Marauder Big Bang

Title: Advanced Potion-Making
Author: fire_everything
Beta, cheerleader and all-around facilitator: brighty18
Artists: lilmisblack (banner), niccc (all other art)
Pairing: Snape/Lily
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Authorial presumption, profanity, magical dub-con, mild kink, possibly disturbing reproductive issues/procedures, angst, excessive length
Word Count: Um…shorter than Half-Blood Prince?
Summary: Nineteen-year-old Snape’s post-Hogwarts life is going surprisingly well. He has gainful employment, valued skills, a place of his own, a political affiliation, a mentor he admires, and hard-won freedom from several past relationships that tormented him. But he also has stubbornly lingering feelings for his estranged friend Lily Evans, an unquenchable hatred for her fiancé James Potter, and a continuing compulsion to tamper with and improve perfectly adequate potions recipes. When these three conditions come together one fateful day, Snape undertakes a potions experiment that will irrevocably change several people’s lives for better and worse.
Author’s Note: At one point while reading Deathly Hallows, I actually thought the book was going to end with the twist that serves as this story’s central plot point. When it didn’t, this corrective fic became necessary.
Special Note: Due to the unusual length and complexity of this fic, it will be posted in multiple parts. (Chapters 1-4 can be found here: http://community.livejournal.com/marauderbigbang/10805.html.) This post includes Chapter 5, "The Reversal." Subsequent chapters will be posted as they become ready, and will appear as new posts in your friends lists, so that readers who want to continue following the fic as it progresses will be automatically alerted to the appearance of new installments.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters, places, objects, ideas, and related material are the property of JK Rowling and her various publishing entities. Neither the author, the artists, nor the marauderbigbang are in any way making a monetary profit from this posting.



Chapter 5: The Reversal

When Snape returned to consciousness, he was lying on his back on what felt like a slab of stone. He felt strange: his mind was at peace, but the peace seemed artificial, imposed; somewhere underneath it, he knew there was something terribly, catastrophically wrong. Dragging himself back to the waking world, he forced himself to open his eyes.

When he saw the black stone wall beside him, it all came back instantly. He suddenly felt cold to his core, as if his blood itself had hardened into ice and could no longer circulate.

“Severus.” The cold feeling receded a little.

The voice was familiar to him, but something in the tone was odd. Snape turned his head and saw Albus Dumbledore sitting beside him. Solid black stone walls, devoid of any marking or decoration, surrounded them on all sides.

Snape sat up abruptly. As he did so, the wall behind Dumbledore shifted and shimmered; Snape could suddenly see into the empty space beyond, which seemed to be some sort of corridor. The next moment, however, the space was no longer empty; Snape saw the floating hem of a black robe flutter into view, and gasped. The coldness rolled back over him. But even as he watched, waiting for his fears to be confirmed, the space became a solid stone wall again. The room now felt even smaller than before, and Snape gasped again, as though the air in the room was being sucked away.

Though his back had been turned, Dumbledore seemed aware of what had happened too, for he rose to his feet, saying, “Excuse me for a moment.” He went to the wall and, as Snape watched, walked right through it.

Snape stared at the wall, and soon he could see through it to the corridor again. He got up and stumbled toward the open space, but as soon as he reached his fingers out to touch it, the wall became solid stone again. A moment later, Dumbledore walked effortlessly back through the wall, emerging right next to the place where Snape stood.

“I’m in Azkaban,” said Snape tonelessly.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. His face was still and somber, and it occurred to Snape how unusual this was. Even in incongruous moments – times when Snape had been called into his office for some misdemeanor, for instance – the headmaster’s face was always mobile and often mischievous, the nimble play of his thoughts almost constantly visible in his expression. Now that face was nearly as stony as the walls around them.

“The wave of cold you felt washing over you just now was due to the presence of dementors nearby,” said Dumbledore, confirming what Snape had already guessed. “There are several of them on patrol here among the holding cells. I have already asked them to cease patrolling while we talk, and keep their distance, but dementors do not respond well to orders. I was forced to go out just now and cast the Patronus Charm to keep them away.”

Snape thought for a brief, hopeful moment of his own Patronus, the fiercely protective wolverine, then realized that of course he would never be able to summon it here. Half the point of this place was that one was completely powerless to ward off its evils. And of course his wand would have been confiscated upon his arrest, although he did not remember the Aurors saying anything about it. Snape felt for it anyway. As he confirmed its absence, he wondered with a chill whether it had already been destroyed.

“Your wand, incidentally,” said Dumbledore, as if Snape had spoken this last thought aloud, “is being held by the Auror Office until your trial is over.”

Snape’s insides seized up with fear at the thought of being tried. “Will they destroy it then?” he asked, not wanting to know the answer.

“That will depend on the trial’s outcome,” said Dumbledore. “But let us sit down.” Snape looked back toward the thing he had been lying on when he awoke, and saw with surprise that it was dressed like a comfortable-looking bed, with a blanket folded down to reveal a sheet and pillow. But as he sat back down on it, the bedding vanished instantly; it became, just as it had been at first, a slab of cold, naked stone.

Next to the bed was a stool that also appeared to be made of stone; it was on this stool that Dumbledore had been sitting at first, and the headmaster now resumed his seat there. Snape wondered, however, if the hard-looking stool was in reality padded and comfortable – though for Dumbledore only, of course, not for him.

Snape turned to look at the wall behind Dumbledore. It was still shifting and changing every few seconds. Thankfully, there were no dementors visible on the other side of it now.

“The wall is always solid, isn’t it,” said Snape, not phrasing the words as a question. “For me, I mean,” he added, “not for you. I can see right through it sometimes, but it’s an illusion.”

“It is a spell, placed there for the purpose of driving inmates more quickly to insanity and despair,” said Dumbledore bluntly. “It presents the momentary illusion of freedom, of course, and then takes it away. I would advise your keeping your eyes away from it. In fact, let us change our places.”

He produced his wand and waved it, and without either of them having moved, Snape found that the Illusioned wall was now in back of of him. Dumbledore was now facing toward it instead, while Snape gazed past the headmaster at unchangingly solid black stone.

“Severus,” Dumbledore began in a grave voice, “I have been to see your mother in St. Mungo’s.”

Snape’s stomach suddenly felt as if he had just swallowed a Bludger whole. He could not bear to imagine what Eileen must be thinking and feeling right now. He hoped the doctors were giving her loads of sedative and Forgetfulness Potion.

“How is she?” he found the voice to ask.

“Her bones are entirely mended, but she is not at all well, as you might imagine,” said Dumbledore. “She told me everything that happened – or rather, since I wished to spare her the pain of retelling it, she consented to let me view her memory of this morning’s events.”

Snape was not entirely sure what Dumbledore meant when he spoke of viewing Eileen’s memory, but at that moment he was more concerned with a different matter.

“This morning’s events?” he said anxiously. “How long have I been here?” It felt like weeks, months, seasons.

“About half an hour,” said Dumbledore. Snape felt a wave of sickness wash over him.

It must have shown in his face, for Dumbledore reached into a sort of knapsack at his feet that Snape had not noticed before, and produced a large bar of chocolate.

“Have a piece,” he said. “It will help keep your strength up as we talk.” Snape unwrapped the chocolate, broke off a corner of it, and put it in his mouth, though he did not feel the least bit hungry. He wondered how he was to keep his strength up after they talked, but perhaps it was a moot point. Perhaps, in the future, he would cease to care about keeping his strength up.

“I know from your mother’s memory,” resumed Dumbledore, “exactly how you came to cast the Cruciatus Curse on your father. Everything he said and did, everything your mother said and did, everything that led up to that point, including your father’s debt and the night he spent in jail.”

Snape closed his eyes and felt himself sinking. Tobias had spent one night in jail, but he would be here for the rest of his life.

“Severus,” said Dumbledore, touching his arm suddenly, “it is not a foregone conclusion that you will be here for the rest of your life.” Again he seemed to know exactly what Snape had been thinking.

“The Unforgivable Curses each carry a mandatory life sentence in this place, yes,” continued the headmaster, “but there are several circumstances in your case which may soften that blow. Chief among these, of course, is your age. You are not yet a legal adult, and the Wizengamot will have to take that factor into consideration when they sentence you.”

The partial comfort that this idea brought to Snape was immediately dispelled by the word “sentence.”

“Is there any chance I won’t have to serve time here?” asked Snape, though he felt sure he already knew the answer.

“No, Severus, there is no chance of that,” said Dumbledore heavily. “You may escape a life sentence, but you will certainly do some time here. I am aware of no legal precedents that suggest anything else.”

