Archive of Our Own

It’s a perfectly normal day when Albus Dumbledore shows up at Am-nawr. The fields are as green as ever, dusted purplish-blue with the blooms of bluebells, the rickety wooden fence creaking precariously as the cottage itself sways like it always does in the wind, which brings in the briny smell of the sea from twenty or so miles off like it always does. The sky is even its usual overcast, though Remus prefers overcast days anyway, as he’s quick to burn and even quicker to shy away from his own shadow. All things considered, a perfectly normal day.

Dumbledore being there, of course, is an unwelcome interruption to the normalcy. See, the man showing up anywhere is an omen. With Dumbledore almost always comes bad news, has since the war. Somebody’s missing, somebody’s dead, somebody turned out to be a traitor who never really loved you and actually murdered your best friends while you were away doing some rapidly failing werewolf outreach. That sort of thing.

That’s the entire reason the cottage is called Am-nawr in the first place. For now. Just like every other cottage Remus has bopped between these past few years. There’s been seven so far, since he sold the claustrophobic one-bedroom apartment in London that held too many memories and fucked off to the Swiss countryside. Then it was Iceland, then Germany, Belgium, Brittany, Ireland, and finally Wales. He grew up here, a million years ago. It felt safe.

Which really, was his first mistake. Feeling safe in Wales isn’t something he’s ever known, not since before teeth and claws and an endless black forest, but the wolf hasn’t been the most dangerous thing on his mind in a long, long time.

There was a time when Dumbledore’s appearance would have been a thing of wonder, back then. Before the war. Dumbledore was the man who showed up at his door with an empathetic smile, got down on one knee and asked, over his mother’s tears and his father’s simpering, if he wanted to go to Hogwarts. Dumbledore was the man who said he wanted him to be something more, wanted to teach him to become a real wizard, a scholar, a friend, a lover, something bigger than a sad werewolf kid, but now he’s back in Wales, a sad werewolf adult who never learned to be anything but a soldier.

“You’re a hard man to find, Remus Lupin.” Says Dumbledore from the jagged broken stones of the walkway with a jagged broken smile.

“Thank you.” Remus says, standing wand out in the doorway and taking that as a compliment despite knowing it isn’t one. He doesn’t want to be found. He’s done a damn good job of not being found, until now. He’s happy being on his own, thank you very much. Or well, if not happy, he’s alive, and that’s more than he can say for Pete and James and Lily and-- Whatever.

So what if he hasn’t spoken to another magical person in years? He’s safe. He’s alive. That’s what matters. Avoiding questions about his old friends and the entire Wizarding World’s overwhelming, giddy sympathy is just an added bonus.

“May I come in?” Dumbledore asks. “I could do with some tea. Perhaps a bon bon, if you’ve got them. If I remember correctly, you were always a lover of chocolate.”

Remus has half a mind to tell him no, but he supposes somewhere deep, deep down, he’s still Dumbledore’s man, because his limbs and his manners work on their own, moving his old young body without his permission, and when Dumbledore tells him that Sirius has escaped over a cup of Earl Grey, he’s only shocked for a polite three minutes. He grabs the things that matter most (his wand, his jacket, and a dusty photo album) and follows the old man back out into the garden to apparate with a curt nod. He does not cry.

***

They land on the coast, somewhere in Moray, where tall grasses spotted with pink and purple and yellow wildflowers blow in the breeze and sea spray hits Remus’s cheek. The coast is remote, rocky beach and cliff as far as the eye can see, aside from a crumbling stone blackhouse, built right into the rolling green hills.

“Welcome to the Auror’s Special Unit Headquarters.” Dumbledore says good-humoredly, without hesitating to walk ahead of him. “Alastor Moody is leading the investigation, and he’s assembled his best to search for Sirius.”

Remus nods and says nothing more, even though Dumbledore is turned away from him and questions are playing on his lips.

“Including you.” Dumbledore says, smiling at him over his shoulder.

“I haven’t been an Auror in years.” Remus says, watching his feet step over the stony ground.

“No,” Dumbledore agrees. “But you were inclined to it, at least.”

“Only out of necessity.”

“Either way.” Dumbledore says patiently. “You will be an immense help. Of all of us, you knew Sirius best.”

“I thought I did.” Remus says. Dumbledore does not reply.

The inside of the blackhouse is dark, as only blackhouses are, lit only by the sun coming in through the few windows and the empty spaces between stones, but it’s bigger on the inside than it is on the outside, and on the old iron stove sits a welcoming tea kettle. Wooden doors to their left and right, presumably leading to bedrooms and a bathroom, creak on their hinges as they step in out of the wind. The fireplace is going despite the pleasant weather, and a large table takes up most of the space in front of it. At the table sit the Aurors, who appear to have been waiting for them.

The team is a motley crew. Remus is introduced to them all in an uncomfortable haze. He recognizes Mad-Eye Moody, of course, looking as dangerous as ever at the head of the table, his glass eye watching the door, and is surprised to see another familiar face.

“Mary MacDonald.” He says diplomatically.

“Remus Lupin.” She says back, coming around the table to pull him into a tight hug. Remus, who has not been hugged since Merlin knows when, stiffens, but allows it.

He hasn’t seen Mary since seventh year, when they all stopped worrying about graduating top of the class and started worrying about whether or not they’d survive to remember it. She wasn’t a member of the Order, and he remembers hearing that she’d gone into hiding with a few other muggle born girls that year. She looks good, honestly, for someone he had presumed dead. Her hair is fluffed up and shortish, vastly different from the feathered layers she wore in the 70s, and she dons a knee-length skirt and shoulder pads instead of spaghetti straps and bell-bottom trousers, but she’s still the same Mary, with the same warm smile.

“I thought you were dead.” Remus tells her in a small voice, finally wrapping his arms around her. She’s so much smaller than him. He does not let it remind him of holding someone else.

“Likewise.” Mary says. She pulls back to smile at him, but her voice is stern. Remus sighs and smiles back, struck with the horrible realization that the two of them are the only ones left.

After Mary is Kingsley Shacklebolt, a handsome Black man who would be tall if compared to anyone but Remus, and who apparently was a Ravenclaw four years their senior. Remus doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed about not remembering him, and Kingsley doesn’t seem offended.

Next to Kingsley is a white man with a fading blond crew cut who looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here and introduces himself as Richard Ermengild. Moody explains that Ermengild is their top investigator, and was leading the case alongside him until they finally tracked down Remus. Now, they’ll be working together. Ermengild doesn’t look particularly thrilled about it.

Finally, an intern who couldn’t be older than 16, with shocking pink hair, introduces herself as simply Tonks.

“Tonks.” Says Remus carefully. “As in Andromeda?”

“My mum, yup!” Tonks says cheerfully.

“That’s convenient.” Remus says, turning to Moody. “You’ve spoken to her, already, I take it?”

“Hardly.” Moody grouses. “She disappeared when Black got out. Found Tonks on my doorstep before we even heard the news. Apparently Andromeda’s not a fan of cops.”

“That makes two of us.” Remus mutters, ignoring the room full of cops. “How long ago was this? Do you know where she could have gone?”

“Few months.” Mary pipes up. “It’s only just come out in the news, but Black has been on the run since at least January.”

“Probably longer than that.” Tonks says.

Remus sits down.

The chair creaks under his slight weight, just barely masking the similar creak of his joints. Sirius has been out for a few months, and he’s only now learning about it. Sirius has been out for a few months, and he hasn’t come to see him.

This is more than he’s thought about Sirius in years. Truthfully, he’s done his best not to, and when he does remember Sirius, he pointedly does not remember the beautiful boy with the soft curls and the singsong laugh who promised him forever. He remembers instead that his eyes were made of silver, and that he should have known better.

“Don’t know where she is.” Tonks continues, watching him with something approaching pity. Remus looks at his hands. “She obliviated me before she left me with Mad-Eye. He’s a real barmy babysitter, by the way. Completely pants at cooking. I keep having to order us take out.”

“She obliviated you?” Remus says, shaking his head. “That’s not like the Andy I remember. She must know something we don’t.”

“Obviously.” Ermengild says, rolling his eyes. “But that doesn’t help us now. She could be halfway to Hong Kong, and so could Black for that matter.”

Dumbledore looks at him sternly, but Remus just laughs.

“Sirius isn’t going to Hong Kong, or anywhere else where he can disappear.” Remus says, shaking his head. “He’s sentimental. He’s dramatic. He holds a grudge. He escaped because there’s something he wants. Or somebody.”

The room is silent, and when Remus looks up, the Aurors are all staring at him. He shrugs.

“Like me.” He says, watching them all wince. “Or Harry Potter. Or his mother, if she’s still alive.”

“Harry is safe.” Dumbledore says resolutely. “And you’ve been in hiding. I don’t think he’ll be a danger to either of you.”

“Walburga then.” Remus says, locking eyes with Dumbledore. “Has anyone heard from her?”

Dumbledore looks pointedly at the rest of them, and Remus follows his gaze to find them all looking back at him sheepishly. He resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“We didn’t know how to find her.” Kingsley says honestly. “We’ve been… well, pretty hopeless.”

“Hopeless enough to ask me for help, anyway.” Remus quips.

“Yeah.” Says Mad-Eye gruffly, clearly remembering the nonzero amount of times he found a nineteen year old Sirius on Remus’s lap when they were meant to be doing paperwork or studying curses or listing people that Sirius would have a hand in killing. “That hopeless.”

“You know him better than anyone.” Mary says, her voice a plea as she echoes Dumbledore’s words from moments ago. Is it true? Does he know Sirius? He thought he did, once. He trusted that he did. Her eyes flicker to his naked left hand and he shoves it in his pocket.

