seated on a chair set well back from the bars.

"Wolf," the man said, and Remus wordlessly raised his shirt, showing the scar that Greyback had given him. He tried to tamp down his own fear; he knew what it called in this place. When he'd first been sent here, when he'd first been forced to show this man his scar, he had raised his arms just as he was doing now and frozen, decayed hands had ranged over his body before he had been able to break out of his paralysis of horror. The man had loved the show, of course, and now each time he came Remus was made go through this pantomime. Fortunately, he had learnt a good deal about how to repel dementors by now; they very rarely bothered him these days.

"Pass, and all is well," the man with the ragged yellow whiskers said, and Remus shuddered. He dropped his shirt and shoved it into his trousers with shaking hands. He was not allowed a coat here, of course, nor bootlaces nor a wand. The howl of the North Sea wind promised bitter weather, but it was already hellishly cold in the deep of the prison. Remus thought he might never feel warmth again.

"Sonneillon," he said, and the man raised an eyebrow. Remus took out a pack of cheap fags, disillusioned, and tossed them through the bars to land between Gibbon's feet.

"Have you been well, wolf? It gets lonely in here without your charming company. I hear your master now serves my Master—that must be a great comfort to you in these troubled times."

"Dumbledore's spy in the merchant guild was killed yesterday, along with her family. It appeared to have been a werewolf attack. It wasn't."

Gibbon shook his head regretfully. "One step forward and three steps back. And what can I do for you? Raise the dead?"

Remus bared his teeth. "I want to know who's responsible."

"And I want my freedom."

"You'll get bloody fuck-all if the werewolves are rounded up," Remus snapped back, too bone-chilled to lighten the words. "I'm—there's a possibility of extradition to Argentina. I'm trying."

"You most certainly are trying." Gibbon stood gracefully and walked to the bars, standing to stare down into Remus' eyes. "Fenrir should stop sending me his omega, I'm starting to feel insulted. Shall I tell you what a little bird told me?" He leaned forward and dropped his voice. "I heard it was the Travellers, myself. You might want to ask Black, of course, if you can find him. He's living on borrowed time, that one."

"Aren't we all," Remus said. " Le enviaré los libros en español."

Gibbon grinned, rows and rows of sharp, dirty teeth. "Here's to unión y libertad."

Remus managed to say his farewells without having to touch the man, who nevertheless smirked as if he knew just how dirty Remus felt for wanting Sonneillon Gibbon free merely to save himself personal discomfort. The guard waiting in the hall took his arm as they ascended the stairs, and by the time Remus reached the office he was dizzy from the churning of his memories.

He'd hoped to be out in time to catch the last of the daylight, but the sky was a mass of fast-moving black clouds that drove snow and sleet down on the world mercilessly. By the time Remus had walked down to the ferry, ice had insinuated its way into his cuffs and collar; the ride to the far shore was made with sea-water washing over and into his boots. He stumbled onto the landing numbly and made for the edge of the anti-Apparation charms. Home, he thought, a tangle of desire and need for warmth, and then he was in the hallway outside the door.

"Moony?" Sirius sat up from where he had been writing, sprawled out on his stomach the way he had when he was a student.

Remus threw his coat over the back of the chair, and his shirt followed. The ice on his boots was puddling, and he ripped at the laces until he was able to pry his feet out. Sodden socks and vest were thrown out the bedroom door to land in the kitchen somewhere. Remus burrowed under his blankets, pulling them well over his head; after a suspicious wriggle his boxers dropped over the edge of the bed to the floor.

"You all right, Moony?"

There was no answer from the tangle of blankets. Sirius got up and padded the three steps over to Remus' bed. He sat down and tugged until Remus' hair and one baleful eye appeared.

"You look like hell. Can I get you anything?"

Remus shifted enough to turn a look of pure need on Sirius. He reached up, with fingers that were icy and red and raw, at the same time as his frozen mouth moved around Sirius' name; and Sirius knew he ought to question, knew that if Remus were not going to be rational then, by God, he ought to be; but it had been so long.

So long since he had had any right to kiss Remus, and here he was, being kissed absolutely breathless by Remus, who was pulling him in under the covers and fumbling with his clothes. So long since he was allowed to touch, and now Remus welcomed it with gasps and bitten-back cries. Remus burnt with cold; he pressed into Sirius' touch as if trying to steal his fire.

Sirius put up with the cold because he was naked now, and Remus' mouth was moving down, and gods, had he missed this. Remus' mouth, Remus' hands, Remus' ragged cry as he came, Remus' wicked grin as he brought Sirius to orgasm, and the heavy tropical heat that surrounded them as they fell asleep wrapped in each other's arms.

Remus woke crying just before dawn from a dream that Sirius was dead in his arms, and Sirius had to make love to him again to drive the terror away.

I spy, with my little eye, happy familes and a few lies.

Sirius woke to the smell of coffee and an empty flat. Remus had left a note on the table under a plate with two slices of cold buttered toast. Gone to see the old man, it said in Remus' precise round script. Back by evening. Well, that was hopeful. Sirius wondered briefly whether it would look desperate to cook or whether he should simply get take-out, and then decided that it was too pathetic for words to worry about it at half past seven. Remus had put a spell on his coffee to keep it scalding, and Sirius blew on it and sipped as he made a list on the back of the parchment.

Regulus
Bloody Voldemort and his bloody Death Eaters.

Regulus—
Nott
Travers
Snape
Jensen
ask Meda
Kreacher?

What does Dumbledore want?

Sirius sighed and shoved the parchment in the sleeve of his robe. He locked the hallway door behind him, checked the corridor quickly, and Disapparated.

"Of course I haven't seen the little brat," Andromeda said. "Never see you either, unless you want something." She tied Nymphadora's muffler with quick, nimble fingers: the Black hands, nearly identical to Sirius' own. "Walk with us, then," she ordered, and the dog in Sirius responded to the command with joy.

The park was nearly deserted despite the brilliant good weather. The snow that lay thick along the tree-lined way was practically untouched, and despite Andromeda's protests, threats, and entreaties, Nymphadora was more than willing to engage her ersatz uncle in the construction of snow forts and immense stockpiles of snow balls.

Andromeda needed to have more fun, Sirius thought, rubbing his wrist as another subtle stinging hex reminded him that he oughtn't to be levitating the snowballs in her Muggle neighbourhood, nor making them fly in circles around Nymphadora's head, and certainly not turning them all the colours of the rainbow. He let Dora pelt him with the last of her ammunition and then invited both of them out to tea, trying transparently to buy his way out of trouble. It was cold, and Andromeda acquiesced gracefully, but he noticed that they passed by two cheaper tea shops on the way to the one Andromeda preferred.

"So, how does it feel to be of age?" Andromeda asked, leaning forward to let Sirius light her cigarette. "Has buggery lost its appeal now that it's legal?" The flame shot up and Sirius fumbled the lighter. Andromeda smirked.

"Merlin, you're still a bitch, aren't you?" he muttered, sucking on a burnt finger.

"It's genetic," she said. "You're just as much a bitch, from what I hear."

"Fuck."

"Indeed." She looked at him through narrowed eyes. "What you do in private is just that, but when you make a fool of yourself in public, you degrade both yourself and the people you care for."

"That's a family lecture I've heard many times over."

"And it still hasn't penetrated your thick head. Just because your mother said it doesn't make it all lies, you know. How are things with your roommate?" She rested her cigarette on the cut-glass ashtray and sipped her Italian coffee thoughtfully, watching the hot blush creep down Sirius' face. "Oh, do tell."

"Little pitchers," Sirius said. Nymphadora's eyes flicked to him contemptuously, and her ears stretched, bodhisattva-like, down to her shoulders for a brief second before returning to normal. "I don't know, Meda. We'd both agreed to put that genie back in the bottle—'childish things', he called it—but.... He's mixed up with something, and I don't know if that makes it a good thing or. No. It's a good thing, but a bad time. I don't know." Sirius gave up on the sentences that were letting him down badly and shrugged. Andromeda already considered him a heathen, let her think of him as a sullen one.

"Ah, young love," Andromeda said fondly, and patted Sirius' hand. "Do try not to be an idiot this time, Sirius."

"And speaking of idiots..."

"As I said, I've not seen him."

"I saw him," Nymphadora said, looking up from her comic book. "He came round to deliver the Christmas presents. Daddy talked to him," she added, as Andromeda's expression grew thunderous. Nymphadora reached out one hand and grabbed her cocoa, sloshing it over the tablecloth faster than her mother could cast an anti-stain spell. "He was in disguise, though. He was wearing your face, and I thought it was you until he slipped up and called me Nymskull. He said it wasn't like being a Metamorphmagus, though. He gave me a ride past the school on your motorbike. Oops," she said brightly, and gave her mother a look of girlish innocence that fooled no one. "Didn't Daddy tell you that, either?"

Somewhere under the flaming rage, Sirius suspected that he was missing something important, but he decided he could think about it when he had his hands around Regulus' neck. He glanced at Andromeda. She looked as if she were thinking the same thing.

I spy with my little eye, apologies, a looking glass, and another try....

Sirius staggered home after four different teas in four different tea shops with four different Slytherins (well, with Nott it had been coffee; he'd always been peculiar that way). He felt bludgered from the exertion of being charming and discreet and from lying through his teeth. It didn't come easy to him, and he hadn't learnt anything worth knowing. All he wanted now was to collapse in bed. Preferably with Remus.

As soon as he opened the door to the flat he was hit by a wall of hot, steamy air that smelt of pure pleasure: spices and vegetables and thick broth. He followed his nose into the kitchen, where Remus was still throwing things into his prized no. 9 iron cauldron, lovingly cared for since first year at Hogwarts.

"Moony," he said, and Remus turned, fumbling to turn down the wireless and wipe his hands on his apron at the same time.

"Sirius, I—" was as far as he let Remus get. It had occurred to Sirius, in the split second that he saw Remus in the apron, that this was some elaborate apology scheme, and he would be damned before he would let Remus apologise. He applied his fondness for kissing Remus to the problem, and thought that the solution was satisfactory all around. And gods had he missed being able to tangle his fingers in Remus' hair.

His distraction escalated to include a certain disarray of clothing and might have continued escalating had not the cauldron begun to boil over. There was a bit of a rush to get out bowls and spoons, lager and bread, and Sirius found himself wrapping his arms around Remus from behind as Remus straightened from lighting the candles.

"I didn't mean for last night to happen," Remus blurted out.

"I'm glad it did," Sirius said into his hair. "Are you taller than me?"

"You know I am. But what I'm saying—"

"When did you get to be taller?"

"This is important."

"Your being taller than me is important."

Remus half-turned in the circle of Sirius' arms, blinking and bemused. "Why?"

Score one distraction for me, Sirius thought. "Well," Sirius said, "it means I get to kiss up. I'm going to need lots of practice to get good at that. I only ever kissed you down before."

"You're not only an idiot but your supper is getting cold," Remus said, but he allowed Sirius to practice on him for a few more minutes before pushing him away, half-laughing.

Sirius sat and picked up his spoon, then set it down again. "This had better not be the soup of 'I'm very sorry, it'll never happen again.' If it is I'm not eating it. But I wouldn't mind if it's your creative attempt at seduction."

Remus sipped at his soup, eyeing Sirius through the steam. "Just shut up and eat, won't you?" he said finally, and Sirius grinned ear to ear.

"Bedtime," Sirius said, shutting his book with a snap and unfolding himself from the uncomfortable wooden chair where he'd been sitting crosslegged across the table from Remus, who had been doing some kind of complicated ledgermancy. Remus glanced up at the clock and then eyed Sirius in amusement.

"It's only half past eight, you know," he said, stretching his arms over his shoulders and wincing as the joints cracked audibly.

"Early to bed and early to rise," Sirius said suggestively. Remus grimaced.

"I have to go out tonight, Pads. Guard duty with Peter—I switched with Lily."

"You've taken more night shifts than anyone else. You and Peter, you're practically nocturnal."

"Well. Lily covered for me last full moon. And we're short-handed, now." With Marlene dead, Sirius thought, and her murderer still on the loose.

"I just wish Dumbledore would get rid of the damned thing. I never understood what he wants it for, anyway. Does Peter try and make you look at it?"

Remus piled up his books. "I won't do it. I know well enough what I'd see. Peter likes what it shows a little too much, don't you think?" He moved his things to the mantelpiece and rubbed futilely at the new inkstains on the table. "Did you look?"

"Once," Sirius said. Remus looked at him in surprise, eyebrows raised. "It showed me the future, I think, we were all pretty old. James and Lily and the baby and Peter. And my family was there, except no one was raving mad. Regulus was there. And you were with me, I mean with me, and you looked really good with all your grey hair."

"If I had grey hair you gave it to me," Remus snapped tartly, and Sirius grinned.

"Your vitriol will keep me warm at night if I have to make do without you."

"I don't know if I can do this. Sirius. I don't know if I want to. It's a really... bad idea."