“But I was provoked!” cried Snape, realizing too late that Tobias had used those exact words a year ago to justify attacking his wife and son. He cringed, waiting for Dumbledore to repeat what he had told Tobias last summer: it was his job to resist provocation.

But Dumbledore surprised him. “I know you were,” he said, in a voice closer to kindness than any he had yet used. “Your father harmed you physically and humiliated you—”

Snape suddenly realized that he was no longer in physical pain. He put his hand to his nose, which did not hurt; then he put a finger into his mouth to feel for damage there, but found none.

“Your nose, which was broken, has been mended,” confirmed Dumbledore, “and the three teeth that your father knocked out have been restored. You were given a mild sedative as well, of which you might have felt the effects upon waking several minutes ago. The Aurors called a mediwizard to follow you here after they saw the condition you were in. There ought to be a full-time medical staff on call in this place; heaven knows they need one. But even medical generosity and selflessness have their limits: no humane doctor could bear to work here all the time.”

Dumbledore paused, then continued where he had left off a few moments before. “Your father, as I was saying, harmed and humiliated you, and he injured your mother in a particularly cruel way, a way that was both petty and sadistic.

“His behavior to both of you was disgusting,” added Dumbledore with surprising vehemence, “and I well understand why you reacted as you did. I understand it better than you know, Severus. The Wizengamot, too, may view your situation with a certain degree of sympathy.

“But the Unforgivable Curses are called Unforgivable for a reason. The pain of the Cruciatus Curse is beyond what a human being can endure for more than a few seconds – worse even than the pain your father inflicted on you and your mother. I cannot fully excuse what you did.”

Snape abruptly ceased to believe that Dumbledore could read his mind, for if he could, he would never have said such a thing. “It was more than just today!” Snape cried. “It’s gone on for years and years! He hates us both, he’s always hated us. He hates us for being magical, but he turns round and punishes us because he can’t exploit our magic. He’s tried to kill us in every way he could without actually taking our lives.”

“I know,” said Dumbledore simply, surprising Snape again. “And yet I cannot come between you and your punishment. As I did last year” – Snape felt an unwilling twinge of guilt at this reminder of the headmaster’s previous intervention on his behalf —“I will do everything legitimately within my power to convince the rest of the Wizengamot, of which I am a member, that they should be as lenient as the law will allow, even though I am no longer your headmaster.”

The realization of what this last sentence meant tore into Snape’s heart like a blunt knife. Of course he could never go back to Hogwarts; he would have known this even without the Aurors saying so. But this comparatively minor punishment almost seemed to him a worse fate than a life sentence in Azkaban. Hogwarts was everything; without it, what kind of life could there be for him? He might escape eternity in Azkaban, but what good could that do him without Hogwarts? He would be a nonentity, an outcast, a person without family, community or credentials; his life would be a prison whose walls were invisible but real, much like the Illusioned wall of his cell. He closed his eyes and twisted his mouth in a desperate bid to keep from crying.

“I did warn you that your place at school might be in jeopardy, Severus,” he heard Dumbledore say. “I am sorry that you did not, or could not, heed that warning.” At the touch of severity in the headmaster’s voice, Snape looked up angrily, all thought of tears forgotten. It was not until many years later that it would occur to Snape that perhaps these words had been Dumbledore’s way of doing him a small favor.

“That is all I will say on that subject, however,” said Dumbledore in a different tone, “now or ever again. You are hardly in need of further punishment from me, and it is no longer my place to give it to you anyway.”

“What am I going to do now?” said Snape.

“Wait,” said Dumbledore simply. “Wait for your trial date to be decided upon, then wait for your trial. Do not think beyond that; it will be a good exercise for you. Your future in this place depends, above all else, on your ability to control your own thinking. To think, at the times when it can do you some good, and to cease thinking when it cannot. And perhaps most importantly of all,” he added, “to learn which times are which.” He reached again for the knapsack on the floor at his feet.

“Because you are not, at present, under sentence, the rules which govern you are somewhat less strict than for other prisoners,” said Dumbledore. “You are allowed, for instance, a few personal effects.”

He drew out a substantial role of parchment, a new quill and a large bottle of ink. “These are for when you wish to think,” he said, and laid each item in turn on Snape’s bed.

Dumbledore reached into the the bag again. “This,” he continued, “is for when you do not wish to think.” He pulled out a book and handed it to Snape. It was Quidditch through the Ages, by Kennilworthy Whisp.

“I hate Quidditch!” exclaimed Snape.

“Your mother told me as much,” said Dumbledore. “That is why I chose this particular book.”

“What do you mean?” asked Snape.

Dumbledore replied, “Remember, this book is not for thinking. It is for not thinking. In that endeavor, it will help you.”

“Is that the only book that’s in there?” Snape asked, looking toward the knapsack.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “I could have brought others; for instance, I could have brought the sixth-year textbooks for Defence Against the Dark Arts or Potions.” Snape looked up at him eagerly; he had already looked ahead in his mother’s old copies of those textbooks, and been excited at the thought of covering the material in them in class. Then he froze, realizing: he would never take those classes, never use those books. He turned away from Dumbledore, screwing up his face again.

“Do you understand now why I did not choose those books?” asked Dumbledore, and Snape nodded mutely.

“There is more for you here, Severus,” Dumbledore continued. He brought out another chocolate bar as large as the first.

“This is to help keep your strength up,” he said. “I would advise you to eat it sparingly, however. There is no telling how long it may take your case to come to trial, though I will do all I can to speed up the process. And this,” he said at last, “is for when you cannot bear thinking, but cannot keep yourself from doing so.” He withdrew a small bottle of purple liquid that Snape recognized immediately: Sleeping Potion.

“No doubt you already know this,” said Dumbledore, “but I will say it anyway: this stuff will take you to a place of dreamless sleep for the full length of a night. But you should use it only in conditions of the greatest need. You must do your best to train your mind to do without such crutches for the time to come. In any case, there is much less of it than there is of the chocolate.”

Snape stared at Dumbledore. He knew he should say thank you, but he found he could not honestly feel thankful for very much just then.

“There is no need to thank me, Severus,” said Dumbledore, just as if Snape had spoken, “but you are welcome anyway.”

Snape stared again, then thought of something else. “Can I have visitors?”

“You are permitted three short audiences with visitors per week until your case comes to trial,” said Dumbledore.

But Snape had been thinking, and now he shook his head. “On second thought, I don’t think my mother should come here,” said Snape. “It would upset her too much.” Although this was perfectly true, he also thought seeing his mother would upset him too much.

To add to his misery, he had just thought about Lily for the first time since casting the Cruciatus Curse. She would never visit him here, nor should she. He ought to be to her now as someone dead, and as that thought came over him, he wished that he was. He put his hand on the cover of Quidditch through the Ages; he could already see what Dumbledore meant about the value of not thinking.

“I will speak to your mother tomorrow and see how she is,” said Dumbledore. “If we both feel it is a good thing for her to come, she will do so. If we do not, I will come instead.”

Snape nodded, not knowing what to say.

“Severus, I must leave you soon,” said Dumbledore. “Visiting hours are very strictly limited here. Do you think that you have what you need to make it through the afternoon and night?”

“I don’t know,” said Snape.

“A wise answer,” said Dumbledore. “I do not know either, but you have a strong mind, and I think you will do as well as anyone could under the circumstances.” He stood up and walked toward the Illusioned wall, which was suddenly in front of him again.

“Good luck, Severus, and remember that tomorrow will follow tonight, here as everywhere else,” said the headmaster. Snape nodded, but he was already beginning to think that that, indeed, was part of his problem.

“Goodbye, Severus,” said Dumbledore, and vanished through the Illusioned wall. Snape sat staring at the place where he had disappeared, waiting for the wall to become transparent again; but by the time it did, Dumbledore had gone.

Almost immediately the dementors began patrolling again, judging by the waves of coldness that gripped Snape at regular but unpredictable intervals. In an attempt to keep warm, he got up and began pacing back and forth in the small cell.

The problem with this, as Snape soon discovered, was that every time he turned to face the Illusioned wall, it became transparent and showed him a dementor hovering right on the other side, as if it had stopped in its patrol in order to stare (if one could use that word about a creature with no eyes) directly at Snape. The first time this happened, he froze in horror, but the creature did not advance, only loomed there waiting. Eventually Snape remembered that there was a wall between him and it – but perhaps dementors could get through walls if they wanted to? Terrifying as it was, he saw no choice but to turn his back on the thing and keep pacing. He began closing his eyes before he turned toward the Illusioned wall, and found that it helped.

He paced until he was too tired to continue, then sat down on the stone slab and tried to read; but he had to stop and clench his whole body in self-protection every time one of those cold waves rolled over him. In between these moments, he read all about the history of Quidditch.