If he had any reservations about joining the Aurors before, they’re fading. He hates cops as much as the next gay war veteran werewolf, but they share a common goal, don’t they? Sirius, dead or alive. Besides, he’s always been shit at saying no to people, and somewhere, not so deep down, he’s still Dumbledore’s man after all.

“Well.” He says with a sigh. “I think it’s time we paid the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black a visit.”

***

It’s a rainy day in London. The streetlights glow on the wet ground, which smells vaguely of sewage, and the rain dulls the sounds of cars and chatter and distant music. It fills the air like smog, coloring everything around them a dull bluish gray, and Remus has to cast an impervius charm under his breath just to see clearly. There’s no one on the street to see him do it, though, or to see the three oddly dressed detectives appear in the street out of thin air.

He brought along Ermengild, who insisted, dressed in his best robes despite the rest of them begging him not to, and Tonks, who apparently shares her second cousin's affinity for punk muggle clothes. (Remus, of course, is dressed in old brown and gray trousers and a jumper. “Professor clothes,” as Sirius used to call them.)

Tonks has a spring in her step despite the rain, the chains on her pants jingling wetly. Remus had convinced her before they left to make her hair as close to the Black family black as possible, and make her eyes that horrible silver, too, for good measure. The ancestral home was warded so powerfully that nobody but a Black could possibly find it, even if they knew the way, but Remus had been there once before, for a visit that only ended happily because Remus pretended to be a pureblood.

He remembered how to get there, and while he’s not convinced the house will let in an almost-Black by-marriage, especially considering Sirius had planned to take his name, or the daughter of a family black sheep, they’ve come this far.

He says as much, and Tonks laughs.

“We’ll have better luck than Richard, anyway.” She jokes. Ermengild doesn’t look amused.

“I don’t see why this has to be such a hassle.” He grumbles. “Surely Mrs. Black can be reasonable.”

“You don’t know her like I do.” Remus says.

“No, I suppose not.” Ermengild spits, shooting Remus a glare and speeding up to walk ahead of them. Tonks shares a look with him, then merely shrugs.

It turns out his worries are moot, because when the three of them stand before Grimmauld Place eleven and thirteen, number twelve oozes and slithers into view just like Remus remembers after only a few moments. The red brick townhouse is as imposing as ever, and Remus holds his breath when Tonks grasps the knocker, but it doesn’t hurt her. The magic of the house recognizes her by blood alone. She taps it three times.

Walburga Black doesn’t greet them at the door, of course. They’re let in by a house elf, who grumbles obscenities the entire way, specifically about Tonks being the “daughter of a blood traitor,” but a bit about Remus being a half-breed, too. Apparently, he’s got a sharp memory. Or perhaps house elves just know these things.

“ASU!” Ermengild calls, eyeing the House Elf heads lining the foyer. The entire house, exactly as Remus remembers it, gives an air of suspense, as if something is going to jump out at them any second. “Auror’s Special Unit!”

Walburga does not reply, but they find her in the sitting room, a green-carpeted room on the second floor with a large window that she is seated at, staring out at the back garden. Her dress is a dreary gray, pooled around her feet. To the untrained eye, she might look elegant, but Remus knows better. The years have not been kind to her. Her once-shiny black hair is now dulled with gray, and her brown skin is pale. Remus almost pities her.

“Mrs. Black.” He says, Ermengild and Tonks behind him. “I’m Remus Lupin, with the Auror’s Special Unit.”

“I know who you are.” Walburga says, turning to look at him. Remus sucks in a breath. Her eyes are that same deadly silver. “The sodomite half-breed who bedded my son, come back to my house to assuage his guilt.”

Remus hears Tonks gasp behind him, but he doesn’t miss a beat.

“We all have guilt, Mrs. Black.”

Walburga looks at him for a long time, and Remus stubbornly holds her gaze. Finally, she smiles, a wicked, broken thing.

“None so much as the two of us, I suspect.” Walburga says. “But I don’t think you’re in my home to compare sins, Auror Lupin.”

“Not today.” Remus says, trying to turn his grimace into a smile. “We want to know if you’ve seen him.”

“Or if you’re hiding him.” Pipes up Ermengild in a huff.

Walburga chuckles. “Yes, I suppose this would be a good place to go, if he needed somewhere to hide. However, you’d have a job convincing him to come back here.”

“Not since you sent him packing, no.” Remus growls.

Walburga regards him in silence again. Remus can’t see regret in her eyes, but he can’t see anything else either. This does not comfort him.

“Not since then, no.” She says simply. “Feel free to search my home. You won’t find anything.”

Remus turns to the other two and gives them a little nod. “Don’t touch anything if you can help it. Half of all things in this house are cursed.”

Tonks widens her eyes, but gives him a little nod back. Ermengild doesn’t look convinced. Whatever. If he wants to get himself cursed, that’s not Remus’s problem.

“Alright.” He sighs, once they’ve left. “Tell me the last time you saw Sirius.”

“I haven’t seen him since 1976.”

“And he hasn’t contacted you?”

“Do you really think he would?” Walburga says. She snaps her long, bony fingers and the house elf from earlier appears at her side. “Some tea, for Auror Lupin and I.”

“We have reason to believe he has intention to, yes.” Remus replies, ignoring the interruption.

“Not for a visit, I imagine.” Walburga says sardonically with another wicked grin.

“You don’t seem particularly worried about it.”

Walburga turns slowly to look back out the window. The rain is coming down in sheets now, and it beats against the glass like a steady drum. Remus has often found himself relaxed by rain, something he and Walburga Black apparently have in common. Guilt, Sirius, and rain.

“You know Regulus was a Death Eater?” Walburga says quietly. “His father and I were overjoyed when he told us. After the hell we had been through with Sirius, finally a son worthy of our proud and ancient name. He would come home and tell us about undesirables he was eradicating. Muggle hunting, just like in the old days. We were proud of him. We thought the Dark Lord’s cause was good and noble. Keeping our culture safe. Keeping magic for natural, pure-blooded wizards.”

The house elf returns carrying a tray of tea, and Walburga takes a little cup in her long fingers and blows on it. Remus, willing himself not to be ill, leaves his on the tray. He considers lighting up a cigarette just to focus on something else.

“But you know, it was never about that, was it?” Walburga continues, either not noticing his hesitation or not caring. “It was never about protecting our way of life. It was about power. It was always about power. And Regulus knew that, in the end.”

Remus remembers when Regulus died. He remembers sitting at the kitchen table and watching Sirius stare blankly at the letter, face white. He remembers watching fat tears fall from Sirius' eyes like diamonds. He remembers Sirius, a man so often bursting with things to say, completely silent, for hours and hours and hours, until finally, wrapped in Remus’s arms on the sofa, he whispered: I left him alone, Moony. I left him to die.

“What do you mean, Mrs. Black?” Remus asks. “What are you saying?”

“Regulus was not killed fighting for the Dark Lord, Auror Lupin.” Walburga says. She turns to look him dead in the eye over her teacup. “He was killed trying to stop him.”

“What?” Remus breathes.

“Mistress is right.” Says the house elf, looking up at her as if for permission. Walburga nods. “Kreacher was there. The Dark Lord needed a house elf. It was Kreacher’s honor to serve the Dark Lord and the House of Black, but… The Dark Lord hurt Kreacher. Bad. Kreacher was going to… was supposed to die. Master Regulus saved Kreacher’s life.”

“He hurt you.” Remus repeats. “So Regulus changed his mind?”

“Yes.” Kreacher the house elf says, nodding his head. “Master Regulus was… Kreacher’s friend.”

“That’ll do, Kreacher. Thank you.” Walburga says. Kreacher nods once more, looking rather shaken up, and leaves.

“I don’t understand.” Remus says honestly.

“We all have guilt, Auror Lupin.” Walburga says, pointedly echoing his own words. “If Sirius comes to kill me, then it would only be karma. But I know my sons. I know what they are capable of. And I don’t think Sirius will be coming here any time soon.”

“I’m not sure you know Sirius any better than I do, Mrs. Black.” Remus says shakily.

“Perhaps not.” Walburga agrees, taking another sip of tea. “But in all the time Regulus was a Death Eater, he never once mentioned Sirius.”

Remus grinds his teeth together. He feels sick. He feels raw. Behind him, he can hear Ermengild and Tonks’s footfalls coming closer, bickering in low voices as they go.

“Nothing.” Says Ermengild, matter-of-factly as he steps into the room. “Or rather, nothing alluding to Sirius. There’s about four thousand galleons worth of contraband in here, and that’s just what we can see.”

“Oh, you’ve got tea?” Tonks asks, getting up on her tiptoes to eye the tray. “D’you mind?”

“Go ahead.” Remus says, watching Walburga turn back toward the window. “Cup’s made of silver.”

***

It’s another two weeks before anything of note happens. Remus looks for Sirius on his own time, in the nooks and crannies of their past. There are endless places they shared: the apartment in London that held too many memories, the ruins of James and Lily’s house in Godric’s Hollow, the Potter family manor, bars and cafes and fucking alleyways they’d once kissed in. Bathrooms they shagged in, breath they shared in the city and the countryside and enclosed spaces between the bookshelves of a library or the carriages of a train. Each familiar haunt brings up nothing but bile in his throat. He grows restless, but no more than usual. If anything, each mistake makes him more determined to catch him. To be the one to catch him.

He’s been sleeping in the blackhouse. That’s what the bedrooms are for, after all. The others sleep there too, on occasion, but none so often as him. They’ve all got families to get back to, or homes at least, aside from Mad-Eye and Tonks.

Some piece of him is still intimidated by Mad-Eye, from his time in the war working under him. He is a man who knows nothing but Auror work, and who loves nothing but putting men in Azkaban. Remus is glad to work with him, but he does not trust him.

Tonks, on the other hand, brings him a bit of joy, in the way that only a kid can. When she’s at the blackhouse, she’s a constant source of conversation and raucous laughter. He appreciates it, even if he can’t return it.