"Lots of good things are bad ideas, lots of good ideas are very bad things. Look at that damned Mirror. Sounds wonderful until you realise it won't show you what's real."

"Dumbledore says it's killed people with desire."

"I'll make a deal with you." Sirius stood and pulled Remus into his arms. "I'll be your Mirror if you'll be mine. Your heart's desire."

"You think far too much of yourself, Mr Black," Remus said, but Sirius could hear the smile in his voice.

"You need a Mirror in your life, Mr Lupin. Otherwise you'd go off on serious Order business still wearing an apron. And without being properly kissed."

"I have to go," Remus said. "Peter'll kill me if I'm late, he's twitchy, you know."

But he let Sirius get in some more practice anyway before he left.

I spy with my little eye, layers of meaning, mystery, and memory, reflections false and true...

It snowed and snowed, the whole world over; Snow swept the world from end to end. A candle burned on the table; A candle burned.
Boris Pasternak, Doctor Zhivago

Remus slipped in the church's side door, feeling guilty. He wondered at Dumbledore's new home for the Mirror. He didn't think that Voldemort's followers, if they came, would be hobbled by the Ten Commandments or injunctions to love their neighbours. Whereas Remus doubted that he could manage a decent hex within these stone walls. But so far the danger was only outside.

He walked down to face the wall next to the confessional and brought to mind the note McGonagall had written. As he reread the note in his mind, the blank expanse of plaster seemed to stretch and a second door appeared. He didn't like to think of his former teacher as a Secret Keeper, especially now when the similarities between the names Marlene McKinnon and Minerva McGonagall already had people talking about sending McGonagall into hiding. He took out his wand and unlocked the door.

It was dark inside: the only light came from a flickering hurricane lamp. The cramped space was more than halved by the bulk of the Mirror, which stretched up to the ceiling and was draped in heavy black fabric that, Remus would have sworn, rustled to itself in the darkest hours of the night.

He thought it was like a Dementor—even cleverer than the real thing, actually, for where it was natural to fear and avoid the soul-suckers, the Mirror made people want to surrender their lives to its ersatz dreams and desires. This close, close enough to touch, to move the drapery to the side, Remus felt the pull, too. He wanted to know, more than anything; he wanted to see, even once. But he had a lifetime of experience in denial, so he pulled his eyes from the Mirror and looked down at the slumped figure on the bench.

Peter, he suspected, had been indulging himself, and Remus was sorry that he'd been late. Peter always came early and left reluctantly. Now, his eyes were distant, looking through Remus as he gave an odd half-smile.

"It lies, Peter," Remus said, his usual greeting, as he settled himself on the bench.

"Shove it up your arse, Lupin," Peter said, one of his usual rejoinders, but today it stirred up memories Remus did not want to share. He snapped up his wall of Occlusion, weaving it from the driving snow outside and the biting wind. Vast grey untouched fields of snow, stark grey trees, lowering grey sky. And whirling snow like blindness around him.

Peter's gaze sharpened, and then he gave Remus a wide grin.

"Like that, then, is it?" He rummaged in a carrier bag and came up with a bag of vinegar-flavoured crisps. "Here, have one. Black finally wore you down, did he?"

Unbidden, a great black dog running through the snow flashed into Remus' mind. It was a memory, he was sure. Sixth year? Seventh?

"Constant vigilance!" Peter half-roared, and Remus jumped, crushing his crisps. "Be careful who you sleep with, Moony. It's a scary world out there."

Remus carefully picked bits of crisp off his coat. "Did you notice how hard I'm not laughing with you?"

"Hey—you slept with me, we've bonded or something. Did you bring the coffee?"

Remus untied his rucksack and hauled the flask out. "Milk and sugar, the way you like it." Peter took the proffered cup and sipped appreciatively. "And if you consider sleeping with someone to include those wearing all their clothes, then I finally understand your so-called list of conquests."

"Low blow, Moony. So." Peter crunched a chip thoughtfully. "When you went off with Regulus the other night, you slept with him, didn't you? Are you test-driving all the Blacks?"

Coffee up the nose was a decidedly unpleasant sensation; Remus choked and rummaged for a handkerchief. "I never," he said, wiping at his eyes and nose.

Peter shrugged. "Well, you left Donna's party with him for a couple of hours and came back walking very funny and went straight to sleep. On the floor. Rather exhausted, you were."

Remus stared. "I'm sure I'd remember that. I probably just fell down the stairs."

Peter took a roll of Bertie Bott's Clever-o's out of his pocket and started alternating chocolates with crisps. It was hard to cleverly avoid the exploding ones in the poor light, and when they banged, Peter's teeth lit up. "But does Sirius know that you've been falling down the stairs with his baby brother?"

"Oh, shut the fuck up," Remus said, "or you'll be dead before morning, I swear."

"Best not to be making threats, Moony. Your kind are in a bit of trouble over the killings. D'you want a chocky? Or I have papadums."

"Brought my own sandwiches, thanks. But someone ought to walk the perimeter."

"And that someone is you. I did it first last time. And you were late."

Remus had thought as much. He finished his coffee and stood, glad that he had dried out somewhat, but not looking forward to a walk in the snow. "Sirius' new Irregular Quidditch Review's in my bag if you get bored."

"Who's the pin-up?"

Remus pulled his hat down over his ears. "Some Japanese tart. Don't go looking at the Mirror, now. And it's not just me saying so, the old man told me to tell you."

Peter was ignoring him, riffling through his bag. He pulled the magazine out and gave Remus a scornful look. "It's Marisa Takebayashi, only the Beater of the Year. And she's Canadian."

"Have fun, Peter," Remus said from behind his scarf, and locked the door behind him. He offered up his silent apologies to the cold statues of the saints and lit a single candle to St. Bugga before going out into snow that still came down, settling into drifts well over his knees.

Sirius woke with a start and a pounding heart. The room was bitterly cold, the window laced in ice and illuminated in the first red rays of dawn. The radiator was a mystery to him; Remus was the one who knew how to leech the damn thing and persuade the pipes to exude some semblance of heat. Each breath he took burned his throat, and Sirius resolved to move to the tropics as soon as he could. Somewhere, there must surely be warmth.

He heard the noise again—that was what had woken him. He turned on his side to look.

Remus was home, and asleep, and still wearing his coat, curled up and shivering on top of his bed where apparently he had just collapsed when exhaustion had overpowered common sense. He was whimpering, and it was that that propelled Sirius out of his lovely warm bed to set his bare feet on the icy floor.

"Remus," he said, tugging him around so that he could undo the coat's buttons. "Help me here, it's freezing."

Remus' eyes snapped open and he sat up, wild-eyed, throwing himself back against the wall with the force of nightmare. Sirius sat, frozen now himself in the pool of scarlet that streamed through the slowly weeping window.

"Regulus," Remus said, "Regulus," and then he started to laugh uncontrollably through his tears.

I spy, with my little eye, puppy love without puppies, and a transparent disguise....

When you have once seen the glow of happiness on the face of a beloved person, you know that a man can have no vocation but to awaken that light on the faces surrounding him. In the depth of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.
Albert Camus

Peter always arrived at the hotel restaurant first: it was one of the unspoken rules of his relationship with Dot Milder. He chose a secluded table and made sure that there were no distractions around it. He wove a subtle net of spells that made them all but invisible to the other diners, but irresistible to the waiters. It wasn't that Dot was shy, or that she was married, at least as far as he knew. She simple exuded an intolerance of stupidity and incompetence that was as palpable as her obvious power. Peter worshipped her, and thus far he had remained consistently on the side of the clever and competent.

Peter caught sight of a flash of golden hair, meticulously coiffed, and hurried down. Had he thought about it, he would have guessed Dot's age as at least a decade over his mother's. But he lived in the wizarding world now, where age indicated strength and knowledge. Dot had both. He let her take his arm as he led her to the table; he held her chair as she seated herself. She smiled at him, and he was charmed.

He never talked about Dot with his friends; he knew that they would see it as something tawdry, something sexual, perhaps even deviant. But, he thought, daring to glance up into her eyes, blue as sapphires and sharp as diamond, there was nothing impure between them. He had met her through a mutual friend, and she had understood him immediately. She knew about the hardships of growing up with Muggles, about the inhibitions and handicaps the loss of those crucial childhood years conferred. She had overcome them herself, she confided, and she saw in him something worthwhile. She tutored him, guided him, opened his eyes to all the secrets that had been kept from him. More than anything he wanted to make himself something in her eyes. He had nothing to offer besides himself, but all that he was she was welcome to.

Sometimes he worried that he bored her, though he tried desperately to be witty and worldly. Sometimes he wondered at her tolerance for stories of him and his friends. Sometimes, he thought afterwards, his tongue ran away with him, and he would twitch guiltily, but she was always so vastly amused. Her perfectly rouged lips would curl like a rose in bloom. "Oh, Dumbledore," she would say, "he's become so hidebound in his old age, don't you think?" Or, "My, but what daring exploits you have."

Today the talk had turned, naturally enough given the state of the media, to werewolves. Peter hadn't actually said his name, exactly, but as he watched her delicate golden fingers curl around the stem of her wineglass, he felt the weight of her restraint like the gaze of a woken dragon, felt the instant the answer came to her.

"Ah, well, one of my dearest friends is a werewolf as well," she said lightly. "I shall introduce you to him. I'm sure he would love to meet your schoolmate. Perhaps they are already acquaintances." She then inquired deftly into his recent work with cursed ironwork and the near-disaster with the Roman excavation.

As she left, she brushed her lips softly against his cheek, and Peter wondered if it were possible that he had fallen in love.

I spy with my little eye, many ways to get warm, both good and bad....

Remus had gone straight from work to Hogsmeade and hiked through drifts that were over his knees in places to get to Hogwarts. Dumbledore had been busy: their meeting had been the one-cup-of-tea and a biscuit sort. Wonderful scents drifted throughout the castle from the kitchens, and Dumbledore had half-heartedly asked Remus if he'd care to stay for dinner. Remus ignored his stomach and said no, the snow had started up again and he wanted to get home. Perhaps glad at not having to explain the presence of such a guest, Dumbledore offered Remus the use of the Floo, which meant that Remus was on his way home only an hour later than usual. Just thinking of all the homely comforts made him walk faster through the drifts of snow.

Food. Warmth. A soft bed. Dry clothes. Sirius.

Any combination of those, he thought, and unlocked the door.

Heat poured out around him into the hall, and Remus shut the door behind him hastily. There was light coming from the bedroom, but as he started stripping off his wet outer things the overhead lights went on and Sirius appeared.

"You're late," Sirius said, taking Remus' coat and muffler and hanging them on the peg. "Just take everything off—look at you, you're turning blue, I've got a bath run."

"Had to go see the old man," Remus said, but now that he was unfreezing his teeth rattled. Sirius pulled him into the bathroom and didn't stop glaring until Remus was up to his chin in hot water. "I did hurry. I was afraid I'd get snowed in somewhere. Didn't want to spend the night at Hogwarts, or at the Flighty Bat. Wanted to get home."

"This is the worst storm to hit London in twenty years," Sirius said. "I've been listening to the wireless. Thought you might get off work early. I did," he added, and dumped in half a week's worth of bath pepper, which crackled and foamed alarmingly. They both sneezed companionably for a few minutes in the resulting fog. "Warming up?" Sirius coughed out, wiping his nose on Remus' discarded vest.

"Feels like my skin's on fire."

"Good. I've got your pyjamas on the radiator, and there's hot chocolate. I went shopping today in Amour Alley." He grinned at Remus' look. "But you might as well get dressed first, because I love opening packages."

"Give me the towel and go make me my cocoa, and I might not hurt you," Remus said, and Sirius' grin widened.

By the time Remus emerged from the bedroom in his sensible flannel pyjamas, still damp and ruffled as a newborn chick, eggs scrambled a la Sirius (with sharp Cheddar cheese and grated carrot) and boiled swede were set out in the centre of the table, and steaming mugs were at each place setting.

"Odd," Remus said, sitting down. "Swede?"

"We needed a green vegetable," Sirius said as Remus poked it with his fork.

"But why is it green?" Remus asked plaintively. "What did you do to it?"

"You needn't whinge about the food," Sirius said. "I did the best I could considering my culinary other half was out attempting a career change to icicle. Eat."

It was not the worst meal Remus had ever eaten; it was actually not bad at all, aside from the fact that he hadn't even supposed for a moment that Sirius had boiled the swede in the entire bottle of green chilli sauce that Remus had been hoarding. The moment after he realised that he wasn't going to die of asphyxiation was glorious. So was the moment of appreciation of Sirius' merely human metabolism attempting to deal with the shock. Remus was actually able to get up from the table and get himself a glass of water. Sirius merely sat, wheezing and crying, until Remus took pity on him.

"Thought it might be warming," Sirius said weakly, after his third drink, his face still an alarming red.

"The eggs are edible," Remus said, though he suspected that as his taste buds had died a fiery death, even newspaper would be palatable. "I'll teach you how to cook," he added. Sirius looked up with a rather unholy grin.