Soon Snape had come to hate the game more than he ever had in his life before. He hated its triviality, its unoriginality, its violent impulses disguised as innocent fun, its boosterism, its stupid rivalries, its hypocritical attitude of superiority over Muggle sports when it was scarcely any different from them. He hated Kennilworthy Whisp too, for caring so much about this ridiculous game. But he also loved him, for Kennilworthy Whisp made Snape almost feel that there was a good side to being in Azkaban, where at least he would not have to play Quidditch, watch Quidditch, or hear people talk about Quidditch. Dumbledore had been right. Snape then began hating Dumbledore for always being right, or at least always thinking he was, and also began to love him for allowing Snape to hate him so.

He read all day and into the night – at least, it must have been hours, for he read the entire book and started over again. He remembered at one point that he had a pocket watch in his robes, and pulled it out, but it had stopped. Probably, Snape thought, that was what happened to all clocks and watches in this place. At one point he looked up and saw that a tray of what he supposed to be food had been placed just inside the threshold of his cell. The meal consisted of a bowl of grayish sludge and a glass of grayish water; it would have looked foul even to someone who was hungry. Nevertheless, Snape knew he ought to eat it; who knew when the next meal would come? He turned back to the book, intending to eat when he felt a little hungrier; but the next time he looked up, the tray and everything on it had vanished.

Scarcely caring about the loss of the sludge, he read on until he was too tired to keep his eyes open. Was it night? He was not sure; there were no windows in the cell, and the light never dimmed or went out in the corridor outside. Nor did there seem to be any means of making the inside of his cell darker.

He had already noticed with consternation that there did not seem to be a proper toilet or sink in his cell. Rather, there was a sort of ceramic basin fixed near the floor on one wall whose purpose he could not ascertain. It had a spigot like a sink, but no faucets to control water flow; it had a tank like a toilet, but no seat or means of flushing. He could no longer avoid his need to urinate, however, and this device seemed to be the only receptacle available. At least it was situated at a convenient height for the purpose.

As soon as Snape unzipped his trousers, however, the basin slid higher up the wall, coming to rest at about chest height from the floor. Only by clambering onto the stone slab would he now have any hope of being able to reach the basin. He did so, and after positioning himself unstably on his toes, he achieved an angle from which urination would at least be possible, though not at all comfortable.

As soon as he began urinating, however, the basin started to slide down the wall again; disoriented, he lost his balance and nearly tumbled off the stone slab. After finishing, he tried to evacuate the basin wandlessly with a Vanishing Spell, but was not surprised to find that nothing happened; he supposed that all inmates of this place were essentially rendered Squibs for the duration of their imprisonment. He bent down and tried to find a means of flushing the device, but instead soapy water began flowing from the spigot. Not knowing when he would next have the opportunity to wash his hands, Snape stuck them under the water. When it stopped flowing a moment later, the basin was filled with a mixture of soapy water and urine which was disgusting to look at. Snape turned away from it; with any luck it would eventually disappear as the food had.

Exhausted, he lay down and closed his eyes, but then the screaming started.

The first scream made him jump; it seemed to come from right next to his ear. He sat bolt upright, but there was no one there. The screams died down, then started up again: piteous, agonized, inhuman wails. As they went on and on, they sounded more and more like the screams of his mother when Tobias had smashed her face and wrists against the wall of their kitchen; then the sound was like the wail of despair his mother had made when she heard him cast the Cruciatus Curse; then it was like the deranged, animal cries Tobias had made while Snape held him fast in the beam of red light…

Then the screams ceased to be any of these things, but simply became the screams of dozens, hundreds, thousands of other prisoners around him, all tortured by their own consciences or nightmares, all trapped here forever with no escape, no comfort, and no hope.

“Shut up!” Snape shouted back at the top of his lungs, but the screams joined together, became a mass of high, shrill, inhuman sound, the sound of unsustainable, unendurable suffering that nevertheless sustained itself and endured. He grabbed the book and walked to and fro, reading aloud from Kennilworthy Whisp as loudly as he could, but then the light abruptly went out in his cell. He tossed the book in what he thought was the direction of the stone slab and kept walking, repeating the last sentence he had read: “It is advisable, too, to play at night.”

“It is advisable, too, to play at night,” Snape said over and over again as he walked. “It is advisable, too, to play at night.”

He recited this line until his throat was parched and his voice cracked, but still the screams kept coming. He walked until he could no longer stand, until he collapsed against the wall, and still the screams kept coming…He knew then that he would probably never be able to sleep for two minutes together while he was here, and that by the time this night ended he would have lost his mind…that is, if it was night at all, and if nights ever ended in this place.

* * *

Yet at some point he must have slept, for he was suddenly aware that his eyes, now open, had been closed a few moments before.

He was lying on the floor of the cell, and the stone was cold, but it was not the sort of marrow-deep cold that the dementors brought with them. He sat up.

Something else was different: the Illusioned wall was no longer shifting between solid stone and the appearance of open space. It was now transparent all the time. No dementors were visible in the corridor outside; indeed, there was no sign of life or movement at all. The screams had stopped; it was completely silent. Snape stared around him cautiously. He did not trust any of these new changes, not one bit. He must proceed carefully.

Before he could come to any decision about what to do, he heard footsteps sounding in the corridor. Snape knew, of course, that dementors, lacking feet, made no sound when they moved, but he was frightened nonetheless. He backed into the stone slab and sat down, his heart pounding.

Relief poured over him when he saw that the owner of the footsteps was Dumbledore. Yet even from a distance, Snape perceived immediately that something was wrong: the headmaster’s face was cast in deep shadow. Snape wondered if something had happened to his mother.

Dumbledore passed over the threshold of the cell, and strangely enough, this time he seemed to need no magical assistance whatsoever, as if there had been no wall there at all. The headmaster stood just inside the cell, looking most troubled.

“What is it?” Snape said nervously.

“You are free, Severus,” said Dumbledore grimly.

“What?” said Snape. He wondered suddenly if perhaps Dumbledore’s entire presence there were another illusion, another trick of the prison to tease its inmates out of their sanity.

“You are free,” Dumbledore repeated. “You are free to leave this place right now.”

“I don’t believe you,” said Snape firmly, determined not to be taken in by whatever game the prison was playing.

“I scarcely believe it myself,” said Dumbledore. “Nevertheless, it is true.” Yet he still looked terribly troubled.

“What do you mean?” said Snape, a little shaken by the continuing realism of this particular illusion.

“The charge against you has been dropped,” said Dumbledore. “Or rather, to be strictly accurate, it has been wiped out of existence.”

Snape stared at him dumbly, too startled to think of arguing.

“This morning I went to the records library of the Wizengamot,” said Dumbledore. “I asked for the records of all underage wizards and witches who have ever been arrested for casting one of the Unforgivable Curses, beginning with yours. But the Wizengamot did not have a record for you. In fact, they had never heard of you.

“I was mystified, as you might imagine. I went straight to the Auror Office and looked for your arrest record there. But I found nothing in your file more recent than the court record from your hearing last summer.

“One by one, I sought out each of the four Aurors who came to arrest you yesterday. One by one, they told me they knew nothing about it. They did not recognize your name, and each of them said that he or she had made no arrests at all yesterday, for Unforgivable curses or anything else. Each of them was convinced I had confused them with someone else.

“I then went to St. Mungo’s and spoke to the three medical personnel who attended to your mother yesterday and witnessed your arrest. All three of them denied ever having been to your home, seen you, or provided aid to your mother. There is no record of your mother’s having been admitted to St. Mungo’s yesterday, so I could not even question the doctors who treated her.

“I then went to your home. Your mother was there, with her nose and wrists mended, and her health exactly what it was two days ago. I asked her how she was, and said I had heard she might have had some trouble recently concerning her husband.

“‘Funny you should ask me that, Professor,’ she said. ‘I did have, two days ago. He’d rung up a hundred-pound pub tab that he had no means of paying, and they arrested him for it. But when he got to the jail, the police sent him straight home again. They told me that ‘a good Samaritan’ had paid off the entire debt, and that Tobias’ record was clear. I’ve no idea who it might have been, and it bothers me that I’ll never know who did it. Though I’m not sure whether I ought to thank them or curse them.’”

Snape stared, unable to believe any of this, but also unable to close his ears to Dumbledore’s story.

“Finally I returned to Hogwarts. Yesterday morning, when you were arrested and simultaneously expelled from school, I received immediate notice of both facts from the Ministry, shortly after the event took place. I quickly made a copy of the notice, filed it, and took the original with me when I came to see you here. That original has vanished from the pocket of my robes in which I kept it – a pocket upon which I had placed a security charm to prevent the accidental loss or theft of its contents. The copy I filed – again in a secure place, locked and charmed – has also vanished.