It’s a Sunday morning when Remus wakes to the sound of her calling him. He groans and rubs his eyes, not bothering to put on a shirt, and shoves his wand in the back pocket of his sweatpants.

“Remus!” Tonks says breathlessly when he opens the door. He watches her eyes widen at the sight of him, falling immediately to the scar on his side. “Er--”

“Yes, it’s very gruesome, I know.” Remus grumbles. Sirius used to say so, in a fond voice. He also used to say that Remus was grumpy in the mornings. “What is it? Why am I awake?”

“You’ve. Uh.” Tonks fumbles. Her hair, which was previously blue, turns a sharp, fiery pink. “You’ve got a letter. From mum.”

She hands him the letter, which is written on lovely white parchment and sealed in black wax with a stamp of a lamb. Remus smiles a little at it. Andy, the black sheep.

My dear Remus,

I wish to speak with you.
I am staying at Hotel Lutetia, in Paris. Room 390.
Come alone.

Andromeda

The letter promptly bursts into flames. Remus sighs. Black sheep or not, Andromeda certainly inherited the family theatrics. He writes her back a quick affirmative, instructs Tonks to let the rest of them know where he’s going, and prepares to deal with International Travel.

Travel is fairly easy when you’re a wizard. Portkeys aren’t too hard to come by, although they can be pricey, and apparating is a piece of cake if you’ve already been where you’re looking to go. Even the Floo Network spreads internationally, if you know where to look. Border control isn’t a problem for most wizards. Borders are a muggle invention, and though wizard government is built similarly, they’re more interested in keeping things running smoothly than they are in keeping people in or out.

Unfortunately, Remus Lupin isn’t most wizards. He’s a dark creature, and the Ministry has to keep track of him. Between forms and paperwork and wand checks and scrutiny, even with his Auror’s badge and warrant, he doesn’t make it to Paris until after lunch time.

Hotel Lutetia is as bright and beautiful as it is large and imposing. Remus knows it only by name, but in person, it’s rather breathtaking. All carved stone and high windows. Paris seems too loud for it. Muggles rush by on their way to things that must seem very important, and cars and buses honk and grind their brakes at one another, oblivious to the piece of history before them. It held both celebrities and refugees once.

The hotel’s grand foyer is equally impressive, lit by a giant chandelier and bustling with wealthy patrons. Remus finds the desk easily, though the bellhop seems a bit disgusted at him. In all fairness, Remus sticks out like a sore thumb. His new paycheck is treating him well, but he can’t find it in him to spend the money on things like new clothes. He’s pretty sure he’s had these same loafers since the war.

Andromeda, on the other hand, looks quite put together, when she answers the door to room 390. Her long black curls are pulled into an elegant updo, and she’s light and airy in a rather fetching yellow sundress. Her makeup is even done, with the same care that Remus recognizes from years ago. In other words, she does not look like someone who is in hiding.

“Hello, Remus.” She says, smiling at him. “Cuppa?”

“Please.”

She lets him into the room, which is really more like a townhouse suite, and rushes off to the kitchenette to prepare them a pot of tea. Remus follows after her, letting his eyes wander around the display of wealth. Quietly, he notes that her husband is nowhere in sight.

“You look well.” Andromeda says to him, when they’ve sat outside on the balcony sipping tea from tea cups which are thankfully not silver. Remus snorts. “Better than last time I saw you, anyway.”

She’s referring, of course, to during the war. Andy wasn’t part of the Order, not officially, but he saw her every now and then. Sirius didn’t like to go anywhere alone because of the risk, or at least, that’s what he said. Remus rather thought Sirius preferred to drag him along for the company, but was afraid, with the war going on, to say as much. Stupid, really. They were engaged to be married. Remus would have followed him anywhere.

“I look like shit, Andy, but thanks.” Remus says good-humoredly, taking a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his robes and lighting up.

“Are you getting enough sleep?” Andromeda asks.

“I haven’t gotten enough sleep since the seventies.” Remus says. “And your kid isn’t much help with that, you know. She had me up at the crack of dawn this morning with your letter.”

Andromeda smiles sadly, tapping her manicured fingers against her teacup.

“How is she?”

“She’s great.” Remus answers honestly, taking a drag. “Really great. An exceptional auror in the making, if she can sit still long enough.”

“Good.” Andromeda sighs. “Good. I’m sorry to have left her with you all, but I… I need someone there. I need to know what’s going on.”

“She’s contacting you?”

Andromeda nods. “She owls me here as often as she can.”

“She said you obliviated her.” Remus mumbles, feeling rather stupid.

“She lied.” Andromeda shrugs. “I told her to, until you got there. You’re the only person I can trust.”

“Wh--”

“He sent me a letter.” Andromeda interrupts, before he can ask any more questions. “Right after he got out. Would you like to see it?”

It isn’t a question. Sirius, dead or alive. Remus, dumbstruck, merely nods.

Andromeda pulls the parchment out of the pocket of her dress and smooths it down. Remus feels his fingers itch for it. The desire to see Sirius' handwriting is palpable and heavy inside him, as thick as his blood.

When the letter is finally in his hands, Remus’s heart flip-flops. One line.

It was Peter.

There is no signature, but there is a black paw print at the bottom of the page. Remus stares at it, unblinking. He traces the words with his index finger. Then, he touches the pawprint with his entire hand, enclosing it. He cannot breathe. He tries, but breath doesn’t come.

Remus travelled hundreds of miles in four years to forget Sirius. He learned strange cities, new apartments, created Am-nawrs out of abandoned rooms, visited foreign airports and downtowns and marketplaces to forget Sirius. He made an endless list of all the people, places and things in his life he could categorically say had nothing to do with Sirius, pieces of himself that Sirius had not touched. But here, on a balcony in Paris, after two weeks of searching for Sirius in places he hasn’t been in years, he presses his palm to the parchment and holds his hand.

“You see?” Andy murmurs. “You’re the only one who would believe me.”

Remus looks up from the letter to meet her eye. She has the same eyes as Sirius, as all the Blacks. They’re wet-rimmed.

The thing is, no matter how emotional he feels, Remus has a very strong will, and an even stronger sense of self-preservation. Years of forgetting cannot be undone in three words. Perhaps in another life, where Remus is still a devoted fiance, he would believe that somehow, against all evidence to the contrary, Sirius is an innocent man. But in this life, Remus has given up devotion, and Peter Pettigrew is dead.

He hands the paper back to Andromeda, and breathes.

“Where is he, Andy?” Remus whispers.

“I can’t say for sure.” Andy whispers back, taking the letter and running her hands over it just like he had. “But I know he inherited Uncle Alphard’s villa in Jersey.”

Remus nods. His hand flexes where it touched the letter. His other hand fumbles for his wand. He does not think. His mind is blank, except for Sirius. Dead or alive.

He hears himself thank Andromeda for her time, and feels outside of his body as he leaves, watching the scene from above looking down. Andromeda calls after him, but he doesn’t register the sound until he’s dashing down the Hotel Lutetia’s back stairs, wand in hand. Once outside behind the hotel, he apparates back to London, breath coming in hot, heavy, and quick, and, surrounded by the blue lights and the quicksand crowd of the Ministry, he forgets all about the Aurors.

Remus is going to speak to Sirius himself. Dead or alive. He takes off through the Ministry at a dead run.

***

Uncle Alphard’s villa is a French-style country house as far away from town as one can be on a small island, nestled between green Jersey farms. It has a sweet smelling garden right out front, with a large fountain spilling into a small pond in the middle of it all. The house has blue shutters. It’s all very serene.

Remus, however, doesn’t feel calmed as he creeps up the long, stone walkway, wand out. He doesn’t notice the lavender in the garden, or the recently-planted lupines. All he notices is the lack of protective wards on the house and his own heartbeat.

It’s possible that someone else found him first, and that’s why the wards are down. An old Death Eater friend, maybe, come to recruit him, or possibly to kill him. Remus isn’t exactly sure how the minds of Death Eaters work, maybe they just really enjoy killing people. It’s also possible that Sirius isn’t here at all, and Andy was wrong, or lying.

It’s possible, too, says a voice in the back of his head, that there are indeed spells in place to keep unwanted people out, but they don’t affect Remus.

When Remus reaches the door, a pleasant blue thing, it is unlocked.

There is no way to describe the feeling of death. Consider the phoenix. A bird that dies a thousand times, to be reborn a thousand more. How many lives does a person live? How many times does a person die, only to be forced unceremoniously back to life? Remus knows the feeling of rebirth, does it once a month, becomes a beast, then a man, then a beast again. A werewolf is only a deadlier, less holy phoenix. Remus knows what death and rebirth feel like, but no amount of deaths and rebirths could prepare him for Sirius, sitting feet up on the sofa.

His hair is shorter, falling in neat, shiny curls down to his chin, and he’s grown a handsome, gentlemanly mustache. He’s in jean shorts and stocking feet and an unbuttoned white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He has more tattoos now. His skin is as beautifully brown as Remus remembers it.

In short, Sirius looks relaxed. Free, and beautiful.

“Hullo, moonbeam.” Sirius says, grinning like he’s thrilled to see him. “Been wondering when you’d turn up. Tea?”

Remus says nothing, gaping stupidly as it hits him. The wards didn’t falter, they didn’t let Remus in, they weren’t let down. They just didn’t exist at all. Sirius wanted to be found.

“Motherfucker.” Remus growls, then he whips out his wand and shoots Sirius with a stupify.

It narrowly misses, grazing his ear and jostling his hair, and Sirius leaps off the couch, cursing.

“What the hell?” He exclaims, his stupid fucking beautiful eyes wide. He isn’t carrying a wand. Remus could kill him now if he wanted to. “Moony, it’s me!”