"I will learn how to cook, though it might take years and years. And I can teach you something fiendishly different in return. We will have an extended but very educational relationship."

"Eat your eggs, Padfoot," Remus said, leaning back in his chair and stretching his legs out under the table. "I'm tired. I want to go to bed."

Sirius did a very good job of not choking on his eggs, much to Remus' disappointment. "Go on ahead, then. I'll do the tidying up. You might," he added, as Remus stood, yawning and arching his arms over his head, "want to have a look in the desk drawer."

I spy with my little eye, possession and bad ways to economize...

(sleep wake hope and then) they
said their nevers they slept their dream

stars rain sun moon
(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember. . .
anyone lives in a pretty how town by e. e. cummings

"The things on your side of the drawer I find frankly appalling. Those in the middle are merely shocking," Remus said by way of explanation. Sirius dropped cross-legged onto Remus' bed and peered over his shoulder.

"Your side of the drawer is rather lonely, Moony."

"Whatever possessed you—" Remus began, but he broke off, shaking his head. "What is this?" he asked instead, holding up a black leather collar between two fingers.

"It's a collar," Sirius said, and put his arms around Remus' waist.

"The right answer," Remus said, leaning back into Sirius' arms, "is, it is my collar. The wrong answer is, it is your collar."

"I was feeling possessive," Sirius said, sliding his hands up Remus' shirt and placing his palms across his bare stomach.

"Bastard." But Remus' head was heavy on Sirius' shoulder and his voice lazy.

"You know I'd do anything to keep you from harm," Sirius said. The hand holding the collar reached up and tugged teasingly on his hair.

"But you don't mean that, not really. Would you betray everything I love about you? Would you be willing to make me hate you? I'll tell you this—I'd rather die loving you than live a half-life despising you."

"Been thinking about it, have you?" Sirius worked his way up Remus' buttons, feeling the way Remus kept himself still despite the way his breathing had quickened.

Remus pushed backwards, and rolled Sirius flat onto the bed and himself over him like a human lethifold. "I want to live," he said, unbuttoned shirt hanging off his shoulders. He pushed Sirius' t-shirt up and began mapping Sirius' chest with his mouth. "God, how I want to live. I want to live and love you, I can't help it. But you have to let me go and trust me. I have to let you go. And trust you." He dipped his tongue in Sirius' navel, and then raised his head with a self-deprecating grin. "I chose a spectacularly bad time to start a love affair, didn't I?"

"Why aren't you kissing me?" Sirius said, dizzy with the weight of love. He reached down with both hands. "I wish—I wish we could just say bugger the lot of them."

Remus sat up, straddling Sirius' chest. His shirt slid halfway down his back, caught at his elbows in a way that was deliciously obscene. He brought his hands up slowly, brushed the heavy fall of his hair off his neck with the backs of his hands. He straightened the leather strap meticulously around his throat, raising his chin to buckle it securely.

"Tonight," he said, looking down finally. "Tonight, I'm yours. Tomorrow, we will belong to our responsibilities." He leant forward and traced Sirius' lips with his tongue, which led to kissing, sloppy wet starving kisses that left Sirius' mouth aching when Remus finally pulled back.

Sirius at that point would have agreed to anything Remus suggested. "Mine?" he croaked, looking up across that expanse of bared chest to the slash of black leather to the wicked, wicked face that smiled down at him, framed by tousled hair. Remus raised an eyebrow and waited. "Green bottle," Sirius said finally. "Middle of the drawer. And while you're up, take the trousers off as well."

Most people, Sirius knew, undressed functionally: strip, fold or toss, dress. Remus undressed as if he were moving to music in his head. Sirius suspected that secretly Remus enjoyed having an audience. He'd made excuses not to be around Remus dressing or undressing for the past few years. To watch, to be shown, and to know the certainty of never again was too hard to bear. He had been pathetically grateful that they had made the transition to just friends so easily, and he had adjusted to the idea of other people, at least for himself. It had made sense for Remus to come live with him: it kept Sirius from killing himself with his own cooking, for one thing. But now he allowed himself to watch—and now Remus was intent on showing.

Remus untied his drawstring and lowered the waistband with one hand. He stepped out of the trousers instead of letting them puddle to the floor, and Sirius would have had an excellent view of his arse if not for the half-mast shirt. The trousers were folded in three sharp efficient moves that Sirius could never replicate, and set on the desk. Remus rummaged in the desk drawer for longer than Sirius thought necessary; he must have shifted impatiently, because Remus looked at him over his shoulder.

"You could get undressed as well, you know."

An idea with merit, Sirius thought, although despite his speedy divestment, resulting in clothes carelessly dropped to the floor, he still somehow missed watching Remus return. Instead, Remus was suddenly there, seated on the bed, studying Sirius like an artist with a canvas before him. Sirius reached up and pulled him down, and that led to a desperate twisting tangle of arms and legs, rough mouths and strong hands. There would be bruises tomorrow, Sirius thought, thumbs under the collar to hold Remus down as he sucked his nipples to hardness.

Remus had fumbled the green bottle open, and his hand slid over Sirius' cock, sending off sparks that hit with a tingle. Remus pushed up with his hips, threw one leg over and let the momentum carry him to rest on Sirius' chest, lip to lip and cock to cock. He kissed Sirius, once, hard, and then sat back, shifting so that Sirius' cock rubbed up against his arse.

He took another palmful from the green bottle, reached back to slick Sirius' cock and hold it steady, and brought his hips down, slowly, slowly. Sirius forced himself not to thrust, to let himself be taken in at that exquisite pace. A far cry from a quick fumble in the broom closet, Sirius thought, running his hands up Remus' thighs as Remus bit his lip and brought his weight down to take Sirius in completely.

"You're beautiful," Sirius said, helping himself to some of the green stuff and teasing Remus' cock. Remus opened his eyes and looked down—such a long ways down—with his cheeks flushed and hair wild.

"And you're mad," Remus said. "What is that stuff?"

"Not a clue. It was marked down because the label fell off."

Remus blinked in mild alarm. "I didn't want to hear that." Sirius grinned and thrust up, one hand tight on Remus' waist and the other working his cock amidst a shower of sparks. Remus' head rolled back, and he rocked on his knees, meeting each thrust in ragged rhythm. Sirius shifted, searching, and when Remus gasped and growled he knew he'd found what he was looking for. Remus panted and wrapped his own hand around Sirius'. He cried out as he came, shaking as if the world itself were coming apart. Sirius thrust into him blindly, finally grabbing his hips and pulling Remus down tight as his own release washed through him. Remus collapsed onto his chest, fingers threading into Sirius' chest hair and face pressed damply into the base of his neck.

Sirius shifted, somehow getting his arms around Remus' back. "You're crushing me," he said, "but I don't mind, I'm dying happily."

"Please tell me I didn't just come pink."

"I could tell you that, but it would be a lie. I think your sheets will need to be binned."

There was a small sigh, hot against Sirius' skin. "What colour did you come?"

"Shall I check?"

"Don't bother. We'll know soon enough," Remus said, and sighed again.

"Oi. Don't fall asleep on me."

"Okay," Remus sighed, and fell asleep. Sirius waited long enough for most of the sensation in his left arm to be cut off, and then carefully wiggled out, wrapping Remus in the—bugger—ruined blanket.

Orange.

He wondered if it meant anything, and decided that buying discount lube wasn't worth it. He unbuckled the collar carefully, put it back in the desk drawer, and curled up around Remus to sleep.

I spy with my little eye, a bright new morning and a hasty goodbye....

Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
William Shakespeare

If the alarm clock rang Sirius never heard it; he was woken instead by the stunning realization that the wet part of his dream was actually Remus' mouth. He came hard, hands knotted in the sheets, and lay there in bliss. If Remus stayed, he thought, he might get rid of the clock altogether. Although there might be mornings when he wanted to wake Remus.... Sirius opened his eyes and stared up at Remus' Mona Lisa smile.

"Rise and shine."

"Have risen. Have shone. Must now lay about and drape you in kisses."

"The snow's melting," Remus said. "So your lazy arse will have to go in to work today."

Sirius made a noise to express his displeasure and twined his fingers in Remus' hair.

"Do you ever—" Remus started, coiled warm and drowsy around Sirius, and then stopped.

Sirius opened one eye and looked down. "What?"

"Never mind," Remus said, but he was frowning a little now, and that wasn't good.

"Spit it out, Moony." Sirius spread a warm hand across Remus' back and stroked him like a kitten.

"Do you ever forget what I am?" Remus said, quickly and softly. "Am I ever to you not... not a monster?"

"Oh, fuck, love," Sirius said, desperately trying to find the brain cells that controlled significant conversations from amongst the puddle of bliss that his mind had been reduced to. He brought up his other hand while he flailed mentally and held Remus against his chest, so close that he couldn't tell their heartbeats apart.

"Never mind," Remus said again, but Sirius was clever enough to know to ignore him.

"It's what you happen to be, but not what you are," Sirius said. "I don't forget it any more than I'd forget you've got brown hair or brown eyes or a chip out of your front tooth which incidentally seems to have changed sides in the past few days. It's not a furry little problem, it's you. And you're cruel to ask me at a time like this. Unless." Sirius rapped his knuckles against Remus' head. "Who's been talking to you about werewolves, Moony? Dumbledore?"

"I have to go away for a few days," Remus said. "Deliver some books. Look for a man." He sat up, looking nothing like a bloodthirsty monster and everything like a deliciously naked (and well-bitten) man. "You should probably take the warming charm off, you know. You'll have the Ministry banging on the door. Speaking of which, bangers and mash for breakfast?"

"I love you," Sirius said. "All of you, the good and the bad and everything in between. You're not a monster. You've never let yourself become one. I lost you because I tried to make you into one, I know that. If I could change anything in my life, it would be that. Betraying your trust."

Remus pulled a jumper over his head and stood there barefoot and unzipped and rumpled from bed. "I forgave you, you know. Years ago."

"I know. But—am I ever, to you, not a complete idiot?"

Remus flashed a quick, cheeky grin. "Not often, no." He shut the door with a cheerful bang, and Sirius heard kitchen noises, water being run and pans rattling. The floor was cold, but if Remus could bear it, so could he.

Breakfast smelt so wonderful Sirius was surprised the neighbours weren't banging down the door: sizzling hot sausage and onions fried golden. He was tempted to eat as Padfoot, but Remus frowned on that sort of thing, so instead he praised Remus' cooking through mouthfuls of potato. Remus flipped desultorily through the newspaper as he ate, keeping one eye on the clock. After the breakfast things had been cleared from the table (with the exception of the Ever-full Teapot, the very first thing Sirius had bought when he got the job at Banges), Remus brought out his overnight bag and began covering his already-packed clothes with books.

"What are you reading?" Sirius asked, peering over his shoulder. "Oi, you learning Spanish, Moony?"

"I promised them to someone I know who's... leaving on a trip. Soon."

Sirius raised an eyebrow and took out one of the books. He opened it at random. "¿Es ése su perro?... Si, lo es."

"El perro estúpido es mío," Remus muttered, and raked his hands through his hair as if doing a mental inventory. Sirius flipped the page.

"¿Eres Juan, el cubano feo?"

"¿Qué estás leyendo? Dame ese libro." The book snapped out of Sirius' hands and smacked against Remus' palm. "You'll get yourself killed learning things like that."

"So, who's this person with whom you speak in tongues?" Sirius said. "Anyone I know? Doesn't it matter if he gets killed?"

Remus paused; and in that pause Sirius knew that Remus wanted to lie, and saw that Remus realised this as well. Sirius wondered whether Dumbledore had made Remus vow to secrecy. The jerkiness of Remus' reply made him suspect so.

"Someone you know of," Remus said carefully. "Not, I think, anyone you've met. Though you might have. Of course."

Sirius gave him a contemptuous glare. "Run of the mill Dark wizard or Death Eater?"

"I can't say." Remus' shoulders dropped. "A deal was made, for information—"

"And so our Death Eater friend is taking a vacation abroad?"

"Yes," Remus ground out. "And I'm glad of it, glad to see the back of him after all the times he's seen my back."

Sirius blinked; Remus looked as if he was biting his tongue, too late. "You told a Death Eater that you're a werewolf?"

"I told him I'm Greyback's werewolf—he found it quite amusing. Oh, don't look at me like that. Dumbledore is as eager as anyone to use the resources he has. I'm sure he asks you to use your family connections all the time."

"Fucking Greyback is not your family. It's not the same damn thing at all."

"You were seen with Travers yesterday. Did you know he's a murderer?"

Sirius went as cold as if the warming charm had gone off and the north wind were howling in. "Who told you that?"

"Marlene McKinnon. The children. Dead, because of that bastard. Dumbledore tell you to talk to him?"

"I'm looking for Regulus."

"You'd best hope he's been nowhere near Travers, then." Remus stood, looking lost for a long moment, and then crossed to wrap Sirius in his arms. "It terrifies me, this game Dumbledore's playing. Nothing can be trusted, nothing is as it seems. That's why I still think we're mad to do this."