“In short, Severus, all public record and all public memory of your arrest has been erased, exactly as if it had never happened,” concluded Dumbledore, looking suddenly older and more tired than Snape had ever seen him look. “Azkaban has no record of your ever having been incarcerated here, and if you step over this threshold now” – he looked down at it– “you should find the wall offers you no resistance. In fact—” Dumbledore took a closer look at something on the ground, then bent down to pick it up— “I believe this is yours.”

Dumbledore handed the object to Snape. It was his wand.

Snape took it, gripped it tightly, and came over to the threshold of his cell. Trembling a little, he put out his foot. He still rather expected it to smash into hard stone.

But it landed easily on the other side of the threshold. Dumbledore was right; the wall had gone. Snape followed with the rest of his body, then quickly looked up and down the corridor. No other person or thing besides themselves was about; he could see into several adjacent cells, and all were empty.

“How…?” Snape stammered. He turned back to the headmaster, who still stood just inside the cell, his face wearing a funereal expression. Snape could not understand why Dumbledore should be so downcast at this miraculous news. Was he frustrated by the miscarriage of justice it represented? Perhaps that was it, thought Snape; yet Dumbledore did not even seem angry, only strangely despairing.

“Why has this happened?” asked Snape. “Has there been some sort of time warp?”

“Severus, let us leave this place,” said Dumbledore, again with that mysterious unhappiness. “You are in no danger of being reincarcerated, and yet this is an unhealthy place in which to linger. Let us go. Since you are underage, you must Side-Along Apparate with me. I will take you home. Do you have your things?”

Time warp or no time warp, Snape was not about to step back inside that cell. He raised his wand, glad to have a chance of further testing the apparent restoration of his freedom.

“Accio chocolate!” he called, and sure enough, the two chocolate bars (which he had managed not to touch since Dumbledore’s departure the day before) flew toward him. He then summoned the knapsack and dropped the chocolate into it. The sleeping potion, the writing implements, the book all followed, as he successfully summoned each.

Dumbledore left the cell then, and held out his arm to Snape. “I am astonished to find myself saying these words, but: I believe we can Apparate straight out of Azkaban,” said the headmaster. “Are you ready?”

Snape nodded vigorously, and took the offered arm. The next moment that awful pressure, that terrible feeling of being vacuum-packed inside a Muggle tin can, was upon him again.

They materialized seconds later in the entryway of the Snapes’ house in Spinners End. Snape stared around himself in astonishment: they had really done it. They had Apparated out of Azkaban and not a soul nor a Dementor had stopped them. He was free.

“Let us go into the sitting room and talk for a moment,” said Dumbledore.

“It’s a little dusty in there—” began Snape. He had not done any cleaning in the room all summer, hoping that Tobias would continue to consider the room as disused and not enter it for long enough to notice the broken window. Snape stopped in mid-sentence, however, as Dumbledore flipped the switch on the wall and turned on the overhead light: all four bulbs were now burning brightly. As they walked toward the sofa, Snape surreptitiously glanced at the end table and the coffee table: both were entirely free of dust. In fact, they gleamed as if very recently polished.

Dumbledore took the armchair; Snape sat down opposite him on the sofa.

“I still don’t understand,” said Snape. “Was there a time warp?” It was the only thing he knew of that might account for what had happened.

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “No, Severus. Do you not see? Though part of me is glad you do not see,” he added, seemingly more to himself than to Snape. “Yet you must understand who has done all this.”

“Who has done all this?” repeated Snape uncomprehendingly. “Who could’ve done all this?”

“There is only one person in the wizarding world who is both capable of exercising such power and unethical enough to want to do so,” said Dumbledore. “Now do you begin to see?”

And finally, Snape did see. But he did not believe.

“But that’s ridiculous,” exclaimed Snape. “Why would he – why would anyone – want to do this?”

“Only he knows that, Severus,” said Dumbledore. “Though I fear you may learn his reasons all too soon.”

“It’s impossible,” insisted Snape. Yet a warm feeling growing and spreading within him—a feeling of intense happiness, gratitude, admiration, perhaps even love – told him otherwise. His life had been saved. Was it really the Dark Lord who had saved it for him?

Snape suddenly remembered something else, something of the most critical importance. “Does this mean I can come back to Hogwarts?” he asked, unable to keep the hunger out of his voice.

“Of course you may come back,” said Dumbledore, very gravely. “Why should you not come back when by all appearances you were never expelled in the first place?”

Snape expelled a rapid breath, then bent forward and pressed his hands to the sides of his head, as if to keep it from bursting. He could have cried from joy and relief.

Recovering himself, he looked up to find Dumbledore gazing at him. There was something so sad, so piteous in his expression that Snape flinched.

“Severus,” said the headmaster quietly, “I will not pretend I am sorry to see your place at Hogwarts restored to you. But it has been so dearly bought that in the end you may wish your expulsion had been successful.” Snape, however, found it impossible to imagine any circumstances in which he would ever wish such a thing.

Dumbledore rose suddenly. “I must be off,” he said. “You have reminded me that I have Hogwarts business to attend to. The start of term is almost upon us.”

Snape stood up too, not knowing what to say that would not expose the ridiculous extent of his happiness.

“Thank you, sir,” he managed. It was the first time in the last two days that he had addressed Dumbledore as a student would address a headmaster, and for once in his life he was thoroughly glad to do so.

“You are welcome, Severus,” said Dumbledore soberly. “I will see you at school, then, in about a fortnight.”

Snape nodded.

“Enjoy the rest of your holidays,” said Dumbledore. Then, with a pop, he was gone.

Snape sat staring into space for a few moments, until he heard the door of Eileen’s room open. She came out into the hall, then jumped as she passed the sitting room and saw him sitting there. Snape looked her over closely. Her nose, her wrists all appeared intact. She looked just as she had two days ago.

“What are you doing home, Severus?” asked Eileen in confusion. Snape recalled with a jolt that it was the middle of the week; he was supposed to be at work now. He pulled his pocket watch out of his robes; it was running again. The time was nearly half-past noon.

“I forgot my lunch, Mum,” Snape said quickly, rising. “I just came home to get something out of the icebox. I’ve got to be right off again.” His euphoric mood had just been tempered somewhat; he realized that he had not turned up at work for two days in succession, nor had he called in sick. He was sure to be fired as soon as he got to Rankin’s.

To back up his story, he went straight to the kitchen and retrieved a tin of meat from the cupboard and a slice of bread from the breadbox. His mother stood at the doorway watching him.

“Are you all right, Mum?” he asked, looking down at her.

“I’m fine, Severus,” she said with a wan smile. “Or at least, no worse than usual.”

“I’ve got to run,” said Snape, moving toward the door. “See you tonight.”

But once outside he did not run. He was already two days late; what was difference was a few more minutes?

He pulled the tab on the tin, dumped the meat onto the bread, folded it over, and ate it as he walked, thinking mostly of how wonderful it was to be walking through his hated Muggle hometown, eating inferior bread and meat from a Muggle market, knowing he could go where he chose and come home to sleep in his own bed. He had lost his job, but what did that matter? There were only two weeks left in the summer anyway, and after that he would be returning to Hogwarts. Nothing could truly interfere with the satisfaction of that knowledge.

Nevertheless, he thought about his options. It occurred to him that he could simply tell Shankley the truth: he had had a family emergency, his mother had been hospitalized, and in the panic of the situation he had forgotten to call in. Shankley might turn out to be human enough to accept this. If not, which Snape thought was more likely, perhaps he could get some temporary work somewhere else for the remainder of the summer.

As he arrived at Rankin’s and approached the stockroom at the back, he was planning the wording of his explanation to Shankley. He found his boss standing over Marcus Tench as the latter entered some figures in a ledger.

“Don’t round yet, mind you!” Shankley told Tench warningly. “Don’t round till the very last moment. Every penny counts, you know.” Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned.

“Oh, hello, Snape,” said Shankley blandly. “You’re a decent hand with figures, aren’t you? You can check over Tench’s work when he’s done, get a second set of eyes on the numbers. In the meantime, there are some boxes out back that need breaking down.”

Snape stared. Was it possible? Had Voldemort even seen to this?

“You weren’t looking for me, were you, Sh—Mr. Shankley?” Snape corrected himself, just in time. “You didn’t miss me?”

“Snape, I don’t mind saying in front of Tench here that you and Morris are the best of a bad lot this summer, but I don’t like you that much,” said Shankley, and walked out of the room.