“Yes, exactly!” Remus says, bearing his teeth and aiming another silent hex at him. Sirius ducks, leaving a black mark behind him on the wall. “It’s you, you fucking piece of shit!”

Remus sends another hex at him. It blows the end off the coffee table and chunks off the couch, but Sirius jumps away just in time.

“You killed Lily and James!” Remus roars and fires another. It breaks the overhead lamp, which flickers on and off with a dreadful hiss.

“No, I didn’t--”

“You betrayed them!” Remus shoots another, this time shattering a window. Sirius catches glass in his arm, staining the clean white of his shirt with blood. He looks down at it, horrified, and then back up at Remus, who is striding across the room to meet him.

“Moony, it wasn’t me--”

“You ruined my fucking life!” Remus bellows, seeing only red. He thinks of every sleepless night, every Am-nawr, every hapless memory and forgotten dream and he brings his hand back to punch Sirius in the face. Sirius catches his fist before it hits him, and, for the second time today, they are holding hands.

“I didn’t do it, Remus, my love,” Sirius says in a small voice. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Didn’t… didn’t Andy show you my note?”

Remus blinks. Sirius knew that Andromeda would show him the note. So… Sirius knew that Remus was looking for him? Sirius knew that Remus was looking for him, and yet, he wanted him to show up. Because after all these years, Sirius thinks Remus is still his. After all these years, Sirius thinks that Remus is still available to him.

Remus meets Sirius' pleading eyes. They are, of course, the same deadly silver that they have always been.

He growls, low in his throat, the sound of a beast, and presses his fist into Sirius' palm. He has always been bigger than Sirius, but the strength he has is unnatural, not at all proportional to his height, or anyone’s. Beneath his skin is the strength of the wolf. He was once loath to use it, but now, all he can think is hurting Sirius, like Sirius hurt him.

Their hands hit the wall.

“You ruined my life.” Remus repeats. “You left me alone, and now I’m supposed to follow at your beck and call?!”

“You don’t believe me.” Sirius breathes, and oh, he looks hurt.

Remus tosses his wand to the floor and, with his now free hand, grips Sirius' throat. His other hand, the fist, smooths into an open palm, which he uses to hold Sirius' wrist, pinned to the wall. Sirius whimpers, and Remus feels it through the flesh of his neck, as his hand comes up to rest on Remus’s forearm.

“You don’t… believe me.” Sirius says again, struggling to breathe.

Maybe it’s muscle memory. Maybe it’s the heat of the moment. Maybe it’s something else, entirely more insidious, but Remus does the only thing left to do, and kisses him.

His lips are as soft as Remus remembers them being. He tastes as good as Remus remembers him tasting. The noise that he makes when he opens up for Remus is as eager and as wanton as he remembers, and Remus wants to devour him whole.

He shoves his tongue inside Sirius' hot, wet mouth, his fingers flexing against his neck, and Sirius trembles against him. Every part of Sirius is built to react to Remus, like this, every muscle in his body is trained to submit, and Remus has always been so gentle, so careful with the soft skin and bone of him, until now. He’s always taken such good care of him, treated him like a fragile, lovely thing, has never even entertained the thought of choking or pinning or hurting him, but even so, even like this, Sirius is willing.

“You’re disgusting.” Remus says when he pulls away after several minutes of vicious kissing. Who he’s speaking to is up for debate. Sirius, for all he’s done, or himself, for being unable to see the two of them as anything other than soulmates, even now, or simply for the hard cock already straining in his pants.

“Moony--” Sirius manages. He’s flushed, and like Remus, already manic with desire, he can see it in his eyes and taste it on his breath.

“Shut up.” Remus growls, and kisses him again.

He slots his knee up between Sirius' legs, groaning into his mouth as he feels Sirius' hips quiver. He’s already hard, and the feeling of it against Remus’s thigh would make him feel dizzy with want if he weren’t already.

He tightens his grip on Sirius' throat, letting his nails dig in and making him whimper. Remus feels Sirius' hand slide up his forearm to pry at his fingers, and he huffs a breath. Remus wants him to choke. He wants to see those horrible, beautiful silver eyes widen and his lovely brown skin turn blue. He wants Sirius to come humping his leg. He wants him to die for it.

Remus lets him go, and Sirius drops to his knees, coughing and gasping. The sight of him shoots through him, electric, straight to his cock. He grabs Sirius' hair and drags him forward, pressing his face to the tent in his pants. Sirius looks up at him through his long, dark lashes, then parts his red, wet lips and mouths at him.

“Fuck.” Remus groans, holding Sirius in place by his soft curls. “I want you to choke, Sirius.”

Sirius moans, eyes fluttering shut. His lashes frame his cheeks so beautifully. He brings his hands, shaking, up to fumble with the zipper. Remus wants to tear him apart.

Sirius pulls his pants down to just below his ass, nothing more, and slides his boxers down just enough to release his cock, which bobs up against his stomach. Sirius looks back up to meet his eye and licks his lips, which would be funny if it weren’t so hot. Remus drags him in, grip tight in his hair, to rub his face up against his cock.

“Is this what you want?” Remus growls, breathy and terrible. “You want to choke on my cock?”

“Yeah, Moony, please--” Sirius babbles, muffled by it. “Fuck, please choke me with it--”

“Shut up.” Remus says again. With his free hand, he grabs Sirius' jaw, shoving his thumb past his lips. Instantly, Sirius is sucking on it, running his tongue over the pad of his thumbprint, and Remus uses it to pry Sirius' perfect mouth open. He doesn’t have to, Sirius is already so open and ready for him, but the power he feels, the control he feels forcing him open is more than worth the effort.

Remus holds Sirius' mouth open with a steady hand and keeps a firm grip on his hair with the other. Sirius looks up at him with glassy eyes, his pupils so large that Remus can hardly see the silver anymore. Remus shoves his cock into his waiting mouth.

Sirius gags on it at first, pretty tears brimming the corners of his eyes, but he places his dainty hands on Remus’s thighs and rights himself, looking up at Remus with determination. Remus bares his teeth and wastes no time fucking his face. Sirius swallows him down with little effort, obediently submitting to Remus’s hold, just letting him use his face with no gentleness.

His cock is a thick bulge in Sirius' throat, and Sirius is moaning and choking obscenely, drooling all over him already. His throat is slack, and the further Remus gets, the more he wants to hurt him. Sirius is so beautiful, hot and wet and perfect, and so, so willing to be used, and Remus is at once undone and in total control.

“You were made for this.” He groans nonsensically, his eyes closing. “You’re just a hole to be fucked, you know that? You’re nothing but a fuckhole for me.”

Sirius moans in agreement, the hum of it reverberating against Remus’s straining cock. Remus isn’t going to last long at this rate. It’s been so long since he’s allowed himself release, and Sirius' mouth is so good. The thought of coming down Sirius' throat or all over his horrible, beautiful face overwhelms him, and, with both hands in Sirius' hair, he shoves his cock all the way down.

Sirius gags on it, spit falling disgustingly out of his mouth, but Remus holds him in place, forcing Sirius' head to stay put. His nose is squashed up against Remus’s pubic hair and his eyes are squeezed shut, tears streaming down his perfect cheeks. He must be hurt.

With a shout, Remus comes.

His legs shake and he sees stars, pulling Sirius off him mid-release so he’s got cum both inside him and all over him. His eyes are shut as he stumbles back, feeling quite possibly the best he’s ever felt.

He puts his hands on his knees, leaning forward to catch his breath.

Miles away, he hears a shuffle.

“Sorry about this, love.” Sirius says. Remus opens his eyes to find himself face to face with the tip of his own wand.

“Wh--”

“Stupify!” Sirius shouts, Remus’s wand reacting perfectly to his command. Belatedly, Remus wonders if he should have anticipated this, and then the world goes black.

***

Remus comes to an hour later, head pounding, to the sound of a very stern Mary MacDonald.

“For God’s sake, Remus.” Her voice says. “Pull your pants up.”

He blinks his eyes open and finds himself on the floor of Uncle Alphard’s living room, thankfully on his stomach, pants around his ankles. The room is completely upturned from their halfhearted duel, and everything that came with it. The lights are dead from the broken lamp, leaving the space around him dark and dangerous. Window glass is all over the floor, and a breeze, unnaturally cold for the spring, comes in from outside. A bit of blood is spattered across the floor around him, and, horribly, a bit of something else.

In the doorway stands Mary, hands on her hips, Kingsley, Ermengild, and a very red Tonks. Remus scrambles to pull his pants up.

Kingsley steps forward to steady him as he sways on his feet.

“Merlin’s Beard, man!” He says in lieu of a greeting. “What happened to you?”

“He got away.” Remus says, his voice rough.

“Obviously.” Ermengild sneers.

“Took my bloody wand.” Remus mutters, staring into the middle distance and pointedly ignoring him. Kingsley’s hands stiffen on his arms.

“Oh, fantastic.” Ermengild scoffs. “You had Black here, you let him get away, and now he’s got a wand. The mass murderer’s got a wand!”

“Shut up, Richard.” Mary says plainly. She pushes Kingsley out of the way to prod at Remus’s body, apparently looking for injuries. When she sees that he’s not hurt, she reaches up to hold his face in her hands. “What happened, Remus?”

“He-- I--” He gulps, unable to get the words out. How can he possibly explain to her how lovely Sirius looked? How can he explain how badly he needed to hurt him? “I wasn’t thinking. Andromeda told me he might be here, and I just-- I had to--”

“Right.” Mary says, gently. “She told us the same.”

“Tonks got worried when you didn’t come back. Told us all she could.” Kingsley explains.

“And then he was here.” Remus says, as if talking to himself, eyes trained on a particularly bloody shard of glass on the floor. “He’s just been sitting here, all this time. Waiting for me.”