Sirius pulled Remus down into a kiss. "It'll be all right. You just take care. Owl when you can. Get home before I develop scurvy or something."

"Take Peter out for curry, why don't you? He's got a secret girlfriend, you know. See if he'll bring her along. Oh—and he wanked over your Quidditch magazine, so I binned it," Remus said, buttoning up his coat and shoving hat and gloves into the pockets. "I'll buy you another."

"You binned the Beater of the Year?"

Remus kissed Sirius on his spluttering mouth. "See you Wednesday, then. Maybe."

"Love you. Bastard."

"Stay safe, Padfoot." Sirius tugged on Remus' arm. Remus smiled, slowly. "You know I love you, too."

"Just wanted to hear it." It was a piece of warmth in the suddenly quiet flat, a pocket-sized happiness that Sirius could carry with him to work and touch for reassurance whenever anxiety hit.

It lasted until just before lunch, when the Aurors came.

I spy with my little eye, death, devastation, and some wrong conclusions....

Sirius was hungry, and he just knew the bastards intended it. His anger had been blunted hours ago; his fear, however, had not. It was common knowledge that under Crouch you were lucky to leave an interrogation with all your limbs intact. Sirius supposed that everyone who sat before the great oaken desk protested innocence, that Aurors became inured to misery in pursuit of truth.

His posture was wilting; his stomach knotted; he rubbed his forehead as Hampelmann took another dainty sip of tea (he'd been too worried about potions to accept her offer, which he regretted now) and started with her questions again. To his left, Robards dipped his quill in ink and patiently transcribed the same answers.

Who had he met, contacted, fucked, spoken to, seen as far back as November?

What had been said and done, what physical contact was made, where had they been?

As far as he knew, what were Remus Lupin's movements and contacts for the same period?

Did he know Remus Lupin was a werewolf? Since when? Where did he go for full moons?

How did Remus Lupin know Fenrir Greyback? How often did they see each other?

What business did Remus Lupin have in Azkaban? What did he discuss with Sonneillon Gibbons?

Did he know where Remus Lupin and Sonneillon Gibbon went after leaving Azkaban that morning, ostentatiously in compliance with an extradition order from Argentina?

Was Sirius aware that Caedwalla Travers was sought in connection with the murders of the McKinnons?

What had Sirius discussed with Caedwalla Travers on January the third?

Did Sirius kill his brother?

He blinked: this was a new question, delivered with the same bland bureaucratic disinterest. "No."

Did Caedwalla Travers kill his brother?

Did Remus Lupin kill his brother?

Did he ask either Caedwalla Travers or Remus Lupin to kill his brother?

"Is—has something happened to Regulus?" Sirius asked, but already with a lump in his throat because suddenly he knew the shape of the horror waiting around the next corner.

"I regret to inform you that the body of Regulus Black of Grimmauld Place, London, was found this morning outside of Doncaster," Hampelmann said without intonation. She slid a greyish parchment halfway across the desk. Sirius looked at it dumbly, and after a few moments Hampelmann pulled it back.

"Mr Lupin's blood was found under your brother's fingernails, in his hair, and on his clothing. Several of Mr Lupin's hairs, both head and, ah, pubic, were also found. Polyjuice does not lie, Mr Black," she added, and he swallowed all his automatic protests. "Did you notice any unusual bruising or injuries on the person of Remus Lupin at any time in the last week or so?"

Sirius shook his head; there had been nothing, there would have been nothing. Remus' body was designed to survive brutal transformations into the wolf; he healed overnight. Hampelmann was reading to him now from the laboratory report, but her voice was not what he heard.

He was wearing your face, said Dora, and Remus sobbed that Sirius was dead in his arms.

The bedroom awash in sanguine light, and Remus laughing and crying and calling for Regulus..

I want to live and love you, I can't help it, Remus said, and now Sirius was looking up and up into those impossibly distant eyes. You have to let me go and trust me. I have to let you go. And trust you.

There was an A.K.B. alert on, Hampelmann was saying now, and Sirius knew full well what rights werewolves had under Crouch, and he thought of Remus dead in the snow, and of Regulus frozen and abandoned in a ditch outside of Doncaster. His heart wasn't breaking. It simply grew smaller and smaller as the words filled up the hunger in him until finally it disappeared entirely.

I spy with my little eye, Slytherin compassion for Gryffindor pain...

Sirius shut the door to the flat, not bothering with locks. The lights were on and the smell of cooking was in the air. He wanted to break down and scream in the sheltering circle of Remus' arms; he wanted to get his hands around Remus' throat. But it didn't matter anyway, because the figure in the apron diligently polishing the table to a mirror shine was Andromeda. Her eyes flashed a moment of sympathy at him before chilling as she looked at his companions.

"Aurors," Sirius said by way of explanation. "For Remus' things. I'll just—" He waved vaguely at the bedroom. Andromeda had been at work there as well. A pile of clean, crisply folded clothes sat at the foot of each well-made bed.

"Would you like tea?" Andromeda said, her pronoun unquestionably singular.

"Later." Sirius watched as the Aurors took out three packing cases and tidied away every trace of Remus: clothes, books and papers, clobber. Some part of Sirius clawed in rage. He'd have nothing left, not a single hair (the shorter Auror had Summoned every one of those).

Boxes stacked and levitated, the Aurors presented Sirius with forms for him to sign, and he did so with the same bludgered dullness with which he'd signed the statement at the Ministry.

The second the door shut Andromeda snapped her wand sharply and protective spells shot forth. Safe at last, but too late. She set her wand down, and turned to Sirius, pulling him to her. He stood stiffly in her embrace. Some things couldn't be soothed away.

"I'm so sorry," she said, stepping back and busying herself with the tea. "I am so very, very sorry. I always thought you would reconcile, given time. He wanted to be like you so much that he had to push you away. He was—I believe he was trying to undo his mistakes. Dora's a mess—she thinks she ought to have—that she could have—I don't know." She set out two mugs, milk and the black treacly sugar that Remus preferred when he wanted something sweet. Sirius sat; after a moment, Andromeda settled in the seat opposite. "I told her it's nonsense. Regulus was the one who turned to That Bastard. He was the one who had to extricate himself."

"A lifetime of service or death," Sirius said dully, the Daily Prophet's oft-mocked anti-Voldemort propaganda line.

Andromeda blinked and looked away. "Will you—are you going to your parents?"

Sirius barked a laugh that died in the empty air of the flat. "There'll be no reconciliation there. I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive them, now. They ought to have taken better care of him."

"They ought to have taken better care of you," Andromeda said sharply. "The funeral is tomorrow morning. You will come with me."

"She'll say it should have been me, Meda. That's what she'll say."

Andromeda set down her cup and looked at Sirius, something nearly pity in her eyes. "Yes, she will. She'll probably throw a fit then and there. Fling herself into the grave. Tell you you're an abortion, a stain on the family honour. She will certainly say that she has no sons now. She will say it should have been you. And the fucker of it is that she'll mean it." She reached across the table, curled one elegant hand to cup Sirius' chin, and forced him to look up at her. "But we are going for Regulus, do you understand that? Nothing she says can make us any less part of the House of Black. Especially you. Because you are Heir again." Andromeda's smile could have opened veins. Sirius stared at her, mesmerized. "Cry if you want to tonight, but tomorrow we will put on a good show for the public. Ted will have the media there in force; he's been busy since we heard."

"They wanted to know if I killed him."

Andromeda pushed her chair back, tidying the table with a swift flick of her wand. "I know."

"Then they told me Remus did."

"I know, love." Andromeda took off Remus' apron and folded it away into the bottom drawer. "Did he?"

"I have no idea," Sirius said, the words glass in his mouth. Andromeda pulled on a swirling scarlet cape and shook her hair out. She took her string shopping bag down from the peg and crossed to the table.

"I fear for this country if that's the quality of Auror defending us," she said, and pulled two thick books out of her bag. "Lupin's photo album, and his diary." Sirius took them, and she reached in again. "The Christmas card we got from Regulus, with his picture as well. I thought you might not have one." Sirius stared as Regulus leaned towards the camera, waving and blowing kisses, looking not one day older than fifteen. He would have told Remus that he looked nothing like his brother, that the resemblance ended at dark hair, that Regulus had blue eyes and freckles and was (damn it) two inches taller. Sirius slipped the picture into the back of the photo album. "Oh, and I've all your sex stuff."

"I don't want it."

Andromeda pulled her bag shut, and it shrank to the size of a walnut. "I'll give it to Ted then, shall I?"

"Meda," Sirius said, hating himself. "There was a collar...."

"For walking the dog, of course." She resized the bag, rummaged inside, and set the collar on the table. "I can stay the night, if you wish. Or you can come home with me." Sirius shook his head, twisting the leather strap between his hands and willing the tears back. "I made stew, it's in a heated pot. I'll be here for you at eight." She bent and kissed his forehead. "Whatever else we are, we are Blacks, and we won't give the bastards the satisfaction of breaking us. And for what it's worth, I trust that boyfriend of yours. He was always Dora's favourite babysitter."

Alone at last, Sirius forced himself to eat, to shower, to change clothes. He fell asleep finally still seated at the table, his head pillowed on the photo album and his back to the bedroom door. When dawn woke him, he could remember none of his dreams, but his face was raw with dried tears.

I spy with my little eye, happy families, old friends, and machinations....

"Pull yourself together and clean your face," Andromeda said, dropping a warm wet towel onto the table in front of Sirius. "I told you to be ready to go."

"Remus," Sirius asked, washing his face automatically. He stopped there, not sure what he was asking. Was Remus dead or captured, was he on the run, would he be there today? Andromeda huffed with impatience.

"Don't play the fool. You and I will be crashing the funeral as it is, you can't expect to walk in with your half-blood boyfriend on your arm. Here." Andromeda pulled Sirius' dress robes out of the wardrobe. "If you're not going to keep a house-elf, you ought at least to learn the charms to keep the wrinkles and mildew out. Honestly, Sirius." She straightened the garment out with a snap, changing the white lace to black satin bands. Sirius took the robes from her automatically. She transfigured his rumpled clothes to something approximating a suit as he slid his arms into the heavy sleeves and did up the fastenings. Andromeda attacked his head with a wet comb and a trimming charm. "Cauliflower has more common sense than you do. Shave." She tapped her foot as he did so. When he was ready for inspection, a whirlwind ten minutes after she had stormed in, she reached up and kissed him softly on the cheek, arms around his neck. "Let's go," she said, releasing him with a caress and assuming her customary attitude. "I want to make an entrance before Cissy and her brat."

The funeral was a battlefield: so far bloodless, but who knew what might happen? House Black filled the first three western pews, backed by Malfoys, LeNoirs, LeStranges, and various associates and acquaintances. Many faces were notably absent, and Sirius could see how that ate at his father, who kept half-turning back to look at the assembly.

Andromeda, Dora, Ted, and Sirius stood alone in the first eastern pew, backed by so many Hogwarts students, alumni, and staff that some were forced to stand at the rear. There was a full contingent of Weasleys and Prewitts (even disreputable cousin Nigel, bold in his pinstripes and pocket protector). James and Lily were there, with Harry clutching a threadbare plush dog, and Peter next to them, sombre in black.

Regulus was an idiot, Sirius wanted to scream, but apparently even his death was to be used. Reporters from the Prophet, the Quibbler, the Mail, and even foreign newspapers hovered with their vulture quills. Martyr, my hairy arse, Sirius thought, glaring at the coffin at the front of the church, conspicuously shut.

When the officiant mounted the stairs, a group of ten or so Voldemort supporters (all on the west side, Sirius noted) stood and walked out, each spitting on the door as he left, and it took the combined efforts of Narcissa, Bellatrix, and LeStrange to keep Sirius' mother from cursing in the church. Narcissa's Malfoy sat as if trying to Disillusion himself, and the nanny had obviously put a Silencing charm around herself and the wailing baby in her arms.

There was a sermon, meant to give strength to the bereaved, and there were prayers and songs that were comforting, familiar friends. Slughorn spoke on behalf of Hogwarts. To his credit, he seemed to be genuinely upset, although Sirius thought the tears were overdoing it. Voldemort must have gotten to Regulus whilst he'd been under Slughorn's care. Such negligence bordered on maliciousness.

Just prior to the cremation, a stocky girl with a blonde-streaked afro walked to the front and faced the assembled witches and wizards. Sirius vaguely recalled her—a Chaser, perhaps, on the Slytherin team. She wore a Slytherin tie with her smart black suit, as if daring anyone to comment on her Muggle origins. She unrolled a scroll, cast a subtle Sonorus, and read.

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go, yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more, day by day,
You tell me of our future that you planned;
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.

Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve;
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

She descended to complete silence; and then the coffin burst into flames and Sirius' mother screamed. Sirius hadn't even realised that he was moving until Andromeda's hand tightened around his arm. The shrieks echoed and multiplied, and he watched, helpless, as his cousins tried to calm his mother down. She pushed Bellatrix away and met Sirius' eyes across the aisle.