On the way home from work that evening, Snape finally remembered Tobias. It was a shame in a sense that Voldemort had had his father’s debt paid off, or wiped the barman’s memory or whatever it was he’d done; Snape would have liked to see his father held accountable for something for once in his life. But it was a small price to pay for having his wages in full, Eileen’s bones mended, and – most important of all – every excruciating memory, every painful hint that her son had been marked down to spend perhaps the rest of his life in Azkaban, gone from his mother’s mind forever.

Snape walked into the kitchen, feeling calmer and more equal to the demands of life than he’d done in ages. Upon seeing his father standing there peering into the icebox, however, some of his old nervous hostility returned.

Tobias turned, saw Snape, and visibly flinched.

“Stay away from me!” he cried. “I’m leaving now. Come into the room, but stay where I can see you. Don’t make any sudden moves, and don’t even think of putting your hands in your pockets.”

Snape held up his hands in a sarcastically exaggerated gesture, to show how empty they were. What was this all about?

“I’m leaving now,” repeated Tobias, whose hands were full of food he had just foraged. “Move away from the door and let me out. Don’t come near me.” Snape, not eager to come closer in any case, did as he was requested.

Tobias moved skittishly out the kitchen door; soon Snape heard his feet moving up the stairs. “And keep your boss away from me too!” Tobias yelled, as an afterthought.

“My boss?” said Snape. “What are you talking about?” Had Shankley somehow learned about Eileen after all, and come over to investigate Snape’s whereabouts while he had been away?

“That tall, odd bloke who looks like a vampire!” shouted Tobias, as if it were obvious to whom he was referring. “A fucking menace to society, he is. Keep him well away from me, I’m telling you!”

As it came clear to him what and whom his father meant, Snape almost laughed. Tobias, alone among the witnesses to Snape’s casting of the Cruciatus Curse, had not had his memory modified; on the contrary, he had apparently had it enhanced.

Snape put his head into the hall. “He’s hardly someone I’d give orders to,” he called up the stairs. “On the contrary, he’s a bit of a loose cannon. Nobody can control him. Nobody in their right mind would even try.”

“Get away from me!” screeched Tobias, and ran headlong up the stairs. A piece of cheese bounced back down in his wake, but he did not come back to retrieve it.

The rest of that summer was markedly more pleasant than the beginning. Snape hardly saw his father, who kept to himself and skulked away whenever he saw either Snape or Eileen coming. For his mother was leaving her room a little more often these days: by the last week in August, things had improved so much that on several occasions, Eileen sat in the kitchen all the while that Snape cooked dinner, then remained there to eat a full meal with him. During these times they talked about the coming term at Hogwarts. Eileen said that sixth year had been her favorite year of all.

“The anxiety of the O.W.L.s is all past, and the workload is a little less,” she said. “You’re not worried about the N.E.W.T.s yet, nor do you have to feel sad at the thought of leaving. It’s the perfect time, really.” Snape felt certain he would agree; never in his life before had he been so aware of the preciousness of another year at Hogwarts.

The day before he left for school, Snape made a final round of the house, which he was cleaning for the last time. He made one final discovery: the broken window in the sitting room had been mended.

Snape was standing and staring at the intact glass, marveling at the benficience and attention to detail of the man who had rescued him from a life in hell, when his mother came up behind him.

“He notices everything, doesn’t he?” said Eileen in a pleased voice.

Snape turned sharply. What did his mother know about Voldemort’s recent involvement in their family life? “Who?” he demanded.

“Professor Dumbledore,” said Eileen. “He came to see me earlier this month, just to ask if I was all right, and to make sure Tobias wasn’t bothering me. He remembered everything that had happened last summer, you know; he’s always had an extraordinarily good memory. We talked for a little in this room, and he never said a thing, never let on that he’d seen the window – he probably thought it would embarrass me if he called attention to it. But after he left, I noticed it was mended.”

Snape considered this, and concluded that Eileen was probably right about the source of the repair. It was, Snape thought, completely characteristic of the headmaster: a token gesture of kindness of the sort that won people over to him, yet left the larger problems of their lives unchanged.

* * *

Snape’s sixth year proved to be a bit more of a mixed bag than Eileen’s had evidently been. Just as she had said, following the strain of fifth-year and preparation for the O.W.L.s, the workload became far more manageable. Snape now felt more than comfortable academically, he felt cocky – particularly in Potions (where his knowledge now outstripped Slughorn’s to a noticeable extent; increasingly he cut class in favor of doing his own experiments in the Room of Requirement, showing up mainly to take and ace the exams) and Defence Against the Dark Arts, where his brilliance in the classroom was suddenly complemented by an enhanced extracurricular reputation.

Although they still had not covered Patronuses in class, word had somehow got round that Snape could already conjure one – indeed, that he had done it over a year ago and been punished by the Ministry for it. His Slytherin housemates seemed ambivalent about Patronuses themselves (“They’re really not our kind of thing,” Mulciber had objected, to which Snape had retorted, “I don’t care; I want to know everything"), but they enjoyed the thought of Snape’s flouting underage magical law, getting into a showdown with the Ministry, and coming away with a slap on the wrist – twenty Galleons! Practically pocket money! Across the houses, people were impressed by the level of skill the achievement represented, and it had the final bonus of confusing Gryffindors, something Snape felt was always worth doing.

Snape was not sure how word about his hearing had got out; he figured it must have originated with someone whose parents worked at the Ministry and had heard about it over the family dinner table. It certainly did not seem likely to have come from Lily, who was, if anything, even more adamant than she had been in the spring about not talking to him or having anything to do with him. She refused to make eye contact with him in class and walked away if he made so much as a move in her direction, so it hardly seemed possible that she would be the source of any gossip which might place him in an admiring light. To Snape’s extreme irritation, James Potter was hanging round Lily more and more often this year; his interest in her was now a subject of gossip and discussion well beyond the walls of the Gryffindor common room. Fortunately, she continued to treat him like the annoying insect he was, swatting him away with insults and even a choice hex or two.

Snape continued to think and worry about Eileen after he was back at Hogwarts. Tobias’ unmodified memory of being on the receiving end of the Cruciatus Curse, and the warning visit that Voldemort had apparently paid him later, had certainly seemed to put the fear of God or the Dark Lord into him at the end of the summer, but Snape could not be sure this reform would last. Now that Snape was away, after all, the immediate threat of Tobias’ being cursed again had been removed; Snape remembered all too well how utterly his mother’s second attempt at Repulsing Tobias during that fateful argument had failed. Wasn’t it possible his father would revert to his old, violent habits sooner or later?

When September came and went without a single letter from Eileen, Snape began to fear the worst. He had begun sending Pascal home every day, whether he had a letter to deliver or not, but the owl kept coming back with his talons empty. Snape wished that there were some magical means of looking in on her, talking to her, assuring himself that she was all right. Even Muggles had their telephones; how could it be that wizards had not invented something far better to serve the same function? The Ministry was still monitoring Eileen’s wand, presumably; perhaps he should contact them to see if they could check up on her, though these days he felt leery of even the slightest unnecessary contact with those people.

By the end of the first week in October, Snape was in such a panic over Eileen’s continuing silence that for two straight nights he hardly slept for worry. On the third night he lay down late, hoping that exhaustion would finally overwhelm his anxiety and allow him to drift off.

It must have worked, for Snape had a dream, a strange and exceedingly vivid dream about his mother. In it, he seemed almost to have become his mother: he was looking out at the house in Spinners End as if through her eyes, and seeing the familiar rooms as she walked through them. What was more, he was privy to her every thought and feeling. She was very weak, and worried that she was getting even worse; she was constantly concerned about money, which was tight again in the wake of Snape’s departure; she was irritated because she had entirely run out of magical ink and was having trouble getting hold even of the Muggle ink which she might use as a substitute. Each week she had sent the Holts’ son to a different store in search of it, but Muggles did not seem to use ink for writing at all anymore, and the boy kept returning with nothing.

Aside from these matters, however, Eileen did not seemed troubled or fearful. She thought of Tobias mostly when she heard him entering or leaving the house, and when she did think about him she seemed calm, secure, unfazed by his comings and goings or his movements about the house.

When Snape woke the next morning, he remembered this dream in incredible detail; but even more striking than the images that remained in his mind was the wonderfully convincing sense the dream left him with that his father was continuing to leave his mother alone, and that she no longer lived in fear of him. He knew that these feelings constituted no proof of anything, and that he ought to find out for sure what was going on at home before he allowed himself to relax, but the dream had already given him an intense sense of relief that he could not entirely talk himself out of.

