Chapter Text
Euphemia Potter used to claim that a bad thought had the potential to manifest into bad energy. Currently, the ministry of magic was submerged in a cruel layer of dereliction. Sirius couldn’t blame any particular party; most of his co-workers fell under the category of some sort of invasive species. Their defence always, without fail, consisted of an assurance that it was for the wizarding world, a greater good.
“I’m not an expert on Bellatrix Lestrange.” Sirius folds his robes over his forearm irritably, neatly sidestepping a group of obliviators rushing towards the floo. “She’s probably curled up next to Voldemort’s corpse.”
“You were close with her growing up.”
Sirius pinches his lips together, lengthening his strides so Bones has to jog to catch up. He had enjoyed Bellatrix’s company as a child, a companion when their families would collide at weddings, funerals and parties; both stuffed into expensive robes and bored out of their mind. She had taught him how to summon threads out of fabric, embarrassing the heads of three departments. They’d confided and collaborated, solace from jealous younger siblings. Right up until she had started torturing animals for fun, and came back from Hogwarts with a glee for the family legacy and the house of Slytherin.
“I don’t know Bellatrix like you think I do,” Sirius says, coldly. He stops outside his office, the smooth plaque flashing “Black” mockingly.
“I understand it’s difficult,” Bones continues. Her hands are pale, and she rubs them briskly.
“Good,” Sirius replies, stepping inside his office, the door opening grandly to allow his entry, and shutting firmly behind him.
The bated breath waiting to escape finally reaches the open air, irritated and exhausted. He itches for a drink, a glass of bottomless whisky that would take the edge off, a perfect amount of bitterness. Sirius had removed every bottle of alcohol from his office for this reason. It’d be all too easy to go through reports with Ogden by his side, washing away the memories of Bellatrix, Regulus, his mother; everything that encapsulated the awful house that now sat vacant in London.
Sirius hangs his robes, and trudges towards the bay windows.
There’s a man in his chair. Not in one of the guest chairs in the corner, a warm area with a coffee table and rug, but his chair, decadent and comfortable with red and gold trim.
“Can I help you?” Sirius asks, flatly.
He’s tired. It’s nearing four in the afternoon, and he wants to do his work and go home, avoiding Bones and any other workers. This man doesn’t look like anyone from the department of magical law enforcement. His robes aren’t midnight blue, but a shabby patchwork covering jeans and a faded sweater.
“There’s nothing in your notebook,” the man says, unbothered. He scratches his curly hair, flipping through blank parchment.
“It’s a charm,” Sirius explains, stepping forward slowly, “only a select few people can read it.”
If this was a muggle, he was royally screwed.
“Well, that’s very clever.” He spins in the chair, wobbly and unsure, but smiling brightly. He’s got a gap between his front teeth, and a scar that runs from his eyebrow to his ear. “I’m Remus.”
“Remus who?”
“Me,” Remus says, pointing to himself. “Who are you?”
“I’m Sirius Black,” Sirius says, with strained emphasis.
There’s no recognition in Remus’ dark eyes, only a simple curiosity, one eyebrow raised.
“I work here.”
The smile falls from Remus’ face.
“I was hoping you didn’t. Everyone here asks so many questions. Something about money and ‘accomodation’.”
“Do you remember where you were?”
Sirius really, really wishes he had a drink.
“It was a small room. Quite dark.” Remus pulls a face. “It wasn’t very pleasant.”
Sirius pinches his nose, raising a hand when a sharp, insistent knock at the door interrupts them. It swings open, and a harassed looking witch in a drooping hat hurries in, slumping in relief when she spots Remus.
“Mr Black, I’m so sorry. He’s meant to be down in processing, but he-”
Sirius jerks his head up. “Processing? What for?”
The witch smiles uncomfortably, pitching her voice ridiculously. “He’s infected with lycanthropy.”
Sirius relaxes the hold on his wand, hidden in his coat.
“Is that all?”
“Sir, I must insist-”
“I’ll escort him down.” He waves his hand, a clear dismissal even as she splutters.
Remus rises when he jerks his head towards the door, striding out into the hall. When Remus passes the witch, she cowers back into the wall, lips wobbling.
“Any one with half a brain can work for the ministry,” Sirius mutters, snagging Remus’ sleeve before he can wander off. “Come on.”
They take the stairs rather than the elevator, Sirius striding through the ministry, growing more and more confused at Remus’ open, and slightly baffled, reactions to everything from water fountains to purple shoes. He might have been missing in action, or confunded. But he certainly wasn’t from anywhere around here, judging by the strange look he’d given Sirius when he asked if he was from London, or if he had attended Hogwarts.