Sirius had never done anything harder in his life than to turn his head and look straight ahead at the burning coffin as a tidal wave of foul words washed over him. Andromeda's hand on his arm became a buoy, his only hope of not drowning. He knew he was crying, but he couldn't think of how to stop, so he simply stared forwards until there was naught left before him but bare, charred bones that crumbled with a single spell.

"May the Lord have mercy on us all," Andromeda said, responding to the officiant, and Sirius realised with a shock that the ceremony was continuing despite it all. The bone shards were gathered and presented to his mother. More official prayers, standing, sitting, kneeling. Finally, the officiant descended. A last hymn was sung, and then it was over. Sirius allowed himself to be steered out into the yard, into the melee, accepting both condolences from classmates whose names eluded him and barbed comments from nearly everyone.

"If you've gone bad, they want to know why you're not on their side. And if you're good, they want to know why you've surrounded yourself with Dark wizards and Dark creatures," Andromeda murmured, her mouth curling with contempt. "Those who are trying to live in the middle ground without succumbing to either side fear you."

"Do you fear me, then?" Sirius asked in the same undertone.

"Fear a jumped-up shop boy?" Andromeda said. Sirius nearly laughed, and was shocked to find that he still could. She elbowed him—gracefully, as she did everything—in the ribs. "You're on his side, what have I to fear?" She nodded to where Dumbledore was making for them purposefully. "Perhaps he has some word for you," she said, and it was precisely that hope that had Sirius' dormant heart pounding hard against his ribs.

The war made Dumbledore look his age; the occasion had diminished his habitual glow. He looked frail, Sirius thought with a pang. He looked lost, and Sirius had hoped to turn to him for guidance.

Andromeda spoke to him about Regulus and about Dora, but the weight of Dumbledore's gaze fell on Sirius. Finally, he clasped Sirius' hand and said he was sorry. Sirius deftly palmed the wrapped portkey and slipped it into his sleeve.

"At your earliest convenience," Dumbledore said. "Ah, here come the Potters."

Sirius hadn't wanted to be alone with James, but Dumbledore waylaid Lily and Andromeda was working her way towards a phalanx of Prewitts. James had been abandoned with a mug of hot cider in one hand and the plush dog in the other, and he looked at Sirius helplessly, but Sirius wasn't about to help out and risk some kind of misguided embrace.

"He was a right idiot," James said. "But he wasn't a bad sort. Not really. It's so fucking wrong, is what it is. He was almost one of us."

"Almost," Sirius said. He remembered James' parents' funeral. It had been much smaller, family only, and Sirius had wished fervently that James had not persuaded him that he was almost part of the family. Almost meant a gap forever unclosable.

"I talked to Frank," James said, gesturing with his head towards the tall tow-headed man. He'd had the sense at least not to wear Auror's robes. "So I know. I kind of know what happened yesterday."

Sirius snorted and rubbed his hands along his arms. "Good. Then you tell me, because I've no idea." James looked at him too shrewdly, cast about, and finally set the mug atop the iron railing with a balancing charm. He took Sirius' arm through his own and pointed with the ridiculous toy down the tree-lined path to the cemetery lake.

Unsurprisingly for a bitterly cold morning like this one, the snow along the path was undisturbed save for bird tracks. James waited until they rounded a bend, the cracked ice coming into view, and then looked discreetly away as Sirius transformed to howl his bereavement to the blank canvas of the sky.

* Remember by Christina Rossetti

I spy with my little eye, follies of age and youth, and plans going awry....

Say even that this complete simplicity
Stripped one of all one's torments, concealed
The evilly compounded, vital I
And made it fresh in a world of white,
A world of clear water, brilliant-edged,
Still one would want more, one would need more,
More than a world of white and snowy scents.
The Poems of Our Climate, Wallace Stevens

The portkey dragged Sirius into Dumbledore's office, all bright light and oscillating silver oddments and whirligigs. Sirius was dazzled for a moment. He felt as if he'd been in the dark, locked away, and then suddenly set free. Of course, that was an effect Dumbledore's magic tended to have, and here he was in the centre of Dumbledore's web. The heart of the revolution.

After a moment of blinking, Sirius realised that Dumbledore was waiting for him, seated behind his massive desk, and that Snape, looking even more like a twitchy nocturnal creature than usual, was seated on the edge of an overstuffed chair with a rose-pink teacup between his long, stained fingers.

"Have a seat," Dumbledore said, and Sirius took the hard wooden chair simply because it was the furthest from Snape. Dumbledore waved his wand, and a matching teacup in blue appeared in front of Sirius in a puff of orange-scented steam. "Severus came to me," Dumbledore said, and the sunlight was merciless, Sirius saw. It showed the deep lines of age and care, and the shadows under eyes that neither blazed nor twinkled. They were like cold ocean-tumbled stones, and as dead. "I am an old man, as you young people so often rightly say, and I confess I underestimate your passion and drive. And abilities," he said softly, looking at Snape with profound regret.

Sirius drank and was silent.

"I heard a prophecy about the person who can destroy Voldemort, and there are certain... objects which I wish to hide from Voldemort until the prophecy can be realised. I recently discovered a magical method of hiding these objects so that only one who wishes not to use them can find their hiding place, and my excitement, I'm afraid, led to pride, and pride thence to fall."

He stood and paced the room slowly. "As you know, Severus, Lily Evans, and your brother were very close in school. You perhaps did not know how I used them—how I continue to use them—as pieces in the game of war. Severus told Voldemort of the prophecy, not knowing then that this would persuade Voldemort that he needed to kill the Potters. When he discovered that, I used that opportunity to persuade Severus, and through him Regulus, to find these objects for me. They believed that this would hasten the fall of Voldemort. I did not... dissuade them."

"You said," Snape corrected, with the precision of the condemned, "that you would offer Regulus protection."

Dumbledore paused a moment. "Yes. That was our bargain. Voldemort had Severus make a potion to protect one of these objects. I asked him to make a potion to counteract it. He did. He and Regulus did." Dumbledore's voice was almost hypnotically calm, and Sirius had to force himself to understand his words instead of merely letting them wash over him. "What Severus made was Mors cupere—a very Dark potion, I don't know if you've heard of it—"

Sirius raised one corner of his mouth in a contemptuous smile. "I am a Black. I believe it was an ancestor of mine in the twelfth century who was responsible for the massacre that led to the banning of Breuvage mise a mort."

"Annis Lenoir," Snape muttered, and then looked appalled.

"The reason it was banned," Sirius said, and narrowed his eyes, "was because the counter-potion was even Darker. Made by brewing Dark creatures alive, as I recall. It killed more people than the original potion." Sirius stared at Snape. "Boil down some banshees, did you? Catch a kappa?"

Dumbledore took a crumbling parchment from his desk and handed it to Sirius. "This is the recipe Lenoir's great-granddaughter favoured, apparently. From your mother's library." Sirius read under his breath, the old French and the dreadful handwriting conspiring against him.

The highest branches of mistletoe gathered on the shortest day of the year by a virgin—hence my motorcycle, Sirius thought. Stupid bastard, involving Dora (and since when was Regulus not a virgin?). Two handfuls of jobberknoll feathers. Shredded lethifold. Living bone ripped from Darkest beast, and the blood thereof.

Dumbledore was looking at Sirius expectantly, and Snape frowned as if contemplating a smoking volcano. Sirius stared back in confusion. Dumbledore sighed. "They used a werewolf, Sirius." When Sirius still didn't respond, Dumbledore crossed to a spindly table in the corner, where a Pensieve stood. "They used Remus Lupin, to be exact, and a stolen Time-turner.... I have here Severus' memories... if you don't mind, Severus?"

Snape straightened his shoulders. "Why would I mind? It's the truth." But he looked at Dumbledore's hands, resting on the table, and met no one's eyes.

Sirius knew then that he did not want to see the silvery thoughts that swirled within the Penseive, but he went to look anyway.

"Thanks, Peter," Regulus said, slipping one arm around Remus' waist. Remus' forehead dropped to his shoulder with a faint noise like snoring. "Come and get him in two hours, would you?"

"You owe me," Peter said darkly. "What is this place? What are you going to do?"

Regulus grinned. "It's a prank. Don't you like those?"

"Not so much as people think."

Regulus held out a black velvet sack that clanked like gold. "Just playing a little with big brother's toys, Peter, surely that doesn't bother you? He'll be safe and sound. Trust me."

Peter looked at Remus, looked at the bag; took the bag, and turned his back on his friend as he walked away.

I spy with my little eye, the sacrifice of love for freedom, sealed in blood....

I've woken up on one too many floors
But my favourite was yours.
There is a Boy That Never Goes Out by The Lucksmiths

Remus slumped down naked on the floor, and Severus jabbed a needle under his skin.

"It's Muggle," he said at Regulus' disgusted look. "It'd kill a man in 20 minutes, but you're there in plenty of time before his heart stops. Don't worry, I've been practising." He pulled heavy chains out of his bag and immobilised Remus' arms and legs carefully, and then made sure Regulus knew the proper spells for opening and shutting them. "I'll be waiting for you. There's nothing to be scared of," he added scornfully. "Trust me, I know what happened."

Regulus knelt to get Remus' ominously-lolling head into the chain of the Time-turner. He took a deep breath and began spinning it backwards.

Here the memories blurred, and Sirius almost had the sensation of falling back in time. But of course, for Snape these were the older memories, the Pensieve bringing everything back in unrelenting clarity. Sirius shivered, and watched.

Regulus arrived with Remus halfway through the transformation, half-human and half-wolf. Remus' heavy collapse meant that Regulus was dragged to the floor as well. He clawed the Time-turner's chain over the wolf's head and threw himself backwards gracelessly. He shook as though palsied; Severus did not offer him a hand up.

The wolf didn't move on the floor. "Is he dead?" Regulus whispered, and Severus looked at him as if he were particularly stupid.

"I wouldn't have sent you back here if I knew he was dead. I've no use for a dead werewolf. He's alive, just... sleeping. Go and get what we need. Come back after moonset."

Regulus crossed to the table. "Is this the polyjuice?"

"Take it. Don't do anything stupid, and be careful. Get out. I've work to do." Severus reached for the array of instruments laid out on black velvet. Regulus grabbed the vial and spun the Time-turner to escape. Regulus got to steal a motorbike, have a date with his cousin, enjoy the sun and the crispness of winter. Severus of course had the hard work to do. He reread the recipe and contemplated Remus like a blank canvas.

Regulus was back exactly on time, but from the look on his face he would rather have been anywhere else in the world than in that monstrous room. It reeked, and Severus' robes were covered with horrible damp stains. Regulus crossed his arms over his chest and huddled down, looking like nothing more than a gangly child. Despite whichever point he chose to stare at, his eyes were inevitably drawn back to the ruin Severus had wrought.

"He won't remember a damn thing," Severus said. "And I'll fix him up as good as new at the other end."

"Did you have to—" Regulus looked away and swallowed. "My brother fancies him, you know."

"Good. Maybe he'll kiss your lovely new face when he wakes up," Severus sneered. Regulus glanced at Remus' mouth and looked nauseous. Sirius, who had watched Snape at his work, was beyond nausea, far into the red realm of rage. "Go, before he bleeds to death."

Werewolf, Sirius thought, as Regulus pulled Remus' limp form up to an awkward sitting position to get the chain around his neck. Regulus made small broken noises whenever Remus' body came into contact with him. Dark creature, not human, did you still believe it then? he wondered.

This will work, Severus had said, another memory ghosting by. They'd spent days—weeks—poring through obscure texts. Impossible, Regulus had replied after he read the ingredients list. Severus had only smiled, his triumph and pleasure pure Slytherin. Ah, but I know where to get my hands on a tame werewolf, you see, he said, and at the time Regulus had smiled as though the plan was brilliant. Clever.

Again the memories blurred, back to the old house, to where Severus waited. He turned and nodded as Regulus stopped spinning the Time-turner, appearing in a crouch with his arms wrapped around Remus and his eyes on Severus wary and fearful. Apparently he had had some time for reflection.

"Get him onto the bed in the back room. And you, get out of those clothes, they'll need to be burnt. Get some sleep, you look... too much like your brother for my tastes. I'll wake you at sunset."

"Is the potion ready? Will it work?"

Severus' blood ran like ice: he was already counting on the honesty of both Voldemort and Dumbledore, an act of brain-destroying doublethink. He couldn't even contemplate Regulus turning unreliable as well. "The potion will be done at sunset. And as to whether it works—you had better be praying that it does."

Remus' eyes were open as Regulus stretched him out awkwardly on the bed. He was saying something, again and again, in the rags of a whisper, as Regulus straightened his arms and legs. When it finally dawned on Regulus whose name Remus was saying, he flinched back, nearly stumbling into Severus. He left the room, face burning, unable to meet Severus' scornful gaze.