“For the love of--!” Ermengild bangs his fist on the wall, making them all jump. “Of course he was bloody waiting for you! The second you find him, you’re doing the horizontal tango and completely blowing this entire goddamn operation!”

“Richard, listen.”

“No, you listen to me, Macdonald!” Ermengild exclaims. “This is exactly what I warned you about when we took him on! The bloody poofter is--”

“Richard!”

“Don’t ‘Richard’ me, woman! I was fucking right, and--”

“Will you stop it!” Booms Tonks, who has finally spoken up, amplifying her voice with a wand to her throat. Everyone claps their hands over their ears, and she shakily lowers her wand in the silence that ensues. “Sirius Black is a manipulator from a long line of manipulators.” She pauses to glare at them all, reminding them that, out of all of them, she still knows the Black family best. “He’s smart. He knows how to fuck with people’s heads, right? It’s not Remus’s fault for getting caught up in it.”

“She’s right.” Mary says after a moment. “It happens to the best of us.”

“You’ve all gone mad!” Ermengild spits, shaking his head. “I can’t work like this! I can’t trust him!”

Remus clears his throat. They all turn to look at him, as if reminded that he was in the room at all.

“If I may.” He says. “Ermengild is right. This was always a risk from the start, and you all knew that in seeking me out. But I assure you, I want him back in Azkaban more than anyone for what he did to me.”

“For what he continues to do to you.” Ermengild says, baring his teeth. “How do we know we can trust you?”

Remus considers for a moment. Of course, there’s no way any of them can put their faith in him, and the thought irks him. Up until this point, he’s exhibited a fair amount of control. He’s honed his hatred into something usable, something smart, but he let it get the better of him the second he saw Sirius. He wouldn’t trust himself either.

But the truth of the matter is, Remus wants Sirius, dead or alive, especially now. He’s found him once, and he can do it again, perhaps with a bit more discretion. He will not lose control a second time.

And after all, he’s Dumbledore’s man.

“You don’t.” Remus says with a shrug. “But you need me. You said so yourself, you’re all hopeless without me.”

“This is the closest we’ve come to catching him, anyway.” Mary says. Remus shoots her a strained smile. Ermengild doesn’t say another word.

“Hey, did you lot see this?” Tonks interrupts. Having said her piece, she’s hovering at the coffee table, wand pointed at a piece of parchment that wasn’t there when Remus arrived. Or, at least, he didn’t notice it there. He was a little distracted.

Kingsley, who is wearing gloves, picks it up.

“Ah.” He says, face screwed up in faint amusement. “It’s for you, mate.”

He hands Remus the letter and Remus, rolling his eyes, takes it, not bothering with gloves himself. It’s a simple, folded piece of paper bearing the same black paw print he saw on Andromeda’s note.

When you’re ready, meet me where the story began.

Forever yours,
Padfoot

Remus sighs. Leave it to Sirius to be as dramatic as possible.

“Well, we may not like him,” Kingsley says, earning himself several glares. “But we can’t deny, Sirius' got style.”

***

After that, the murders start.

Sirius was hiding before, biding his time, waiting for Remus, but now, knowing that he’s not going to join him on this disgusting excursion, Sirius has gone off the handle. It’s as though, by denying him his company, Remus has given him permission.

The first death happens the night of a full moon, because of course it does. Remus and the Auror’s Special Unit are summoned to London the morning after, to the lonely flat of one Walden Macnair, ex-Death Eater and executioner of magical creatures. With the itch of the wolf still clawing at his skin, Remus finds it a little difficult to pity him. Plus, he’d fought against Macnair too, not that long ago.

The flat is, however, a rather gruesome sight. Macnair, seated upright at the small kitchen table, a cigarette still burning in his hand over the ashtray and his own bloody axe through his neck.

“Just desserts.” Says Tonks brightly. Remus snorts.

“He was hit with a Killing Curse first.” Says a rather shaken Magical Law Enforcement Officer. “Then dressed up like this. We found this in his mouth.”

The Officer hands Remus a letter.

My darling Moony,

Was last night difficult without me? Were the last few years? I promised I would always protect you. Since I can’t be with you, here’s my little way. Get it?

Whose hand would you rather die at? Mine or Macnair’s?

I’m sorry for leaving you behind.

Forever yours,

Padfoot

At the bottom of the letter is a black paw print. Remus stares at it in silence for several minutes, then plucks the cigarette from Macnair’s cold fingers and takes a drag.

The next to die, only two weeks later, are Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy.

Found by their five-year-old son in their bed, positioned in a loving embrace, the couple lay warmer, somehow, than they were in life. Narcissa’s unblinking eyes look up at Lucius from her place in his arms, and his white fingers hold a small dagger to her neck. Notably, the dagger is gold, not silver, and from their own collection.

“I don’t know why he left me.” Their son, Draco, tells Ermengild. “I’m all alone, now! I’m ruined!”

Remus, who has been staring, sick, at the sight before him, shakes his head. This tiny child, somehow, is already as pompous as his father.

“No.” He says slowly. “He gave you a way out.”

He approaches the bedside and brushes Narcissa’s black hair behind her ear. With her silver eyes wide and her hair dark and smooth, she looks exactly like Sirius. Remus swallows his rage.

“Isn’t your mother a blonde?” He mumbles.

“Usually.” Draco says. “But, er. Not all the time.”

“Oh?” Remus looks back at him with interest.

“No, she dyes...” Draco gulps. “She dyed it... because my father preferred blondes.”

Remus nods, ignoring the sound of Tonks sucking in a breath, and turns back to the bed.

“How we change for the ones we love.”

“We found this in Mrs. Malfoy’s hand.” Says an Officer, handing Remus another letter. Remus, reluctant to look away from the Malfoys, takes it belatedly. There is a black paw print on the bottom of the page, of course.

My darling Moony,

How does it feel to see a picture of love? Is this the first time since we shared a bed that you’ve seen love, or have there been other avenues, other roads leading you back to me?

Cissy never loved Malfoy, but she wanted to. Do you want to love me? I don’t need to want. Loving you is the easiest thing I have ever done, even with a knife to my neck.

Forever yours,

Padfoot.

Remus sighs.

“Bastard.” He mutters.

He visits Walburga again. After nightfall, and alone. Kreacher meets him at the door after one knock, as though they were waiting for him. They probably were.

The house is dark, aside from the faint glow of a few waning candles. Remus strides in, through the hall to the sitting room, his Auror’s cloak billowing behind him. He is no longer afraid of the shadows and the ghosts in Grimmauld Place. He has seen what they amount to, what haunting amounts to, and it’s nothing more than a profound emptiness.

“You lied to me.” He says when he finds Walburga seated at the window.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She says.

“Why didn’t you tell me about Uncle Alphard’s Villa?!” He demands, his hands balled into fists. Walburga merely smiles, that crooked, vicious thing.

“What did you expect, Auror Lupin?” The old woman asks serenely. “You’re still Sirius’ man.”

Remus stumbles back as though he’s been punched in the stomach, and leaves the house without another word.

***

My darling Moony,

Imagine knowing another person so entirely that you share the same skin. I envy the Carrow twins. Instead of a shared skin, we’re stuck with the awful edges where you end and I begin.

Do you ever feel like one half of a whole person, Moonshine? I do.

Forever yours,

Padfoot

***

My darling Moony,

How does it feel to be following me? Do you want to catch me? Yaxley was well on his way to becoming an Auror, you know. Imagine, a killer in the Auror’s Office.

I’m a killer now. I wasn’t one before, but you changed me. And, as I’m doing it all with your wand, I’ve made you a killer too.

We’re the same, Moonbeam, you and me.

Forever yours,

Padfoot

***

My darling Moony,

I miss you, you know. I can imagine you reading my letters like your eyes are on me, but until they are, I am incomplete.

Dolohov was the one who murdered Gid and Fab. I’m sure you know that, being a big fancy Auror and all. They died heroes.

We could be doing this together, Moonlight. Aren’t you lonesome? Aren’t you tired of it? I miss you, you know.

Forever yours,

Padfoot

***

The days seem to melt together. Every couple of weeks, a new fascist has been murdered and arranged in an increasingly graphic display, and every time, there’s a letter with a paw print at the bottom for Remus.

There’s never even a sign of a struggle, like Sirius just walks into their homes and murders them, no problem. Of course, Sirius is a very skilled wizard, and has killed enough people between these days and during the war that the Killing Curse must come easy to him, but the Death Eaters don’t even seem to be hiding. It’s like they think that even now, with a killer on the loose, they’re untouchable.

It’s possible they simply underestimate him. They always did, back in the war, because all things considered, Sirius cared more about being pretty than being intimidating, or physically threatening in any way. It worked in his advantage, back then, because the enemy almost always assumed that he was fragile, but he never was. Although, it’s hard to place who the enemy was for Sirius. How long was he a double agent? Did they know, all along, that this pretty, fragile thing was on their side?

There’s not much they can do except follow the trail, with Sirius always one step ahead, and Remus is growing restless.

It’s not like they can warn every former Death Eater, or that any of them really want to. Even Ermengild, who’s been quietly glaring at Remus for his laundry list of social handicaps since they met, feels safer without so many of Voldemort’s supporters left alive.

“You know,” Mary says softly, one night when neither of them can sleep, hovering over the kitchen table together with a cuppa. The rain is coming down hard on the stone of the blackhouse and the wind over the moors is whipping hauntingly, and if Remus listens to it too hard, it sounds like howling. “If I were an ex-Death Eater, even one that betrayed my best mates, I wouldn’t go around killing the rest of the Death Eaters when I got out of jail.”

“You don’t know him like I do.” Remus replies, without really thinking.

“Nobody knows him like you do, Remus.” Mary says.

“He’s trying to prove a point, Mare.” Remus says, his voice sharp. “He’s trying to tell us that he doesn’t need the rest of them. He’s just as capable of being terrible without them.”