Bertram Aubrey greets him at the desk on Level 3, his perpetually pinched face unimpressed.
“Black,” he greets. His eyes flick to Remus briefly. “The werewolf needs to be marked before we can escort him out.”
To some facility up north, no doubt. A chain of them that had yet to be shut down, even after the war. Sirius had been to a few. They were barbaric and dehumanising.
“Have you forgotten already?” Sirius asks, scowling. “That bill was passed years ago, Aubrey. Tattoos aren’t permitted.”
“With an exception for non-humans.”
“Which was revised in clause 3B of the Lycanthrope Protection Act.”
Bertram looks over at Remus, who had been staring up at the enchanted mural with fascination, watching the scales of the dragon glimmer under the afternoon sun as it crept around the room. “He’ll still need to be stationed with his kind.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sirius snaps. “He’ll come with me.”
Bertram laughs, long and low. “Don’t act like a martyr, Black. It doesn’t suit you.”
“At least I’m not a bigot,” Sirius retorts, rummaging through Remus’ paperwork, pocketing the reports and incinerating the rest.
“That’s rich,” Bertram says, signing a release form irritably. “You’re a bully, Black. You and Potter. You always have been.”
“James saved the wizarding world,” Sirius snaps, snatching up the paper, “which is more than you’ll ever do.”
“Taking care of a pet doesn’t absolve you, Black.”
“Don’t let this job go to your head, Abruey,” Sirius replies nastily, “it’s already big enough.”
He leaves work early, mostly to avoid the red envelope from Human Resources that’s sure to reach his desk any minute. Remus, to Sirius’ rather judgemental concern, doesn’t seem bothered that he’s being escorted by a man he’d only met an hour ago.
“I don’t have to go back, do I?”
“No,” Sirius says, “how long were you there for?”
Remus shrugs. He stops to collect an acorn off the ground, clutching it in his hand with reverence. “I can’t say. They asked a lot of questions. I don’t think they believed that I left my pack willingly.”
Sirius slows his gait, the irritation straining at his chest mellowing. Remus had a raspy, kind voice. He was glancing at Sirius, then at the buildings around them, the town houses with ivy growing up the bricks, and each little store bustling with customers, holding rich cups of coffee and buttery pastries. Sirius had met werewolves before, and they had never been delighted by the world around them.
“Why did you leave?”
Remus stops to gaze at the traffic, gobsmacked.
“Everything is so loud. And big.”
“That’s London, I suppose.”
Remus turns to him, grinning widely.
“It’s amazing.”
He steps into the gutter, uncaring of the matted brown leaves sticking to his feet, and narrowly misses getting flattened by a cab. Sirius yanks him back onto the pavement, heart thundering.
“Don’t do that! Merlin, Remus! You’ll get yourself killed at this rate.”
“I just want to look,” Remus says, “I saw one like it while swimming, once. Briar wouldn’t tell me what it was, though.”
“It’s a car,” Sirius scoffs, “motorcycles are far better, Remus. Quick and agile. I’ve got a 1959 Triumph Bonneville at home.”
He doesn’t mention that it’s illegally charmed.
“What’s a motorbike?”
Sirius pauses, unfolding his fingers from where they had been curled in Remus’s sleeve. He rings them out elegantly, clearing his throat. “Right. Come on, I’ll show you.”
“A motorbike?”
In the distance, framed in a rigid line by the endless expanse of the city, a storm was beginning to throw itself against the horizon. The moon, once waxy and dull in the sky, was now lost between dark clouds.
Winter was approaching, and night had fallen quickly, the bustle of the city quickening around them.
“Yes. But first, we need to get you some things,” Sirius explains, “shoes, for one.”
Remus glanced down at his feet, toes wiggling.
“I don’t understand why I need to wear them.”
“This is the city, Remus,” Sirius explains, “I don’t want you to step on glass, or heroin needles.”
“What’s heroin?”
They end up getting caught in the rain, but Remus is delighted by the umbrella Sirius conjures, opening and closing it with unbridled delight. He doesn’t relinquish it even after they stumble through the threshold of his apartment, damp and breathless, Sirius’ pockets considerably emptier than they had been this morning. It was worth it knowing the fit his mother would have had. Her precious wealth spent on a werewolf.
“Wait, wait.” James, through the mirror they’d created in their second year of Hogwarts, ran a hand through his hair, the strands sticking up at every angle. “There’s a man in your house. A man you met today. A man who you don’t know anything about. A man that came from Merlin knows where.”
“I know his name,” Sirius replies.
James, predictably, bursts into laughter.
“Are you going to bring every strange man that’s been wronged by the ministry home? Let me see him, Sirius.”