Severus was vaguely and preternaturally aware of Regulus in the room next door stripping naked, scouring his skin and clothes with the most thorough cleansing spells he knew. Severus had work to do, and he did it well, with almost a Healer's touch. He could have been a Healer, had things been different. He could have had a life, he might even have indulged in love, had things only been different, but there was no Time-turner that could undo his life. He stepped back for a moment, looked out to where Regulus lay, curled up on a blanket on the sofa, pretending to sleep, doubtless wishing there was some way to clean away his complicity as well. Severus watched as Regulus' features bled slowly through those of his handsome brother. Suddenly blue eyes snapped open, and Severus started. He scowled, and shut the door with force.

Severus woke Regulus as scheduled, just prior to his and Remus' arrival. He handed him a goblet of gently steaming potion, a deep lavender with flecks of gold moving within. Regulus drained the goblet, the potion's very prettiness letting him, hopefully, forget what (who) it was made of. Then Severus, to both his and Regulus' surprise, wrapped his bony arms around him and said "Come back safely" before giving him the sealed cauldron of replacement potion. Regulus unwrapped the portkey the old man had sent and in an instant was torn away, spinning through nothingness to a stark stretch of beach and black ocean, leaving Severus behind to shut the bedroom door on the sleeping man and open the front door when Regulus knocked.

I spy with my little eye: it's true after all, what you don't know doesn't hurt

Severus prodded the sleeping man with his wand. "Time to get up." Eyes cracked open, barely, and then dropped shut with a grimace. "How do you feel?"

"'m hung-over," Remus said. "Feel like hell."

"You look like hell, too," Severus said. He threw the blanket back and did a perfunctory check, flexing feet and fingers, prodding Remus' mouth. Remus twisted away.

"Hurts," he mumbled.

"What does?"

"Everything."

"Well, that's to be expected," Severus said. "Get dressed."

"Cold," Remus said. Severus pulled him to sitting and yanked his vest on over his head. Next came the thin cotton shirt and the cashmere jumper that must have been borrowed off Black. "Have to piss."

"Charming," Severus said, his lip curling. He took up Remus' boxers and trousers in one hand and put an arm around Remus' waist. He half-carried him down the hall, even undoing Remus' trousers and sitting him down unceremoniously to piss. Remus had the confused look of someone who was about to suffer acute embarrassment.

"Why," Remus asked, leaning heavily on the sink as he finished dressing himself. "Why'm I here? Where's Peter?" He stared at his reflection in the mirror. "All I remember is blood and screams."

"Dreams you'll forget come morning."

"The tooth I broke is fixed." Remus bared his teeth at the mirror.

"Damn. Which one was it?" Remus pointed, and Severus obliged with a quick densassula. "Better?" Remus frowned, running his tongue over the jagged chip. "You should eat something before you go."

Remus was easily distracted with glasses of water and biscuits with chocolate spread and not inclined to talk, which was fine by Severus. He paced and watched the clock. Hope was alien, but smoothly-running schedules brought him close to joy.

Remus brushed crumbs from his jumper carefully. "Why?" Remus said, and then stopped, as if unsure what question he was asking. Severus wondered if he hadn't misjudged the interactions between potions and addled the werewolf permanently.

"Peter'll be here in a few minutes to pick you up. After that, believe me, you won't care."

"Okay," Remus said, and took the biscuit Snape handed him.

There was a loud bang from the front room. "Peter?" Remus asked.

"No," Snape said, and grabbed Remus by the waistband of his trousers, hauling him up and propelling him down the hall.

The man in the centre of the room was ripping his shirt off with frantic fingers.

"Sirius," Remus said, and moved to go to him.

"No, Regulus," Snape snarled, pushing Remus down hard enough to shove the whole sofa backwards several inches and stalked to where Regulus stood, crushing buttons under his heels.

There was a horrible mark on Regulus' arm, like a bruise, and it was burning with sickly green flames. He held his arm out to Snape, his breathing irregular with hysteria.

"Severus?" he asked through chattering teeth. "I'm on fire." The flames danced on his flesh, spreading slowly, greedy and green. Where they had passed Regulus' skin had a peculiar transparency.

Severus stared in revulsion and horror. "You can't betray the Dark Lord after taking the Mark, you fool," he hissed, grabbing Regulus' hand and twisting his arm up to examine the burn. "It knows. It means death, do you understand that? When did you do this? Why? Oh, gods, why didn't you tell me?" He tapped his wand experimentally against the Mark, and Regulus cried out as blood welled up from a gash deep as a razor slash.

"I thought you'd be angry," Regulus said, faintly, as Severus attempted and failed a succession of healing spells. Finally Severus gave up and walked—nearly ran—to the kitchen to grab a tea towel, snagging his work bag on his way back. The flames had snaked their way as high as Regulus' shoulders and he scratched at them madly, leaving trails of blood on his skin.

"Stop it," Severus said, grabbing his wrists and binding them. The flames crept up Regulus' neck, and his hair floated out in a sea of magic like a drowning man's. Regulus swore, choked as he swallowed flame, and squeezed his eyes shut against that inexorable march. The flames flared and flickered out at the crown of his head; and then they flared up, darker and higher and faster, around his neck, and began their way down.

Regulus sagged, the initial strength given by fear dissolving even as the spell tore his body apart. Severus laid him out on the floor on a blanket and pillow summoned blindly from the bedroom and continued his attempts to halt the flames. Regulus opened his eyes, blinking through a haze of red as he stared up at Severus. Severus stared back, spell after spell failing to rescind the curse.

"I'm not going to die," Regulus said, coughing and spitting blood. "I mean, we did it, you and I. In my pocket," he said. Snape felt his pockets and from his left front trouser pocket pulled a heavy golden locket. Regulus smiled. "See? That's freedom."

"Yes," Severus said. "Freedom."

"It itches," Regulus said, shifting awkwardly. He bit his lip—bad idea—as the skin on his back tore away where the blanket abraded. "Fuck, it itches and hurts. Do something," he pleaded. "Make it stop." His voice twisted up, nearly a scream.

Severus was not one to panic, but there was really only one thing to do. He yanked Remus up and shoved him towards the door, thrusting his coat and his wand into his hands. "Wait on the step until Peter comes," he said fiercely, pulling the door open. Remus sat obligingly and looked up, his shadowed face too knowledgeable. Severus aimed his wand unsteadily. "Obliviate," he said. "Wait for Peter." He shut and locked the door.

Regulus was crying with the pain, now, and Severus raised his wand again, quickly, before he lost his nerve. "Avada kedavra," he said. There was a brief glow of green, and then Regulus gave the pained ghost of his ready smile.

"I'm touched," he whispered, "but I wish you meant it, almost."

"Avada kedavra," Severus shouted, trying as hard as he could to wish Regulus dead.

"Not today," Regulus said, and coughed, the spasms greying his face with pain. "Hold my hand... would you?"

So Severus put his wand down and simply touched him, until touching hurt too much. He kept watch until Regulus grew too weak to cough and drowned quietly. By then it was already growing light outside. Severus stumbled upright, gathered his things together, wrapped Regulus up in the grubby blanket, and Apparated away to dispose of the body.

I spy with my little eye, a sunburnt wolf, Muggle girl, and the wrong place to fly....

Antisthenes says that in a certain faraway land the cold is so intense that words freeze as soon as they are uttered, and after some time then thaw and become audible, so that words spoken in winter go unheard until the next summer.
Plutarch, Moralia

Remus Lupin lay sprawled on the beach, feeling warmth from the sand and the sun leach into his bones. Even stripped down to his vest and trousers he was hot, and he was immeasurably pleased with himself. He had delivered Sonneillon Gibbon to the Argentinean authorities (who seemed very keen on discussing various accounting practices with him), done a little sight-seeing, drunk some very good wine with his lunch, and now he was having a few hours' holiday. Tomorrow he had a few more errands for Dumbledore—a bit of obscure herbology research—but he thought he'd earned some sun worship time. And perhaps even steak for dinner.

He would bring Sirius here, he thought, and they would go swimming. He would bring that damned red rubber ball that kept reappearing in the closet whenever he binned it, and Padfoot could dive for it in the waves. The roar of the ocean and the way the water flashed in the sun were hypnotic. He dozed, on and off, watching children play in the surf.

Finally, he brushed the sand from his trousers, put on his socks and shoes, and walked back to the hotel. Dumbledore had arranged the room, and it was luxurious enough to bring a lump to his throat, with thick carpeting—he could have slept there quite comfortably—and the most amazing bathroom. He shook a little more sand out of his hair in anticipation of a bath and pushed through the revolving doors into the grand foyer of the hotel. There was a small shop selling souvenirs and sundries next to the front desk, and he thought he'd take a look again. He'd resigned himself to getting Sirius a commemorative t-shirt, which Sirius would like, but he'd seen several gorgeous leather jackets which he knew Sirius would love.

It was there, on the front page of the international paper, that he discovered that he was a wanted murderer.

He didn't betray himself as he bought the paper. When travelling, he used an assumed name, pulled his hair back into a sloppy ponytail, and wore gold-framed glasses and a designer suit that he'd bought from Oxfam for a pittance (magic was very good for getting those kinds of stains out of fabric). He really looked quite dissimilar from the Registry photo, and the conversion from moving Wizarding photograph to black and white still was poorly done. His eyes, in particular, looked wide and fanatic in the newspaper.

He didn't dare look in the mirror hung over the chest of drawers. He suspected his eyes were at least as large and crazed.

If Remus had believed in a merciful god, he'd have prayed to be struck down on the spot. Regulus, he thought, his heart wrenching. Popular, brilliant, bratty, Sirius' baby brother, still in his teens, and dead. Killed. Murdered. He looked at his hands, clenched so hard the nails dug into his palms. They said that when you killed, it tore your soul in two. He didn't doubt this for a second. He wondered how he had killed Regulus. All he remembered was the blood. God. There had been a lot of blood. He had killed Regulus and seduced his brother into bed. His stomach heaved and he barely made it to the bathroom in time.

Taking the portkey back to the U.K. was no longer possible: he didn't want Dumbledore to be implicated should he be caught. Remus dropped it down a sewer grating as he left the hotel. He had his emergency funds (in the form of an untraceable GoblinExpress card), so he took the motorcoach to Buenos Aires' Ezeiza Airport. From Heathrow he would find Sirius—he didn't want to, but he would—and then he would turn himself over to the Ministry. He didn't know if werewolves were killed on the spot now or if they were sent to Azkaban, but he didn't care.

Regulus was dead.

The flight was crowded, the food was vile, the woman next to him smoked continually, and the film was a romantic comedy. Remus huddled under three threadbare tartan blankets, keeping his eyes resolutely shut to ward off the attentions of the air hostess. It was snowing when the plane touched down, swirls of white obscuring the world. Remus slung his bag over his shoulder and moved smoothly through immigration and customs. He didn't need to Obliviate anyone, and he was glad. He'd have done a terrible job of it. He simply said he'd been called back for a funeral, and was waved through.

There was an Apparition point out beyond the long-term carpark, and Remus set off purposefully. It was easy enough to ignore someone calling "John, John" behind him; harder when it became "John Lupin!"

He stopped and turned around reluctantly. The girl threw her arms around him with a force that knocked his bag from his shoulder and half-spun him around.

"We've been waiting forever for you to get in," she said, grinning up at him. "I told Peter one o'clock, but all this snow came up out of nowhere, and we've been reading magazines in the lounge for ages."

Peter. Then this must be.... Remus squinted down at her. "Marta? Anna?"

She punched him playfully on the arm. "Donna, you drunken lout. Some ladies' man you are. Peter said you don't remember a thing."

"No," Remus said tightly. "Not bloody much. Why are you here?"

She took a step back, her chin tipping up with temper despite the studied lightness of her words. "Because I have a car, and Peter said it would be a friendly thing to do? Bad flight, then, was it?"

"I don't like aeroplanes," Remus said, looking around for Peter.

"He's gone to make a phone call," Donna said, and picked up Remus' bag. "Peter says he's never flown, but he's always arranging trips for his friends. That's where we met," she added, following the arrow pointing to 'phones'. "I work in a travel agency. I used to be an air hostess, but it's not so romantic as you might think. Where do you suppose Peter's got off to?"

"Thank you," Remus said, taking his bag. "Really. Tell Peter I'm sorry I missed him, but—I've got to go."

Donna gaped as he turned and ran.

Remus spent an hour on the Underground before he dared to think he'd lost Peter. He waited on the platform for twenty minutes more, expecting attack at any moment, but nothing came. He stood, finally, and walked up from the depths on the broken station escalator. There was a disgusting public loo by the ticket wickets, and he slipped in, sealing the door behind him.

He set the bag down and took out his wand. There was a simple charm for changing hair colour: the only catch was that you couldn't specify what colour you wanted. He tried it three times before he got a colour that was different but not conspicuous (green, he thought, would simply have been wrong, and Weasley red not right either). He didn't know how to change his eyes as well, so he just darkened the lenses of his glasses. He would have to get rid of the suit. He took off the jacket, threw it in the bin, and reached down for his bag.