The next night he had a similar dream: again he looked out at the world through his mother’s eyes, felt her feelings, experienced her thoughts. She had received another letter from her son that morning, the sixth of the term so far, and she had become quite agitated at her inability to answer Snape’s letters. She could not even find a Muggle pen or pencil around the house to use instead of a quill…at that point in her musings, Eileen had suddenly remembered a stationery store on the other side of town, a place she had not set foot in for years. It was an old-fashioned sort of shop; surely they would sell ink there. She would send the Holts’ boy there tomorrow, though it was so far away that she would have to pay him extra for the errand.

Two days later, Snape finally received a letter from his mother. In it she apologized for the long delay in writing back to him, and explained the reason for it: she had been unable to get hold of ink to write with, and after sending the Holts’ son all over creation, she had finally got some Muggle ink from Hanaby’s, the old stationery store across town (she had taken him there a few times as a child, but he probably did not remember…).

This was all intriguing enough, but the letter contained something else that got Snape’s attention: Eileen wrote that she knew it was silly, but she had somehow known or felt for the last few days that he was thinking about her and worrying about her – though perhaps this was really her own mind inventing things, because she herself was concerned about her long silence and the guesses he might make about it.

Just in case, she wanted him to know that she was fine, and he should not worry, truly. She did not know what had come over Tobias at the end of the summer, but he seemed really to have changed. She hardly saw him anymore; he did not even take food out of the icebox these days. She was living off weekly government checks, and though these were scanty, they were enough for one person. All in all, things were much better than they had been.

Snape was still thinking about Eileen’s letter when he entered the History of Magic classroom the next day. The stuff they were covering this term was boring even by the usual standards of this class – trade agreements between wizarding Britain and the rest of Europe, various regulatory acts and tariffs on imported goods, the imposition of unified safety standards on broomsticks, wands and cauldrons – and Snape found his mind wandering back to his mother. He wondered what she was doing at that very moment, and whether it was more interesting than what he was doing…

And suddenly he had his answer. As he sat there in class, he was inside his mother’s head again. She was thinking about Gobstones, wondering what was going on in the professional Gobstones leagues these days, which she had not followed since she had gotten married…She was thinking about starting a subscription to the Daily Prophet; she had never had one at Spinners End for fear of annoying Tobias, but these days he was around so infrequently that she thought it would not matter. The Prophet’s main Gobstones coverage had always been on Saturdays; perhaps she could afford a Saturdays-only subscription…

After that day, Snape found that with determination and effort, he was able to access his mother’s thoughts at will, almost any time he wanted to check up on her. He noticed that it was more difficult to do it at times when he was preoccupied or under strain, and on a few occasions (several of them during a period when Lily and James Potter had been partnered for a series of hexing exercises in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and she had not appeared to hate every minute of it) he had failed altogether.

But for the most part, the process was reliable, and the things Snape saw while doing it were often confirmed in his mother’s letters afterward; for instance, she did begin a Saturdays-only subscription to the Daily Prophet a few weeks after Snape had overheard her thinking about it. By second term, he stopped doing it quite as often: Eileen seemed sometimes to be aware of his presence inside her head, and he did not want her to think he was snooping on her; anyway, he was afraid that one day he might catch his mother thinking about…he did not know what, exactly, but something that would be embarassing to both of them. It was best, he thought, to reserve this new ability of his for situations of real need.

Meanwhile, Snape was hotly anticipating his coming birthday in January. He would finally be seventeen, a legal adult. At last he would be able to do magic at home without worrying about the Ministry; at last he would be able to get his Apparating license, a milestone he was looking forward to even more than most Hogwarts students, he thought. He had never been a particularly skilled flier, and his secondhand broom was a disgrace; anyway, Apparition was much faster than flying. His first-ever Apparition had been extraordinarily unpleasant, it was true, but he thought that was largely due to the awful circumstances in which it had taken place; his second experience with it had been, quite literally, liberating.

But the most important thing of all about turning seventeen was that he could finally, officially join with Voldemort and become a Death Eater. Voldemort had told him he could do so once he was of legal age, but he had not told him how to do so, and Snape was becoming rather concerned about this. He wanted to join up at the earliest possible moment, on his birthday itself if he could; this would show Voldemort that he had passion and initiative. But Voldemort had said nothing about how to contact him when the time came. Perhaps he was supposed to wait for Voldemort to contact him?

His seventeenth birthday, when it finally came, proved disappointing and anticlimactic in every way. He still could not Apparate: it had turned out that Apparition lessons would not be offered at Hogwarts until later in January, after which there would be twelve whole weeks of training to get through before he could get his license. On the chance that Voldemort might pay him another visit, he kept his entire evening open after classes were done, postponing the birthday drinks in Hogsmeade that Mulciber and Avery had invited him out for. But the Dark Lord never appeared, and Snape was now worried that Voldemort would take his failure to contact him in the wrong way.

To top it all off, he found himself thinking glumly about Lily, whom he had been trying hard to put out of his mind ever since that week when she and James Potter had been hexing partners and Snape had actually heard her laughing – more than once! – at Potter’s witless jokes. This would be the first time since he had turned ten that she would not be with him on his birthday, and he found himself stupidly hoping against hope that she would use the occasion to seek him out and make up with him. It appeared, however, that Lily intended to emulate the Dark Lord in her boycott of Snape’s birthday festivities. The only nice thing to happen all day, in fact, was Pascal’s delivery at breakfast of a set of new quills from Eileen. They were really Muggle novelty items – they had come from Hanaby’s, the Muggle stationery shop – but they worked just as well as wizard-made ones, and he knew she must have set aside money from her grocery budget to get them for him. He was touched.

Apparition lessons finally began on the thirtieth of January, which by rather unkind coincidence was Lily’s birthday. As the students entered the Great Hall, took their places, and were given wooden hoops to use as the hoped-for destinations of their first Apparitions, Snape’s eyes alighted on Lily from halfway across the hall. She was probably having a wonderful birthday: her first gift would probably be a successful Apparition attempt, followed later by a surprise party in the Gryffindor common room, planned and executed by James Potter…

She suddenly turned her head and saw him looking at her. The gesture had obviously been accidental, for she immediately turned her eyes forward again and refused to look back. It was a pointed rebuff, and Snape flushed with anger.

To comfort himself and put Lily out of his mind, Snape began thinking instead of Voldemort. Once he had his license, Snape thought, he would be able to Apparate to meet the Dark Lord and swear loyalty to him. If only he knew where to go!

Their Apparition instructor was a Ministry representative called Juanita Veracruz; according to rumor, her Apparating skills were so advanced that she commuted to her job every morning from her home in Spain. She gave them the three-step mantra they were to follow in their first lesson: “Destination, Determination, Deliberation.” Veracruz made a fuller explanation of each step, but Snape was so lost in thoughts of Voldemort that he missed half her instructions. Anyway, he remembered vividly what it had been like to Apparate out of Azkaban; though Dumbledore had been the one doing the steering, as it were, Snape thought that the headmaster could not possibly have felt greater determination than Snape had to leave that place, or a greater longing to arrive at their destination. For his first solo attempt, he thought, he would try to duplicate his feelings on that earlier occasion, then simply add in a pinch of deliberation.

Veracruz was speaking again, counting down to the group’s first Apparition attempt. “Turn on the spot, feel your way into nothingness, move with deliberation…On my command, now: one…two…three!”

Snape turned on the spot, felt the familiar feeling of intense constriction…and materialized directly in front of Lord Voldemort.

For a moment he was too startled to speak; fortunately, Voldemort took the conversational lead. “Hello, Severus,” he said placidly. He was sitting on a simple wooden chair with his legs crossed and his hands folded in his lap, looking deathly pale but entirely at his ease. His voice, as before, was high, cold and perfectly polite. “Allow me to wish you a belated happy birthday,” he added.

“Sir, where are we?” exclaimed Snape, then flushed self-consciously as he realized what the Dark Lord had just said. “I—thank you very much, sir.”

He looked around; they were in – could it be? – a place he knew all too well. It was a dusky, windowless room in an abandoned wooden building; the few items in it were heavily coated with dust (though Snape felt certain that Voldemort’s chair must have dusted itself off voluntarily in respectful anticipation of the Dark Lord’s sitting down there).

“Excuse me, sir, but what is this place?” asked Snape. “It looks exactly like the Shrieking Shack.“

“The Shrieking Shack?” asked Voldemort. “I did not realize it had that name.”

“I’m sure that’s not its real name -- that’s just what we call it at Hogwarts,” said Snape quickly. “That’s where I was till just a minute ago. How did I get here?”

“You were trying to get somewhere just now, were you not?” asked the Dark Lord.

“Yes, sir,” said Snape. “We’re having our first Apparating lesson back in the Great Hall, you see. But—”

“Then of course the normal enchantment that prevents Apparition out of Hogwarts will have been lifted,” said Voldemort logically. “And we are quite close to Hogwarts, after all.”