“And you?” Mary asks, holding her mug thoughtfully to her lips. “What are you capable of, without him?”

Remus does not get the chance to reply. Moody, who Remus didn’t even know had been out, bursts through the door like Frankenstein, his eye swivelling frantically and his wild hair whipping around his head in the wind. The doors rattle on their hinges and Remus can hear Ermengild cursing groggily from the bedroom.

“He’s got Tonks!” Moody roars, and that’s that.

They stand up quick, jostling their coffee, and Ermengild skids out of the bedroom in his socks, face red, pulling on his coat and trousers at the same time. His eyes are wild and rimmed in shadow, like he hasn’t gotten any sleep either.

“He’s holding her hostage?!” Moody shakes his head.

“I’m not sure.” He says. “She sent me a patronus, so she’s still with us, at least, but I came straight here. Wasn’t about to go after her myself, after what happened to Lupin.”

Remus wants to say that what happened to him wouldn’t happen to Moody, whether it was Sirius' fault or not, but he holds his tongue.

“She can produce a patronus?” He asks instead.

“Yup. A jackrabbit.” Moody says, puffing out his chest proudly despite his obvious impatience. “Bright kid. We need to go. Now.”

Remus nods. Unquestioningly, he touches Moody’s elbow, and the others follow suit. The look of white terror on all their faces is the same, but they don’t speak their fear. Nothing will happen to Tonks. Sirius cannot hurt her. She’s their baby. She’s the best of all of them.

In the back of his mind, Remus hears a little voice say that Sirius wouldn’t hurt her. He ignores it, and closes his eyes.

When they land, it’s dark, and just as windy as the Scottish moorlands, but it’s clear. They stand at the precipice of a large forest, in a peaceful clearing. The night sky is obscured by a few trees, but the moon is big and bright, tauntingly waxing gibbous above them. Remus itches.

“Hey!” Calls Tonks from below a little tree, the only shape that sticks out in the meadow, her hair black. “Over here!”

They rush to her to find that she’s tied to a protruding root, which Ermengild explodes unceremoniously with a silent flick of his wand. She flexes her arm and nods in thanks, smiling widely, and Remus hears Mary gasp from beside him when they see the blood in her teeth.

“Merlin!” She says, bending down to take Tonks into her arms. “What happened, love?”

“He’s here.” Tonks says cheerfully. “We’ve got him. We’ve got him, he’s here.”

“Still?” Moody grunts.

Tonks nods again, more excitedly this time, but the action makes her wince. It’s just then that Remus gets it. Her hair isn’t black, it just looks that way, shiny and wet with blood in the light of the nearly-full moon.

“What happened?” Remus insists.

“He got me, didn’t he?” Tonks says. “Was real nice about it, too. He said, I’m not gonna kill you, Dora, and then I corrected him on the name, and he asked if I was a lesbian, and I said no, only I’m not so sure, now--”

“Tonks.”

“And then he said, he said, I’m not gonna kill you. I only kill the baddies, and you’re a wonderful person, Tonks.” Tonks smiles. “Better than me, he said. Then he knocked me out.”

She laughs deliriously. They all share a silence. Mary’s face has gone white.

“You three go, I’ll take care of Tonks.” She says. “If he’s still here, this is our chance.”

“Be careful.” Tonks says, and she’s looking at Remus. “He’s not the only thing in this forest.”

It takes a moment for Remus to think, feeling strange and transparent in himself. They set off into the woods as his head spins. Tonks, hurt. Who’s left in the long line of Death Eaters? Remus dodges large rocks and trees and roots, footfalls heavy on the soft ground. Who would be here, in this remote forest?

Moody shouts directions, arguing with a snarling Ermengild. The trees seem to loom over them, watching in reverent silence. Tonks, hurt. Which Death Eater would Sirius save for last?

In the distance, there is a howl.

“Where are we?” Remus whispers as they all stop in their tracks, crouched behind a large tree.

“Wales,” says Moody gruffly.

It clicks.

All at once, he is six years old again. The forest calls to him, and he follows its seductive virescent song. He’s running, grin on his face, clutching a stick in his hand like a wand and singing to himself, his little heart pounding. The forest is bigger than anything in the world, and darker than anything too, but Remus is brave. There is a beast in the forest, and he is going to be the one to tame it.

Remus is six years old and there is a beast in the forest. Remus is twenty-five, and there are three.

“Fuck.” He mutters. “Fuck, shit.”

“What?!” Ermengild hisses.

“He’s--” Remus chokes. “He’s here, it’s a trap. He’s got him.”

“What on Earth are you on about? Who’s got who?!” Ermengild demands, and his voice is too loud, it’s too loud, and the wolf is going to find them.

“Lupin.” Moody says, grasping his shoulder. “Pull yourself together, man. We need you.”

Remus squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to see teeth.

“Ermengild.” Moody says authoritatively, pointing in one direction. “You and Lupin take that side, I’ll go the other way. With any luck, we’ll flank ‘em.”

Ermengild nods, drags Remus up by his elbow, and then they’re running again.

The moonlight appears in flecks through the thick canopy of trees like white strings to the heavens. Remus feels each patch like a burn on his cheek, matched only by the sting of thorns and branches slapping back at him as he runs behind Ermengild. He has sweat on his brow despite the chill, and after what seems like hours but is probably only a few moments, they find themselves at another small opening, this time at a little stream.

They stop to breathe, listening to the sounds of the forest as they are drowned by the burbling brook in the glen. The stream is long but thin, and the clearing that it creates seems to stretch in an endless line into the darkness on either side. It’s a respite, and Remus sits down on a large mossy rock, hands on his knees.

He is startled by movement beside him, but it’s only a frog, disturbed from its sleep by his presence. It hops away, into the stream toward a small waterfall, only a few feet tall and spilling into a little pool below. Remus follows it with his eyes, but sucks in his breath when it settles under the stream.

There is something in the water.

“Fuck.” He says, standing up, but Ermengild is faster, striding through the ankle-high stream without even slipping on the rocks. Remus comes up behind him as he turns the body over, and then, staring up at him, are the cold dead eyes of Fenrir Greyback.

Remus hasn’t seen him outside of wanted posters since he was six years old and underneath him. He has spent his entire life trying to forget that face. Even when thoughts of Sirius replaced thoughts of Greyback, even when the war was alive in his home, even when he was safe and surrounded by love at Hogwarts, Greyback has always been the wolf. He’s always been part of him, without ever being in his life, living inside him, a deadly parasite that tears him open once a month. He has always been the wolf, but now, here, under the steady flow of spring water in the glen, Greyback is gone, and the wolf is just Remus.

“Holy shit.” Ermengild says, when Greyback’s mouth falls open.

His teeth have all been torn out.

“The beast is tamed.” Remus whispers.

There is a flash of light downstream and Ermengild and Remus look up from the wolf-turned-man at their feet. It flashes again, and a figure is lit up in shadow.

“There he is!” Ermengild cries, and takes off, boots splashing through the stream. Remus, his feet moving on their own, follows after him.

“Moony, my beloved!” Calls the forest around them. Sirius is in front of them, and then he’s behind them, and then the big black dog that Remus never told the ASU about is running alongside them or in front of them or nipping at their heels, and then there’s only Remus, six years old, clutching a stick in his hand like it’ll protect him, and then there’s a laughing stag and a nervous rat and a beautiful boy and a wolf.

“Moony, my beloved!” Calls the beautiful boy, and Remus is a hunter, rifle in hand and ready to shoot, and it’s Ermengild and Remus again, footsteps quick and heavy as they run through the woods, only looking ahead.

“Moony, my beloved!” Calls the moon, coming into view as the forest fades around them, and Remus is the wolf and the wolf needs to kill. Ermengild breathes in solid heaves beside him as they skid to a stop before a deep blue cliffside, and there is Sirius, alight and villainous, the dog star shining behind him.

“Moony, my beloved.” Says Sirius, arms wide.

“Expelliarmus!” Ermengild cries, and Sirius doesn’t even block it. Remus catches his old wand in midair and points it and the new one at Sirius. Sirius merely smiles.

“Right then!” Ermengild says, his own wand pointed at Sirius as well. “That’s about enough, isn’t it?! It’s over!”

Sirius seems unbothered, not even sparing him a glance. He’s looking at Remus, and Remus is looking at him.

“Are you going to kill me Remus?”

“He may as well!” Ermengild bellows. “I’d do it myself for the trouble you caused us! No, you’re going back to Azkaban where you belong, and the dementors will have their way with you!”

Sirius, still, does not appear afraid.

“I should.” Remus says. His voice shakes with rage. “I should kill you.”

Sirius is beautiful and terrible in the moonlight, as he always has been. He looks sharper now, as if the past few months since they’ve seen each other have indeed changed him, but the glint in his eye is familiar. Ermengild is rambling about something, right beside him and a million miles away, but Remus only hears the wolf that is himself scratching and howling at the walls of his skull.

“So kill me.” Sirius says.

And Remus is the wolf in the woods and he is the wolf in his head and the moon bears down on him like an iron weight and Sirius smiles like a waning crescent, he smiles like a dog bearing its teeth, he smiles like Remus is his man, but Remus is not a man, he is a wolf and a wolf needs to kill.

“Avada Kedavra!” Remus cries, and a body falls, speechless, over the cliff.

Time stops.

Remus’s hands shake.

The wind seems to pause, holding its breath.

The bottom of the cliff is a long way down.

But still, when Remus peers over the edge, he can see dark, dark blood and the tiniest speck of blonde hair.

Sirius brushes himself off and picks up Ermengild’s wand where it lays forgotten in the grass. He gives it a quick spin, making a few flowers bloom at Remus’s feet. Satisfied, he disappears. Remus hears the crack of him apparating. He does not stop him. He simply stares over the edge of the cliffside at the body of Richard Ermengild, and his undoing.