He had just enough time to register that there was a ragged, ratty hole in the side of his bag when it exploded outwards, ripped apart by the sudden expansion of Peter Pettigrew.

"Lupin," he said, pushing himself up through socks and pyjamas. His wand was out and he cast a swift Body-Bind Curse as he stood. Remus stiffened and realised, appallingly, that it was impossible to balance by force of will alone. He toppled heavily to the side, bashing into the graffiti-covered wall and then sliding to the floor. Peter gave a sympathetic wince and levitated him away from the urinals.

"Look, if I thought you'd listen to reason, I wouldn't do this, but quite frankly you scare me, Lupin. Can't believe what you did to Regulus. But—" He stuffed Remus' belongings haphazardly into the bin. "A good friend of mine wants to meet you. She says she can help you. If you help her." Peter grabbed Remus' hand and pulled him close. Don't touch me, Remus wanted to scream, but he was helpless. Peter raised his wand, and then the familiar breathless tightening of Apparation took over.

I spy with my little eye, dubious leadership and heroes who fly....

Sirius shouted until all the portraits that could had fled their frames, and the few that remained huddled low in their frames with their hands over their ears. Severus flinched from the words, but surely he expected things to come to blows. Sirius' voice finally broke. He panted his rage for a minute, glaring, but found that he had no—well, not much—desire to beat Severus senseless, if only because he suspected that Severus wanted that easy escape.

Sirius ran his fingers through his hair, but it did nothing to dislodge the cold, heavy ache of his thoughts. Dumbledore conjured up a glass of water, and Sirius drained it. He set it on the desk and walked over to the window overlooking the lake, throwing it open. The air was frigid and raw, the sunlight moving like swords spearing the hills. He'd climbed every one of those hills when he was a student; he'd lost his virginity on them, in a kinder season.

"What now?" he asked.

"Severus will stay at Hogwarts. I know it is too late, but I owe him protection. Horace Slughorn, for gross professional and personal negligence, will be leaving my staff. Horace is too easily lulled into believing the Dark Arts to be academic and harmless. Severus, I trust, will not make such an error." The unspoken again hung in the icy air.

Dumbledore sat down at his desk and steepled his fingers. "Remus Lupin escorted Sonneillon Gibbons from Azkaban yesterday morning to Buenos Aires and hasn't been seen since leaving his hotel last night. The fact that the headlines on all the daily papers read Werewolf Murders Black Heir may have... alarmed him into taking some kind of evasive action."

"Or perhaps he truly does believe himself guilty," Sirius said. "Your memory charm was crap, Snape. He's been having nightmares."

"So've I," Severus said, meeting Sirius' eyes for a moment before looking away.

"You're Voldemort's minion, aren't you?" Sirius said sharply. "Oughtn't you to know something?"

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's a secret organization, Black, there's not a newsletter that gets sent round every week. Everyone knows only his or her immediate superior and those below them. And whatever praise the Dark Lord has for our talents, let me assure you that we are the lowest in rank." He frowned. "I am."

Dumbledore coughed. "Severus has done invaluable work for me, Sirius. As did your brother."

Sirius glared at Severus. "Did He-Who-Must-Die put the same curse on you that killed Regulus?"

Severus met his gaze contemptuously. "Why would you care, Black?"

A great horned owl soared through the open window and alighted on Dumbledore's oversized teaching lunascope, which waxed and waned in alarm. Dumbledore took the note from its claws and proffered his biscuit tin absently. Sirius repressed a shudder: he hadn't known that the biscuits were fodder for both man and beast.

Dumbledore read the note and then shoved it up his sleeve as he stood. "You are to stay here," he said, the light in his eyes cold and fierce. "Travers was arrested last evening for the McKinnons' murder—that's news that no one's leaked to the papers yet, thank goodness. He had a two-way mirror on him, and Crouch—I don't agree with Crouch," Dumbledore said. He took a tall hat patterned with unicorns and pirate ships from the wardrobe and set it on his head with a hatpin in the shape of a bottle-opener. "He put Travers under the Imperius Curse and has been making him answer his calls. He just got an order to bring Greyback to Voldemort because the renegade omega has been caught." Severus was smiling oddly, whether at the news or at the Headmaster's eccentric ensemble, Sirius couldn't be sure.

Dumbledore flicked his wand and the fireplace roared. He took down a paper-maché ashtray and scooped out a generous handful of Floo powder. "You are to stay here," he said, and the door locked itself four times over. "This is a matter for the Aurors." He threw the powder and the flames shot up. "Auror Division," Dumbledore said, and disappeared as he stepped into the fireplace.

"Damn, damn, damn, damn, and damn," Sirius said, dropping low into his chair.

Severus was rummaging through Dumbledore's office. Finally, from under an oddly draped thing in the corner that appeared to be a virginal, he produced a broom. "Looks like he's been cleaning the floor with it," he said with disdain, indicating the dusty straws. "Are you coming or not?"

"Where?" Sirius asked, getting up and checking the broom for structural flaws.

Severus gave him a measuring look, and then shoved his left sleeve up. "That is the Dark Lord's mark. It connects me to his power, you see, and allows me to Apparate into his presence." The corner of his mouth curled up in anticipation. "Potter sent me the invisibility cloak."

"The broom will fly," Sirius said. "Why would James—"

"Not James," Snape said, cutting him off. "Don't be dense. Your brother—there are those of us who would fight for him as well."

"Don't think I've forgiven you."

Severus climbed onto the windowsill awkwardly. "Does it matter?"

Sirius joined him on the sill, straddling the broom behind him with his arms tight around Severus' waist. The broom rose, just barely. Severus pushed against the window frame and the broom shot forwards, dropped from the tower to a mere two metres from the ground, and then slowly gained altitude.

"What's your plan?" Sirius shouted, leaning forwards.

Severus turned his head slightly to shout back. "Clever plans involving mayhem are your responsibility. But I want Him dead—don't you?"

Or die trying, Sirius thought but didn't say. Only a fool—a complete and utter fool—would be heading straight into Voldemort's clutches. The thought filled him with terror; but the thought of Remus at Voldemort's mercy was even more terrifying. The broom held a straight course towards Hogsmeade over the Hogswarts grounds, into the lowering sun.

I spy with my little eye, decisions, decisions, and a very bad guy....

Now is the winter of our discontent.
Richard III, William Shakespeare

Peter stumbled as they arrived, and Remus swayed alarmingly on his feet. He could only hope that Peter would catch him before he fell, but Peter didn't have a very good record so far. You're going down, Peter had said, at the beginning of this nightmare; Remus simply hadn't realised how far down he would go, or that there would be no possibility for reprieve.

They were in a drab, dirty cellar with a ceiling so high it was nearly out of view. Wall sconces set with fat candles provided the only light; odd shadows shifted and moved seemingly of their own volition in and out of the darkness. There was an overpowering smell of dust and potions, and the sound of running water. Remus would have shivered if he had been able to. It reminded him of all the stories of albino alligators living in sewers, or gigantic baby-eating creatures that ran along the Underground tracks.

Peter tugged Remus' wand out from his frozen hand, and a shadow detached itself from the darkness.

"I'll take that, Peter, thank you," said the man in elegant black robes. He was pale and stood with a regal posture. His dark hair, greying at the temples, was pulled back at his neck, offering no distractions to his fine-boned face and his dark, hypnotic eyes. He held out one elegant hand, and Peter passed the wand to him wordlessly. Long fingers played delicately along its length before he slipped it quickly into his sleeve.

"Who are you?" Peter asked, and Remus could have throttled him out of frustration. That's fucking Voldemort, he screamed in his head. And he calls you Peter? Voldemort's eyes flickered to him, and Remus felt his blood run cold. He wished he could blink of his own volition.

"A mutual friend suggested we meet," Voldemort said. "A friend who said you were interested in the power to unlock the secrets of the universe. It so happens that I've devoted many years of my life to just that study. I've made a good deal of progress." He held out his hand, plucking a small white card from the air. "Allow me to introduce myself."

Peter took the card, read the name on it, and blanched.

"What you think you know about me is wrong," Voldemort said, his voice like mead to the senses. "What you think you know about yourself is wrong. You're already in my service. You've given me invaluable insights—why, thanks to you, I know all about Dumbledore's plot with the mirror. Thanks to you, people are dead. The Wisengamot would not be kind to you, should you even face a trial. I don't own you, you are free, but you had better hope that I will keep you and your secrets safe."

"Hah," Peter said, as if he'd been punched in the stomach. His face was grey, and Remus could see sweat soaking his hair dark. Peter made a small jerking motion with his hand. "Lupin? You want Lupin? You can have him."

Voldemort smiled, his small sharp teeth glinting. "I already have Lupin, you fool. He's just the currency I'll pay for an alliance. What I want is Potter. Don't," Voldemort said, as sharply as if he'd read Peter's mind, "be blinded by foolish emotions. You were his friend because he could give you what you needed. Your guide, as it were. He outgrew his role. And he never needed you back, did he? Whereas I—" another flash of teeth—"not only have need of you, but am willing to share my power with you. Would you turn that down for nostalgia? I think not." Voldemort gestured lazily at Lupin. "You'd sell one schoolmate, Peter, why not another? Or would you prefer to be a menu of empty, noble principles for the Dementors to devour?"

"Perhaps unlike some, he'd prefer his soul intact," Dumbledore said dryly as he walked in through the wall as casually as if strolling into Madame Puddifoot's for a cup of cinnamon tea. "Won't you stop now, Tom?"

Voldemort's eyes shone red in the flickering light for one long moment; then he blinked and smiled scornfully. "Why ought I to listen to you now, old man? Where were you all the years I had nothing but pain to eat? You left me to find my own path, and now you condemn me for it?"

Dumbledore moved in a slow wide arc across the room. "Forgiveness is always possible, Tom. If you chose to turn back, I will help you."

"I'm not going to grovel at anyone's feet," Voldemort sneered. "I've surpassed all the supposedly immutable laws that the ignorant follow blindly. You cannot imagine the power."

"That kind of power is a monster. What do you feed it—pain? Despair? Fear? Death? The more power you take, the more you need to give it so that it does not follow its natural inclination to devour you. True freedom comes from letting go of the need to control the power."

"To surrender ambitions?" Voldemort asked, one perfect arch of an eyebrow cocked in incredulity. He moved smoothly to check Dumbledore's progress towards the tableau of Peter and Remus.

"To submit to the ambitions of the power, Tom. To let it work love through you." A tingle went through Remus and he nearly dropped his posture as the Body-Bind was countered. He risked letting his eyes flicker towards Dumbledore, but the Headmaster paid him no attention.

Rich laughter echoed like thunderclaps. "Love again, Albus? I'm afraid that's a language I've never been taught. Love! Love has no power to stop pain, or loss, or death."

"It's not supposed to," Dumbledore said impatiently. "But it is the tide that carries the soul through that pain to peaceful shores."

"Who wants peace, you fool? I want power."

"What does your soul want?"

"I have no soul," Voldemort said.

Dumbledore stared at him with penetrating eyes. "You'd be naught but an empty shell were that so. You have a soul still, although you seem to have whored it out to feed your lust for power."

"Look what noble idiocy brings. Tell me, where is fancy bred?" Voldemort asked softly, and snapped his wand towards the deep shadows. "Accio invisibility cloak. Crucio." He caught the cloak in one hand and smirked as the dark-haired man in the corner collapsed to his knees, gasping in agony.

"Finite incantatem," Dumbledore countered.

"Crucio," Voldemort repeated, and the man writhed. "Or in the heart, or in the head?" Voldemort cast a spell that washed out from him in a piercing golden wave of light. Dumbledore threw up his arms and dissipated it, but the air still stung, acrid and hot, in Remus' mouth. Peter was like stone, caught between the warring powers. Remus took a deep breath and ran.

"How begot—" Voldemort flicked his wand again and a scream was torn free—"how nourished—" Remus stumbled down to cover Sirius, snatching the wand from his hand. Spells were thick in the air as Voldemort and Dumbledore duelled in stone-shattering silence.

Remus stood and raised the wand with both hands. "Avada—" He had never hated anyone more in his life. He had never let anger control him before, but now he let it flow. It was true, he was surprised to note, that his vision did go red. And I'm already damned, I've already killed, so what happens to me doesn't matter.

"No—" Sirius ground out, and one hand dug painfully at Remus' ankle.

"Kedavra," Remus shouted, and stumbled as the green surge of the spell shot forward. But Voldemort had folded in, arms around his stomach, and, in the hush after the killing curse smashed into the wall with a force that knocked chips from the wall, could be heard to be giggling manically.

"Finite incantatem," Dumbledore said, and with three paces he stood next to Remus, between Sirius, collapsed and panting in blessed relief, and Voldemort. "Unusual use of a Tickling Charm, Mr Snape," he said to the wall, which shrugged in Disillusioned scorn. Dumbledore glanced at Remus. "I'm not sure whether the Killing Curse could destroy Tom as he is now."