“But I wasn’t thinking about the Shrieking Shack at all,” said Snape. “I wasn’t trying to get here."

“Perhaps not,” said Voldemort, “but you were thinking about me, if I am not mistaken.”

“Yes, sir, I was,” said Snape, marveling internally at the Dark Lord’s omniscience. “You see,” he continued eagerly, “ever since I turned seventeen I’ve been trying to figure out how I could see you again.”

Voldemort smiled. “It seems that you found a way, Severus. ‘Destination, Determination, Deliberation,’ as they say.”

“You mean…that’s how I got here?” asked Snape. He was amazed, yet not entirely surprised.

“Perhaps it was a combination of your magic and mine,” said Voldemort. “A sort of Splinching, if you will.” Was this a joke? The Dark Lord seemed to be in rather a good mood; Snape thought this was most auspicious for the communication he wanted to make, so he forged ahead.

“Sir,” said Snape, “the reason I’ve been trying to find you was so that I could tell you…I want to join you. I want to be part of your movement.”

“I am pleased to hear that, Severus,” said Voldemort, “very pleased indeed.” He smiled again, and Snape felt he was sincere. He was thrilled.

“How does it work, sir? I mean, what should I do?” asked Snape.

“Wait,” said Voldemort. “When I am ready, I will call on you.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Snape, hoping Voldemort would be ready very soon.

“Now that you have joined me, Severus,” said Voldemort, “you may use the special form of address that my followers have for me. Perhaps you already know what it is.”

Snape congratulated himself for having asked Mulciber and Avery that very question nearly six months ago. “Thank you, my Lord,” Snape said, feeling as confident as if he were back in Defence Against the Dark Arts class and Voldemort were his professor – Merlin knew, they would probably need a new one soon anyway.

“You are most welcome, Severus,” said Voldemort. “And now, perhaps you should get back to your lesson before you are missed. What was your original destination?”

“A wooden hoop,” said Snape; and instantly he felt squeezed from all sides…A moment later he was back in the Great Hall, standing inside the hoop that had been placed in front of him earlier. Juanita Veracruz was a few paces away, watching and applauding.

“Well done!” she exclaimed. “Rather a long delay, but that sometimes happens at first. And the end result was perfect. Now try it in reverse!” And she walked on down the row of students.

Snape caught the eye of Avery, who was practicing next to him; from the looks of things, Avery had not made it into his hoop yet.

“Where were you?” Avery exclaimed. “We all thought you’d Splinched yourself and died.”

“I’m fine,” said Snape. “I got sort of sidetracked. I ran into someone I knew.”


To be continued…




Special Note: Due to the unusual length and complexity of this fic, it will be posted in multiple parts. Subsequent chapters will be posted as they become ready, and will appear as new posts in your friends lists, so that readers who want to continue following the fic as it progresses will be automatically alerted to the appearance of new installments.

( Read on! )

 

Title: Dust
Author: Trinity Day (trinity )
Artists: melisus and Yue littlewolfstar
Pairing(s): None (Alt: Characters: James, Sirius, Peter, Remus)
Rating and Warnings: PG-13 for off-screen death
Summary: James Potter’s second year at Hogwarts is shaping up to be just as great as his first. Sure, his teachers are always at him to pay more attention in class, but at least he has three good mates who know the importance of having a little fun (and causing a little mischief). However, life is not as idyllic in the wizarding world at large and soon whispers and rumours are reaching even the safest corridors of Hogwarts.
Word Count: 21627
Notes: With more thanks than I can properly convey to my betas, V and Zazz.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters, places, objects, ideas, and related material are the property of JK Rowling and her various publishing entities. Neither the author, the artists, nor the marauderbigbang are in any way making a monetary profit from this posting.




If James hadn't already dropped his belongings halfway down the stairs, he would have been caught then and there and none of it would have happened. He would have waltzed right into the common room, right into the arms of the people searching for him, leaving no chance for him to go warn Sirius that McGonagall was on the lookout for him. It probably wouldn’t have made a difference in the long run, except they could have saved the prank for a time when pulling it might have made James feel better like it should have instead of worse like it did.

As it was, the only thing James worried about when he heard McGonagall had summoned Sirius was that she had somehow cottoned on to their plans. It shouldn’t have been possible. McGonagall was good—James had been forced to admit that early on last year after the Pudding Incident—but she was no Legilimens, and mindreading would have been the only way to know about the prank the Marauders were currently planning.

They weren’t even supposed to do anything with the prank that day. If Remus had had his way, the four of them would have been in the library studying, but schoolwork on a Saturday was never James’ idea of a good time. James had begged off, saying he needed to write his parents, who expected an owl at least once a week. Sirius had made his excuses, too, but poor Peter hadn’t been able to think of anything in time to stop Remus from dragging him off to worry about the ins and outs of Hover Charms.

James was just taking the letter to the Owlery, practicing his tossing and catching while going down the dormitory stairs. The scroll wasn’t as good as a proper Quidditch ball, being both lighter and bigger than a Quaffle, but every little bit of practice helped if he wanted to move up from his position as a reserve player. No matter how many people told him it was an honour just to make the team in only his second year, James knew he had to be better.

Dropping the letter all the way down the stairs didn’t feel as badly as fumbling did on the Quidditch Pitch, though it helped that no one was around to see it tumble down the steps. James really felt better about the fumble when the extra seconds it took for him to bend down and pick up the scroll let him overhear Robbie Tait’s entrance into the common room.

Tait was the sixth year Gryffindor prefect and he hated James. The feeling was mutual. Sirius and James had spent many a rainy afternoon thinking up new ways to make his life miserable after he’d busted them one too many times for being too noisy when others were studying or for getting back to the Common Room after lights out. James had even wanted Tait to be the main victim of the prank that they were currently planning, but Sirius thought that would be a bad idea since they the male dormitories were so close together. James had agreed with Sirius at the time, but now, hearing Tait badmouth them, he was ready to change his mind again.

“Where is that little bugger? What has he done this time?” Robbie Tait demanded about two seconds after the Fat Lady’s portrait slammed against the wall. The Fat Lady exclaimed quite loudly with indignation that James shared on her behalf.

Most of the room went quiet, more because they were hoping to see something entertaining than because they were intimidated. Even James held his breath, and he swore he could hear Diana Wells, the other sixth year prefect, the one Remus had a crush on, give a resigned sigh. James might not fancy her like Remus did, but she didn’t take any of Tait’s bullying sitting down, which wasn’t bad in his books.

“Which one?” she asked. James could definitely detect a note of long suffering in her voice. “Are you looking for Potter or Black?”

Tait always did save the best name-calling for James and his mates. The whole of Gryffindor knew who he was looking for from that greeting.

“Where there’s one, there’s the other,” Tait grumbled. “McGonagall said Black, but you know that Potter is up to his nose in whatever it is Black’s getting in trouble for.”

“I haven’t seen either of them all day,” said Diana.

James didn’t wait to see if anyone else in the room would pipe up and give away their location; by that point he was already scrambling up the stairs back to his room as fast as he could.

“Quick!” he shouted, startling Sirius into knocking over his inkwell. “Where’s my Cloak?”

Without waiting for an answer, which was just as well because Sirius was busy cursing and trying to find some scrap parchment to blot up the ink, James dove for his bed. He usually kept the Invisibility Cloak underneath, since his trunk was generally too much of a mess to find things when he was in a rush. It was exactly for this kind of emergency that James liked keeping the Cloak close at hand.

“What is the matter with you?” Sirius demanded, trying to wipe some of the ink off his hands.

“Shh!” James said instead, since he could hear footsteps on the stairs. Tait was going to find them any second now. There was no time left to explain, so he tackled Sirius off his chair and threw the Invisibility Cloak over the both of them. He covered Sirius’ mouth to keep him from crying out or asking what was going on.

James was just in time. There was a loud thumping at the door and Tait hollered: “Potter? Black? Open the door.”

The thumping continued, Tait not giving them enough time to respond even if they had wanted to. “Are you in there? Pettigrew? Lupin? Let me in.”

“Give them a chance to reply.” Diana had followed Tait up, and she sounded just as annoyed with his impatience as James was.

Tait didn’t seem to want to. “We’re coming in,” he declared at the same time he started turning the doorknob.

“I don’t think they’re here,” Diana said before the door opened completely. “See?” she added, when they were presented with what appeared to be an empty room.

Tait wasn’t satisfied. He came into the room and started poking around. Dipping his finger into the spilled ink, he frowned when it marked his finger, although James wasn’t sure what else he had expected a puddle of ink to do.