“He’s not that strange,” Sirius says, glancing at Remus, who had been enchanted with the toaster since arriving at his flat. Five slices of toast were abandoned on the counter, two more already cooking. “Only a little.”
He was still, despite his childlike wonder, very intelligent, and funny.
“Sure. Seriously, let me see him.”
“Hey,” Sirius murmurs distractedly, “wasn’t your second cousin raised in a cult?”
“Yeah. They lived in Canada, though. Met him once. He had never had fish and chips before.”
Sirius didn’t know what pack Remus was from, or even where he had lived, but he had worked and lived with enough indoctrinated wizards to recognise the typical signs of psychological manipulation.
James peers closely into the mirror, blocking out the warm light of his kitchen. “Get your boofhead out of the way, Sirius.”
Sighing, Sirius angles his neck to the side, revealing Remus, with his pile of toast and in his yellow platform shoes, the only pair he had allowed Sirius to buy him.
“I knew it! You’re such a dog, Sirius.”
“Shut up, James.”
Sirius wasn’t housing a man because he was cute. He was doing a favour to a citizen in need. He doesn’t voice this, though, for fear of James laughing so hard that it would draw Lily in, who would also laugh at him. At this point Harry would probably join the mockery.
“I’ll make sure he’s not secretly a murderer, and you and the sprog can visit.”
“Fantastic,” James says, “It’ll be good for Harry to meet a loon. Lily says she’ll kill me if he turns out posh.”
Sirius changes the sheets in the guest bedroom, pulls open the windows to allow the grassy breeze through, and vanishes the remaining dust, turning swiftly to find himself directly in front of Remus.
“Hello,” Remus says, his nose inches from Sirius’.
“Merlin, Remus.” Sirius takes a step back, when it’s apparent that Remus has no qualms to.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m cleaning up the room for you.”
“Oh. Is this all for me?”
Sirius straightens his robes, raising an eyebrow as Remus follows him across the room, warmth emanating from his skin. He was very close, and not at all disconcerted by the lack of space between them.
“Give me some space to breathe,” Sirius mutters.
Remus steps back, unoffended, and picks up one of the throw pillows Sirius had kept from when Alphard lived here. He traces his fingers over the design, rubbing a thumb tenderly over the soft fabric.
His nails are short and chipped, and his knuckles red like they had been rubbed raw. Sirius watches him from the corner of his eye, and charms the windows to repel bugs. He places an alarm on them, too, just to be safe.
He clears his throat. “You’ll have to close these before you tuck in, or you’ll freeze.”
Remus glances up, one hand still caressing the pillow.
“Thank you.”
There’s a chip in the old mahogany desk. Sirius shrugs, fixing it with a twist of his wand. “It’s nothing.”
It is nothing, really. Barely a chip in his vault. He has four guest rooms, and they all sit empty. He has more food than he will ever need, and quills that cost more than some people earn in a month.
“You have incredibly strong magic,” Remus says, staring intently at his wand.
Sirius scowls. “Damn it all. We forgot to collect your wand from Aubrey. That illiterate snail didn’t even-”
“Oh. That’s not a problem, I don’t actually have one.” Remus smiles at him. “Only the pack leader has a wand, and some of the trusted elders.”
“You never had a wand?”
Remus’ grin widens, like Sirius has said something particularly amusing.
“If you were born into the pack, or inducted at a young age, they don’t bother. Sometimes you can inherit a wand, but it’s rare.”
“What if you had to defend yourself?” Sirius demands. He can’t imagine not having his wand on him, even asleep.
“That’s what the pack leader and his circle was for.”
“Well,” Sirius says, gruffly, “we’ll go to Diagon Alley tomorrow. Olivander is the best wand-maker in the country. It’s where I received my wand.”
The smooth dogwood is comforting under his fingers, ten inches with a hippogriff feather to serve as its core.
“I have no idea what that is,” Remus says, sliding under his covers, bare toes wiggling beneath the covers. “But if it’s as nice as this blanket, I’m sure I’ll enjoy it.”
Sirius lets out a bark of laughter, and trails back over to the door, extinguishing the candles as he goes.
They’re encompassed by darkness for only a second. The gentle glow of Canis Major, painted across the ceiling, pulses with a soft, golden light, a rhythmic motion that settles over the room. Remus is silent, tracing over the Dog Star curiously.
“It’s your star,” he says, without breaking his gaze.
“This used to be my room when I stayed with my uncle,” Sirius says, shortly. “I can get rid of it.”
“It’s lovely,” Remus says, grinning coyly. “The stars were beautiful where I lived. Thousands of them. I was a bit disappointed by the lack of them here.”
“Pollution,” Sirius offers simply, “enjoy your light-show. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight, Sirius.”