Voldemort had finally worked the counter-charm, and he stood, radiating rage. It was odd, Remus noted, how haggard he seemed now, as compared to when Sirius was screaming. "You admit my power, then."

"I admit your folly. The Aurors have this building surrounded. Will you come with us peaceably?"

"Pettigrew," Voldemort said, crooking one finger. "Snape." Severus detached himself from the wall and slowly went to stand by Voldemort. Peter's eyes flicked back and forth between Dumbledore and Voldemort. "The Aurors, Peter," Voldemort said softly, and Peter took a step forward, then another.

"Don't," Remus said. Peter squared his shoulders, glanced back and then away. He looked nearly terrified enough to transform and escape down a drain, but he took the last two steps to stand by Severus.

Voldemort bowed, gracefully sardonic, and the three of them Apparated away.

"You let him go," Sirius said, as Remus pulled him to his feet. "You let them all go."

"One must," Dumbledore said absently, waving his wand to open a doorway onto a narrow staircase, "encourage freedom. Even the freedom to make bad choices. I don't think Tom noticed yet that he owes a life debt to Severus."

"Bloody hell," Sirius said in disgust. "Oi, Moony, you all right, then?"

Remus' mouth worked soundlessly; finally, he dragged his gaze up from the floor and looked Sirius in the eye. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice cracking. "I killed—Sirius, I—"

"You did not," Dumbledore said, with more kindness than Sirius had heard from him all day. "Remus, you did not kill Regulus. He made a... fatal mistake in dealing with Voldemort. You were his victim, and not the other way around." He took Remus by the arm and led him to the stairs. "I'll have that Time-turner back now, Sirius." He held out his hand; Sirius fished in his pocket and produced the tiny hourglass and chain. "Cleverly done, if contrary to my direct orders. I do hope you weren't waiting in that cellar too long, you'll have caught a chill. Here," he said, and handed Sirius a fish-shaped toffee. "Have a Ginger Grouper. Remus?"

Remus eyed Sirius' watering eyes and reddened face, and the way his hair stood on end. "No. Thank you."

There was light at the top of the stairs from the kitchen door, which hung open and crooked on its hinges. A group of men and women stood huddled around a fire in the yard, while others monitored a series of instruments set up on a collapsible picnic table. They all drew their wands as Dumbledore walked out, and a murmur went up at the sight of Remus and Sirius. Dumbledore spoke briefly and sharply, but it wasn't until Moody snapped out that both of them were cleared in the on-going Black investigation that wands were lowered.

"You might want to take a little vacation until all the furore has died down," Dumbledore said quietly. "They're tracking Voldemort now. I imagine there will be a rash of battles and arrests over the next few weeks, enough time for the Potters and the Longbottoms to go into hiding. When you return—well, the Mirror will be waiting, and there will be more artefacts to find." He reached inside his robe and pulled out a ragged pair of striped stockings. He opened one to reveal a rusting tin can. "Dolphin-free tuna in spring water to go, and mushy green peas to come back." Remus raised an eyebrow. "And here's a GoblinExpress card—the usual receipts and forms for accounting, Remus."

"You will take care of Snape, won't you?" Sirius asked abruptly. "He's—he might welcome an easy death right now."

Dumbledore sighed. "Nothing is ever easy with Severus. I will tell him of your concern, when next I see him. Here comes Moody," he added. "Now might be a good time—"

Sirius rolled the sock down and held Remus' hand as they touched the tuna tin together.

Tell me where is fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?
How begot, how nourished?
Reply, reply.
It is engender'd in the eyes,
With gazing fed; and fancy dies
In the cradle, where it lies.
Let us all ring fancy's knell;
I'll begin it—Ding, dong, bell.
"The Merchant of Venice," William Shakespeare

I spy with my little eye, some pain, some healing, and time to say goodbye....

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Still I Rise - Maya Angelou

"It's not as posh as the hotel I had in Argentina," Remus said, looking around the room critically. "But it's not bad."

"It's bloody brilliant, Moony," Sirius said, bouncing on his bed. "It's a beach bungalow and that's the ocean right there beyond our own private bit of beach."

"We need to go shopping." Remus gestured with one hand towards his commemorative t-shirt (a design featuring palm trees, a tropical sunset, and, for no apparent reason, a hot air balloon) and bright orange swimming trunks. "Somewhere besides the beach shop."

Sirius grinned (his clothes were clean and decent). "It's thirty-five degrees out. Why not just go around naked?"

"Fine for some, I suppose." Remus took up the tourists' guide that was on the chest of drawers (white wicker, matching the two chairs and the headboards on the beds). He flipped through it blindly, rolled it into a spyglass, set it down again.

"What's the matter?"

Remus bit his lip and looked out the window, past the palm tree, towards the ocean. "All my life," he said softly, "at least, all my life since I was bitten, I have resisted certain things, held on to others, all in the cause of not becoming a monster. Remus Lupin, with his furry little problem. I got very good at keeping the wolf's consciousness separate from mine." He twisted the blind cord between his fingers. "I can't do it now. I drew from the wolf's madness—my madness—to face Voldemort. And now, I can feel it in everything I do. Not just madness, but terror, as the moon approaches. The only—the only time I felt this much fear of a change, that I might die, or that I might lose my mind, or I might kill, was back in school, sixth year."

"When I betrayed you."

"Mm," Remus said, noncommittal.

"Do you—" Sirius sat up, trying to gauge the meaning of everything unspoken. His throat had gone dry; he swallowed twice before continuing. "You don't remember what happened that night, do you?" Remus half-turned to look at him and shook his head silently. "I know. I mean, I saw Snape's memories. I could tell you. It was... there's good reason the wolf is terrified."

Remus drummed his fingers against the window sill. "I want to know," Remus said, finally.

"Right." Sirius pushed himself up and moved their meagre possessions off the spare bed. He piled up both coverlets and the thin cotton blankets into a kind of nest. "I can't tell you in a bed we're going to sleep in. My conditions are that you get your skinny Pandora arse over here and let me hold you." Remus crossed the room, his expression equal parts amusement and dread. Sirius pulled him into bed and curled around Remus' back, his hands folded over the centre of Remus' chest and his face buried in Remus' hair. When he spoke he tried to make the words sound as if it had all happened long ago, but it didn't work.

The words finished, and Sirius rocked Remus slowly in the late afternoon sun that had crept up on them. "Sometimes I doubt it too," Remus said after the silence had stretched past comfortable and had begun to itch. "That I'm human."

"You think you're less than Snape? Than Voldemort?"

"If I were human," Remus said, "this would hurt like fuck. If I were human it might drive me mad."

"Tell you a secret," Sirius said, pushing away Remus' hair so his mouth brushed against his neck. "You're the most human person I know. You're clever, and polite, and devious in every good way, and modest, and honest, and all kinds of other things, including being nice to hold and fun to play with. And that's not even starting on all the reasons I love you. Shall I go on?"

Remus shifted slightly. Sirius still couldn't see his face, but he could lick under Remus' jaw, which made Remus shift again. Sirius slid his hand up under Remus' shirt, stroking the curve of his stomach. "Don't let me stop you," Remus said, unfolding a little more under Sirius' touch.

"I love that you're taller than me. I love that you can make even these horrid orange shorts obscene the way you wear them—it's your hips, I don't know how you do it. And there—" Sirius ran one finger over Remus' mouth—"I love this wicked little smile that means you walk like that on purpose just to drive me round the twist." Sirius' other hand slid down, over the offending trunks to the warmth of Remus' leg. "I love your knees. I love your toes, even though they're way down beyond my reach, you being tall these days."

"Even after—" Remus started, and Sirius pushed himself up, leaning over to kiss Remus and shut him up.

"Your toes are sexy. Do I have to suck on them to convince you?"

"Later," Remus said, and pulled Sirius down for another kiss.

"I can't," Sirius said, neatly avoiding Remus' eyes by bending to run his teeth along Remus' shoulder, "erase what was done to you. But I am going to reclaim you. It's canine, I suppose." He tugged Remus' shirt off and tossed it onto the floor.

"Marking your territory?"

"Mine," Sirius agreed, and licked Remus' armpit hair, despite the way Remus growled and tried to shove him off.

"Don't think I'm kissing that mouth again. You're disgusting."

"I love how you taste." Sirius trailed his tongue down Remus' arm, devoting some extra attention to the inside of his elbow (because it made Remus laugh) and his wrist, and finally his fingers. Remus grinned and slipped his fingers in and out as Sirius sucked them.

"Isn't there any other part of me you love?" Remus asked, utterly failing to look innocent.

"Good gods, you're right," Sirius said, and flipped Remus over neatly. He ran his thumbs under the waistband of Remus' shorts, and Remus raised his hips obligingly. "Orange, Mr Moony, is simply not your colour."

"You may wear them tomorrow," Remus said, arching up into the careless brush of Sirius' fingers as he slipped the shorts off.

"Magnanimous, you are."

"Bringing big words to bed now, are you?"

"Not the only big thing I'm bringing to bed," Sirius said, and ducked the slap aimed at his head. "Your arse is quite lovable. It's been so long since I got a good look that I'd nearly forgotten." Sirius bent and licked a trail down the crack of Remus' arse. "Make it easier on me, eh, Moony?"

"Fuck," Remus said, raising and exposing himself in the most wanton way.

"Mine," Sirius said, and ran his tongue rough over the puckered hole. He lapped lazily, enjoying the noises this wrung from Remus, and then pressed his tongue inside. Remus swore again, and Sirius pulled back. "If you're that impatient, Moony, go ahead and summon the lube." He resumed his worship of Remus' arse with a side order of amusement as Remus tried desperately to concentrate hard enough to work wandless magic.

"Can't," Remus panted finally, after several unsuccessful attempts. "And I need you now."

"And how do you think I feel?" Sirius asked, removing himself from Remus reluctantly and crossing to the chest of drawers and the bag of miscellaneous toiletries Remus had bought (well—Remus had insisted very firmly that Sirius not buy anything, to be honest). He returned to find that Remus had moved to the other bed and was lying demurely under the blanket. "Where's my view gone?"

"Where's mine?" Remus asked, blinking up through his fringe. He reached out one hand and tugged at the buttons on Sirius' trousers. "I want to see you."

"Here." He handed Remus the lube and took off his shirt. He was temporarily tangled in underwear and socks and trousers when he noticed the look of concentration on Remus' face. And the fact that both of Remus' hands were under the blanket. "Can't wait a minute, can you?"

He shoved the blanket off and with great tact and restraint managed to replace Remus' fingers with something much more satisfactory, if he did say so himself. He rather thought that Remus, had Remus been capable of rational conversation, might have agreed. But Remus had his fingers curled tightly into the weave of the headboard and his head thrown back and his legs up, and it was mesmerisingly erotic. "Oh, gods," Sirius said, not able to hold back, "love you," and he was falling blissfully into Remus.

"Oi," Remus said, in a slightly squished way. "More." Sirius took a few shuddering breaths, limp with aftershocks, and sat up, pulling out carefully. Remus whimpered. "More."

"You're insatiable."

"I'm expiring of sexual frustration," Remus said. Sirius bent his head down and ran his tongue around Remus' navel in swift circles, finally laving deep once before turning his head to give Remus' ignored erection some attention at last. At the first rough rasp of his tongue Remus' whole body convulsed, and Sirius had to hold his hips down to keep from being choked.

Remus' breathing was fast and erratic; judging by the way his hands and feet were unable to keep still, he couldn't last much longer. Sirius sucked the head of his cock into his mouth and rolled his tongue around it lazily. He wrapped one hand around the base and stroked, hard and slow, whilst pressing two fingers inside Remus, twisting to rub just right there. Remus shouted as he came: he'd have levitated had he been able to. His hands clenched tight fistfuls of sheet and his head was thrown back, hair wet with sweat and throat arched.

Times like this Sirius thought Remus was beautiful.

He said so, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and Remus stared at him with glazed eyes. He reached down and ran shaking hands through Sirius' hair.

"Love you, too. You need to bathe."

"And you don't?" Sirius straightened and leant forwards to press a kiss to Remus' forehead. "Let's go down to the sea."

The ocean was shallow. The breaking waves barely reached Sirius' chest, and beyond them the water bobbed gently, never deeper than shoulder height. It was as warm as a bath and as soothing. Remus stretched out his entire length and floated, head back and toes pointing up temptingly. The moon was just appearing beyond the bungalow, and the sky had faded into the greenish afterglow of a tropical sunset. There were no electric lights. The rising darkness would be absolute.

"There's the first star, Moony." Sirius grabbed Remus' shoulder and spun him around to point it out. Remus flung his arm around Sirius' shoulders—it felt romantic, even if it was probably only to avoid drowning—and squinted up.

"Make a wish, then," Remus said.

The vision the Mirror had shown Sirius flashed before his eyes. It was already falsified. Regulus was dead, his mother mad, James and his family would have to be hidden from the pursuit of Voldemort. He looked down at Remus, whom he had nearly lost, and made his wish. Nothing grand, nothing spectacular. A simple wish, but in it all his heart's desire.