The pool of blood expands, ballooning around the body below him so fat and bulbous and heavy that by the time Moody shows up, there is no blonde hair left visible.

“Lupin!” He shouts, making Remus jump. “What happened?! Where’s Ermengild?”

Remus points a shaky finger over the side of the cliff. Mad-Eye follows it, his eye swiveling in it’s socket.

“Merlin’s skirt.” He says under his breath. “And he got away?”

Remus nods. He hands him his, Sirius’ wand. Moody doesn’t need to check to know the last cast will be the Killing Curse, but he does anyway. The voice sounds muddled, not like Sirius' but not like his own either, as if someone else entirely killed Ermengild. Moody regards him for a long time, his glass eye searching. Remus steels himself as much as he can when his breath is as heavy as it is, when his heart is beating as jackrabbit-quick as it is and his body sways dangerously toward the cliff as it does.

Whatever Moody’s looking for, he doesn’t find it. He takes Remus by the arm, and together they apparate back to headquarters.

***

The blackhouse, which is normally fairly dark and morose as it is, becomes even quieter and more uncanny over the next week. No one particularly liked Ermengild, as he was stodgy by nature and generally unpleasant to be around, but the death of one of them, one of the good guys, has set everyone on edge.

No one but Tonks, who’s cheerful manner doesn’t seem to fade even under dire circumstances, is up for conversation, and she’s using a great deal of energy to show off her new scar to anyone within a 50 yard radius, claiming it gives her rights to call herself a real Auror. Of course, they all know she could use her unique gifts to wipe it off her forehead rather easily, but no one has the heart to say so. They could all use a little cheerfulness.

“You know,” Tonks says proudly, one evening at the table. “I could have died! It could have been me and not Richard!”

Remus, who has been haunting the blackhouse like a ghost, not saying anything to anyone or looking anyone in the eye, is poring over the letters that Sirius has left him. They’re all spread out over the table, and he’s counted every single pawprint, seen every single “forever yours,” and every single wonky M he makes in that elegant handwriting of his over and over again. He’s not sure if he’s looking for something or not.

The rest of the team has been watching him with pity. To witness death at the hands of someone you once loved, after all, must be incredibly difficult. The general consensus is that none of them could possibly understand how he’s feeling, which is true, if not in the way they think. Remus, for his part, has said nothing.

“No.” He replies, absentmindedly. “If Sirius had wanted to kill you, he would have. He doesn’t waste any time killing the others, does he? No, he wanted you to live. He… he loves you.”

Remus isn’t sure what he’s talking about. Tonks stares at him for a moment, then she smiles, a little sad.

“With that logic, he loves you too, you know.”

Remus picks up a piece of parchment on the table. It’s the first letter that Sirius left him, at Uncle Alphard’s villa. Once again, he traces the ink with his fingers. It’s long-dry now, but Remus imagines the scratch of the quill, quick, but with a flourish that is so very Sirius. He can picture him seated beside a knocked-out Remus, grinning at his own cleverness, like he isn’t a mass murderer and is just an indulgent boy leaving love notes in the Gryffindor dormitory.

Meet me where the story began.

“I know.” He whispers.

Time seems to stop and start whenever it wants, with the people and their cups of tea moving around him at double the speed. Remus doesn’t hear them talk to him, he just nods along in a haze. He feels his lungs expand and contract and sees the letter in his hand and nothing else. Before long, it’s the middle of the night, and Remus hasn’t moved.

“Hello, Remus.” Says a familiar voice. Blinking, Remus looks up. There, at the head of the table, is Albus Dumbledore.

Remus hasn’t seen him since that first day. He hasn’t been involved in the search at all, doesn’t know what any of them are going through. Presumably, Dumbledore has bigger things to worry about, but Remus can’t imagine anything bigger than this.

“Hello, Professor.” Remus says back politely.

“I heard about Auror Ermengild.” Dumbledore says. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He’s wearing an excellent poker face. Remus shrugs.

“Wasn’t my loss.”

Dumbledore watches him intently. Remus wills himself to think of nothing at all, but as usual, Sirius is sitting pretty at the corners of his thoughts. Dumbledore hums.

“You know,” He says thoughtfully. “When I brought you on, Magical Law Enforcement criticized me quite heavily.”

“Oh?” There is a string loose on Dumbledore’s cloak, and Remus watches it sway as the old man strokes his beard.

“Yes… They seemed to think you a liability.” He explains. “A lovesick fool, ready to join his husband at the drop of a hat.”

“Fiancé.” Remus corrects automatically. Dumbledore raises a brow.

“I told them not to worry, that you were my man.” He says.

Remus nods.

“You’re still my man.” Dumbledore continues. “Aren’t you Remus?”

Remus thinks about it. Is he? Is he Dumbledore’s man? He thought he was. He’s always identified that way, at least, even if it was suppressed until recently, but what does that even mean? If he’s Dumbledore’s man, what does he stand for? He’s not sure if he would stand behind a man trying to stop ex-Death Eaters from being murdered under different circumstances, but what’s the alternative? Being Sirius' man?

Is that what he is? Is that what he’s always been? There was a time when “Sirius’ man” was a title he’d wear proudly, engagement ring warm on his finger, but he was Dumbledore’s man then, too, and before that, horribly, terribly, and against his will, he was Greyback’s. Has there ever been a version of Remus that is entirely his own?

“He’s at Hogwarts.” Remus says. He notices that his fists are clenched and smooths them, face red.

“Sorry?”

“I was just looking over his letters.” Remus explains. “His first one says ‘Meet me where the story began.’ That’s got to be Hogwarts.”

It’s not entirely true, and it isn’t a lie either. Dumbledore smiles at him.

“Ah.” He says, eyes twinkling. “I do love to be right.”

***

The Aurors swarm Hogwarts. Magical Law Enforcement Officers are stationed at every corner of the castle, at least two to a hallway, and alarms are at every secret passageway that Remus can remember, with a little help from Tonks, who is still a student. The school is lit up and alive with movement two months before classes even start.

With the team so close to the finish line, Remus can’t help but think of where they began, all those months ago at Am-nawr. Some happy family is probably living there now, closed off from the world behind the rickety wooden fence, completely oblivious to the ghost that once lived in their place. Remus must have known, always, at the back of his mind that all this would happen. A lifetime of for-nows to lead him back here.

“You better be right, Lupin.” Moody says, not unkindly. “I’ve got nearly all my men here on your tip.”

The Aurors Special Unit, and a few regular Aurors as well, are stationed in the Great Hall. They pore over their notes, but there’s not much to do except wait. If he enters the castle, they’ll know. That’s what they tell themselves.

“He’ll come.” Remus says, for the millionth time this evening. Moody sighs and Remus ignores him, fishing in the pocket of his robes for a case of cigarettes. “I’d have a fag.”

Moody lets him go. Remus, for the first time in a long time, smiles to himself.

There are thousands of places to have a smoke at Hogwarts, the same way there are thousands of places to hide. Remus knows, because he mapped them out, a century and a second ago, one hand on a quill and the other absentmindedly petting the soft black hair of a beautiful boy. This is the nature of a castle filled with magic. The walls and floors and stairs are ever-changing, winding infinitely through time, but Remus, moreso than anyone else, understands them. His footsteps fall sharp on the stone floor of a hallway he knows better than anything, bouncing off the walls and echoing like the laughter for four children high on their own cleverness, and Remus thinks to himself--

I need the place where the story began.

Beside him, an empty wall begins to bloom.

***

Remus is sixteen years old and knows nothing of war. He is sixteen years old and knows nothing of loss, has forgotten loneliness entirely except for an early morning once a month, and even then, he keeps the company of a beautiful boy who thinks his scars are rather fetching and understands his loneliness to its core. He is, all things considered, very happy for sixteen. His biggest worry is, in fact, the growing feeling between them, expanding his chest and making him weak at the knees when he sees lovely silver eyes and a jagged, wolfish smile.

He has a note in his pocket and it’s making him lose his breath. He loves the way his best friend writes his Ms, and even though he thinks it’s a little dramatic, he loves how Sirius always signs his notes with a paw print.

I have something to tell you. Meet me at the come and go room?

Remus knows the room well, but after a year of mapping out the castle back to front, that’s no surprise. This room is special, though. Out of all their cunning friends, he was the first to find it, early in his career at Hogwarts, when he spent much of his time looking for somewhere to hide. The room was there when he needed it most, and now it’s a place to be alone with Sirius.

“I need to meet Sirius. I need to know where this story begins.” He tells the wall in a small voice. If Sirius can be dramatic, so can he. The door appears, as inviting as a lamp to a lovesick moth.

Inside, the room is a meadow, lit up by an arrangement of white lanterns that float lazily around him. Several small trees line the walls and bluebells and lupines and lavender all sway pleasantly in a magical breeze. Above him, there is a night sky full of stars but notably, no moon, and Sirius stares up at them, cross-legged on a red picnic blanket.

“Hullo, Padfoot.” Remus says. Sirius flinches at the sudden intrusion, but relaxes at the sight of him. He looks truly lovely, all lit up by the glow of the lanterns, and Remus can’t help but smile, bright and wide and beautiful.

“Hullo, Moony.” Sirius says, patting the seat next to him and smiling right back.

Remus joins him on the picnic blanket, and Sirius shifts to be closer to him. They both know what Sirius wants to say. He’s been saying it for months now, maybe even years, without words. This thing between them, this ever-present longing, has been going on for ages, but has only now grown impossible to ignore.

Without saying a word, Sirius turns to face him, and then they’re staring at each other, red-faced and youthful, unblemished by time or by war or by betrayal, merely inches apart.

“There’s something I have to tell you.” Sirius whispers.

Remus is positive that he will love this beautiful, silver-eyed boy until the very end of time. He can’t speak. He does the only thing left to do, and kisses him.

***

Remus sits down next to Sirius on the picnic blanket without saying a word. Sirius still looks lovely in the lantern light. He still looks soft, despite his tattoos and the mustache on his lip. Remus no longer wants to eat him alive. He just wants to sit in silence, while the moonless sky passes overhead.

They sit together. After ten minutes, Remus lights up, and they pass the cigarette between them. After twenty, Sirius hooks his pinkie over Remus’s, and Remus can feel the ring on his next finger. The bluebells and the lupines and the lavender all sway in the breeze, and they forget about the castle around them. There is no come and go room, no murders, no Aurors at their heels, just two beautiful boys who have been in love for a long, long time.

Remus says nothing, for a while. What is there to say? On the picnic blanket sits a loaf of bread and marmalade, a pitcher of pumpkin juice, and the Marauders’ Map, open and moving like the stars above them. Remus watches it. Dumbledore, as always, is pacing in his office. Kingsley and Moody are patrolling a nearby hall. Tonks and Mary are still in the Great Hall, no doubt worried sick. How quaint they all seem when Sirius sits beside him.

“What do you want, Sirius?” Remus asks, finally, in a small voice. Sirius turns to look at him, his eyes shining wetly in the lantern light.

“I want to find Peter, and kill him.” He says. Remus huffs.

“You already did that.” He says.

“No I didn’t.” Sirius says, shaking his head. “I never did, Moony. But I’m going to. He’s here, in the castle. I’ve seen him on the map. Your Aurors will draw him out, and then we’ll find him and kill him.”

The ‘we’ in his sentence carries so much weight, means so many things, but Remus finds that he isn’t angry about it. He fiddles with Sirius' ring absentmindedly. Sirius smiles.

Together, they watch the map. The Magical Law Enforcement officers and the Aurors come and go. Kingsley and Moody head back down to the Great Hall and Tonks and Mary take to patrolling the halls. Sirius cuts them each a slice of bread, and Remus spreads marmalade onto his. It is delicious. His wand lays untouched beside him.

“He’s dead, Sirius.” Remus says over a little glass of pumpkin juice. “He’s not coming.”

“He’ll come.” Sirius says, unknowingly repeating Remus’s own words from earlier.

All the while, Remus is calm. He does not feel like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. He does not feel like he’s doing something wrong, in being here. He’ll turn Sirius in later, when he sees that Peter isn’t going to show. He enjoys the silence.

Above them, the stars blink lazily. Remus turns his eyes to them and, without thinking, he finds Sirius, a habit he thought he killed. Down on the ground, Sirius rests his head on his shoulder.

“Ah.” He says quietly. “There he is.”

Remus looks away from the sky and back at the map, where Sirius is pointing. Sure enough, there, running toward the hole in the willow is Peter Pettigrew.

Remus’s body moves on it’s own. He shoots upright, jostling Sirius, who dissolves into giggles. Remus grabs his hand and pulls him up, too, and then they’re running, out of the come and go room and into the hall, down flights of stairs and past staring Aurors. They call after him, but he doesn’t hear them. They laugh and fall over each other like children.

On the lawn, Sirius turns into Padfoot and bounds ahead of him, jumping around in the way only a dog can do and barking like mad. Remus laughs at him, the leap of his lungs light and happy in his chest. His legs carry him to the hole in the willow like muscle memory. He’s somehow forgotten his wand, but Padfoot has already pressed the button to still the tree with his paw.

“Remus!” Calls Tonks from behind him. He looks back at her to find her always-cheerful face stricken, her hair truly black. Behind her, Mary catches her breath. He throws his head back and laughs, then follows the dog down the hole in the willow without a word.

Sirius changes back in the secret passageway, and they crawl together until the hole gets bigger, big enough to run. Remus does not look back.

In the Shack, they catch their breath. It’s not as dark as Remus remembers it being, but it’s dustier, and the destroyed furniture and ripped curtains and linens do nothing to make it comforting. In a way, it reminds Remus of everything Dumbledore has done for him. Just enough to keep him at his beck and call, but not enough to make him happy. That was always Sirius.

The floor creaks with their steps. The ceiling creaks in response. Sirius laughs again, the burble of it spilling out of his mouth, like he can’t help himself. He takes Remus’s hand and together, they bound up the stairs, two at a time.

The upstairs is empty, or at least, it seems that way. Sirius takes out his wand with his free hand and waves it, with a flourish above his head. His glittery, golden magic fills the room for a fraction of a second, and then there is the groan of transformation, and Peter Pettigrew stands before them.

He looks worse for wear, but of course he does. His back is hunched and his hands are dry and bruised and his hair is coming off in grey-blonde chunks not unlike the ones lost at the bottom of the cliff in the forest. In his face is etched the familiar lines of fear he wore near-constantly during the war.

He tries to run.

Sirius blocks his way.

In another story, Peter would refer to them as friends. He would beg for his life, would grovel at Remus’s feet like he was always meant to do, make them see reason and then escape by the light of the moon. In another story, he has the chance to speak.

This is not that story.

Remus throws the first punch.

Sirius laughs, then puts his wand in his back pocket and throws another. Peter swivels with the force of both hits, touches his nose with one hand and, finding blood there, cries out in rage. He runs at Sirius, nearly clawing him with his overgrown nails, but Sirius is faster, landing another punch to his stomach. He steps back and falls into Remus, who pushes him with a deafening slam into the wall.

It’s all great fun, which is why they don’t notice Peter wipe himself off and grab a long-forgotten piece of shattered window glass from off the floor. It’s long and thick, like a knife, some of the old stuff Dumbledore put there to keep the wolf at bay, and Peter shoves it up between Sirius' ribs without a second thought.

Sirius' perfect lips part in a lovely little o, and his blood, which appears black in the moonlight shining in through the window, splatters all over all three of them. He doubles over, clutching his stomach and groaning in pain and Remus is frantic.

He has no wand, and his fists can only do so much, and he scans the room for anything he can use to hurt Peter. He is a wolf and a wolf needs to kill and surely a wolf can kill a rat.

His eyes fall on something shining in the wall behind them. A large nail, sticking out of the wood. He pries the panel off its hinges, leaving him with a plank of wood with several rusted old nails jutting out. Remus grins, then breaks it over Peter’s back.

He howls as some of the nails stick in. While he’s distracted, Sirius bites the soft flesh of his leg, turning into Padfoot while his teeth are still in and tearing manically at the skin. Peter gasps and tries to kick him off. He swings the bloodied glass at Remus, slicing right through the Aurors’ emblem on his chest, and falls to his knees. Remus hardly feels his chest being cut open at all. He picks up the glass and, covered in the blood of three killers, shoves it through the back of Peter’s neck.

Peter falls dead, face down.

Remus stares at him, his breath ragged. He has killed a man like a wolf does, without a wand, every part of him covered in blood, and yet, he does not feel like a wolf. In fact, he has never felt more human.

Sirius stands. His shirt is bleeding through. Peter’s blood is on his teeth and covering his face. He falls against Remus, and Remus embraces him. He looks down at Sirius and Sirius looks up at him, his silver eyes wide, his lashes wet with blood.

“This is all I wanted for us, Remus.” Sirius says quietly, his voice rough, clutching Remus’s robes.

Remus looks at the room. What little wasn’t destroyed between their fight and their childhood is now covered in blood, a perfect painting of heavenly vengeance. Peter’s bloody lies dead on the ground, splayed out haphazardly like he was surprised about it. Where Remus and Sirius meet in their embrace, the awful edges where Sirius ends and he begins, red smears and mixes, as though they are in fact one body, not two, working in perfect harmony. Remus is not Sirius' man, but fully, completely his own, with Sirius beside him, inside of him, a part of him.

“It’s beautiful.” He says. And then, because there is nothing left to do, he kisses Sirius, and they’re gone.

***

It is a perfectly normal day, many years later, when Albus Dumbledore receives a letter. The sun is shining, high in the sky, which is so bright and almost too blue, hardly a cloud in sight, and the Forbidden Forest, which he can see from the window in his office, is as green and verdant as ever. The fireplace, which is going, as it always is despite the heat, adds that coziness that the old man craves. After so many years alive, one can’t be blamed for wanting a bit of coziness, even on a lovely day such as this.

It’s not unusual for Dumbledore to receive a letter, important person that he is, especially not with classes so close to starting. Although, Dumbledore thinks, a frown forming on his face before he can stop it, it is a rather unusual year. His whole staff has been talking about it all summer so far, stopping only when they know he can hear them, and he can only imagine it’ll get worse as the summer comes to a close and classes begin. He can’t rightly blame them.

This, of course, is the year that Harry Potter would have started classes.

The poor boy disappeared from his home on Halloween in 1985, four years to the day after his parents’ death. It made national news only a few months later, because of course it had, it was a nasty business, and so soon after the murder-suicide of his godparents--

No matter. With two once-good men dead and the boy most likely the same, there’s really no use dwelling on it.

If he’s carrying the weight of an eleven-year-old guilt, then that’s nobody’s business but his own. Either way, it’s a perfectly normal day. The sun is out despite the somber feeling in the halls, and Dumbledore refuses to sit in his grief.

He has work to do, beginning with opening a letter.

He takes it from the owl at his window, narrowly dodging a bite that the bird attempts on his fingers. The parchment isn’t sealed particularly well, and is torn at the edges, but Dumbledore doesn’t tut at the impropriety. He merely unfolds the paper and, with a little gasp, drops it.

As it flutters to the floor, Dumbledore brings one hand to his face. There’s no time to waste. The old man turns and strides out of his office, face white.

Laying on the stone and shaking slightly in the summer breeze is a piece of parchment, entirely blank except for the unmistakable shapes of two large paw prints.