“What are you doing, Robbie?” Diana asked anxiously. Even prefects weren’t allowed in other people’s room without permission, except in the direst of circumstances. James didn’t think that a summons to McGonagall’s office counted as such.

“Just checking things out. Something’s not right here.”

James held his breath—and beneath him, he noticed Sirius do the same—as Tait unknowingly walked right towards them. The Invisibility Cloak would be of no help at all if Tait tripped over them, but luckily all he did was righten the fallen chair, tucking it back under Sirius’ desk.

James wasn’t able to relax for long, because instead of leaving, Tait continued to explore the room, seemingly at random. He picked up Remus’ old copy of A Beginner’s Guide to Transfiguration, thumbing through it idly, not taking any notice of the careful notes Remus wrote to himself in the margins. Whatever he was looking for, he didn’t find it in Remus’ belongings because next he moved onto Peter’s desk, picking up his set of Gobstones despite Diana’s pleas to leave things alone and get out of there. Much to James’ dismay, they didn’t go off in his face.

The more Tait went through their things, the more James had to bite his lip to keep from yelling at him. The worst test of James’ self control came a few minutes later when Tait tripped, literally, over James’ broomstick. He cursed, blaming James for being messy rather than accepting his own clumsiness. James silently cursed him right back, wishing at that moment, more than ever before, that he was old enough to learn wandless magic. If Tait had hurt his broomstick—if so much of a twig was out of place—there would be hell to pay.

Diana appeared to feel some indignation on James’ broomsticks behalf as well, because she finally had had enough. She grabbed Tait’s arm and tried to pull him out of the room. “They’re not here. It was obvious from the get-go. Let’s try the library.”

“The library?” Tait sneered, trying to resist her tug. “What are the chances of that, do you think?”

James made a note to himself to let Remus drag him there the next time, just to prove the snotty troll of a sixth year wrong.

“The Quidditch pitch, then,” Diana said.

“Potter’s broomstick is here,” Tait said.

“Somewhere, then. Anywhere. But not here. Look around! Where do you think they can be hiding? Under the beds?”

Tait’s eyes definitely darted towards the beds when she said that, and James thought for a minute he was going to get down on his knees and peer underneath.

“Let’s go,” Diana said, tugging at Tait’s arm again, this time succeeding in pulling him towards the door.

“That was close,” Sirius said, pushing James and the cloak off him as soon as the prefects’ footsteps faded out. He dusted himself off rather pointedly, but James only barely recognized the passive-aggressive show of displeasure over the clumsy tackle as he rushed over to his broomstick to make sure that Tait hadn’t damaged it.

When he failed to make James react, Sirius asked, “What was that about, anyway?”

Finally deciding that the broomstick hadn’t been damaged, James remembered the more pressing issue at hand. His eyes widened in alarm all over again. “McGonagall’s after us.”

“What?” Sirius asked. “Why? We haven’t done anything lately. I mean, there were the firecrackers that we got into the Slytherin common room by hiding them in Snape’s bag, but that was ages ago. Well, we hid them ages ago. Should have known that Snivellus doesn’t clean out his bag. Maybe next time we should use ones that start when they get too smelly, not the ones that start when they get wet.”

Sirius shook his head slightly, getting off his tangent. “The only thing we’re up to now... it could only be...” he trailed off, eyes opening as wide as James’ in dread.

“Exactly,” said James gravely, glad to have a mate like Sirius who got things just as quickly as he did. “Tukwila’s Terrible Tincture.”

“But how could she know? You don’t think she’s found the room, do you?”

“We have to go and see ourselves. It might be that she only suspects, wants to talk to us to get us to incriminate ourselves. We didn’t leave anything that’s obviously ours there, did we?”

Sirius’ brows furrowed as he tried to remember the room as they had left it last. “The cauldron’s an extra from Potions, so anyone could have taken it. The wormwood essence is only found in the Advanced Students’ Cupboard, so there’s no reason to think that we got in there. In fact, it should take suspicion off us, if anything. But... oh god, Peter couldn’t find his Defence homework last Wednesday when he got to class. Was he working on it there?”

James cast his own mind back to the Tuesday evening previous when they’d added the last of the ingredients under the darkness of the new moon. Peter and Remus had both brought their parchment and books along to work on when it wasn’t their turn to add the pods and stir steadily. And it was the very next day that Peter had been practically in tears when he got to class and couldn’t find the homework he’d sworn up and down that he’d actually completed for once in his bag. So had Professor Boyle, come to think of it, who regularly went to pieces the second even the slightest thing went wrong. James knew that Defence Against the Dark Arts teachers didn’t last long, but this one didn’t look like she was going to last the winter term.

“Maybe he forgot to write his name?” he suggested, always having to be reminded to scribble his own in the top corner just as he was handing his work in.

“Do you think McGonagall wouldn’t recognize Pete’s handwriting by now?” Sirius asked scornfully. “Or at least figure it out by all the mistakes?”

“Maybe he left it somewhere else?” James suggested without too much hope.

“We have to go check it out for ourselves,” said Sirius.

“You’re right.” James had been thinking that himself; it really was the only thing to do. This way, they might get a better idea of how much dirt McGonagall had on them and know what exactly they would have to come up with an explanation for to keep themselves out of trouble.

Getting out of Gryffindor Tower was a bit tricky, even with the Invisibility Cloak. The common room was busy and some of the fourth year boys were experimenting with Summoning Charms. For one tense moment, Sirius ducked the wrong way when a mug of pumpkin juice came too close to them, almost letting the Cloak slip right off. Tait and Diana were already gone, but enough people had heard the prefect’s rant to know that McGonagall was after their heads—and they would have a lot of explaining to do if they suddenly appeared out of the middle of nowhere. James’ dad had used the Cloak all through Hogwarts without a single incident—as did his dad before him and his dad before him. James didn’t want to be the one to break the streak, not when he was only just beginning his second year at Hogwarts.

Eventually, they made it out with only a few bruises, and once in the corridors, it became much easier to rush down to the first basement where Tukwila’s Terrible Tincture was tucked away in one of the disused classrooms.

Neither boy was expecting what they saw when they got there.

Sirius slipped his head out from under the cloak so that only his head bobbed around. “It’s all here.”

“Maybe she hasn’t taken it away yet.”

“Maybe it’s a trap,” said Sirius, sliding the rest of the way out of the Cloak. He walked around the room with his wand at the ready, although what he was expecting to do if confronted by McGonagall, James didn’t know. It wasn’t like they could attack a teacher.

“Maybe she thinks that if she brings us here and shows us, we’ll have to confess.” They wouldn’t, of course, even if they hadn’t been forewarned, but McGonagall was always trying new ways to keep them from getting into trouble.

“Are you sure she knows?” Sirius asked, once again voicing what James was wondering himself. “What did she say, exactly?”

“It wasn’t her, it was Tait. And he said McGonagall needed to see us immediately. He asked what we’d done this time, but of course no one in the common room knew because we hadn’t done anything yet.”

“But how did McGonagall know?” Sirius asked.

“Does it matter?” James asked, although he was dying of curiosity himself. “We’re still going to get in trouble. We haven’t done anything else lately; there’s no other reason why McGonagall would be angry.”

“Then you know what we have to do?”

James thought of a few things—like using the Invisibility Cloak to spy on McGonagall to see what had tipped her off, for one—but none of them seemed likely. “What?” he asked.

“We have to give her a reason to get us in trouble,” said Sirius, smirking slightly. “We’re not going to get the chance to use the Tincture again. Think about it. Even if we do convince her it isn’t ours, she’ll confiscate this batch. And if we try to brew another, she’ll just know who’s to blame. No, we have to use this and we have to use it now. We can’t let such a brilliant plan go to waste.”

It was a nice rallying speech, but largely unnecessary with neither Remus nor Peter there. James had been on board from the time the first word was out of Sirius’ mouth.

“It’s not as good as it should be,” he said. It was supposed to brew for another week and a half, until the full moon had risen and set, but even now they could use it. It wouldn’t be fully potent when it was still so fresh, but it should still leave a lingering stench that wouldn’t wash off for days. “We’ll have to use more of it—which means that we’ll only be able to use it once—”

Before James could remind him of the list of targets they’d made, Sirius broke in with his choice. “The Slytherins.”

“Tait’s being even more of a pillock than usual,” James argued, not able to forget the way he’d rifled through their room and tripped over his broomstick.

“And the Slytherins are berks all the time.” When he saw that James was going to argue, he explained further. “Tait’s already looking for us. We can hardly ignore a summons from McGonagall herself, even if it is only an idiot prefect passing the message along. We’ll get him back another time; it’s not worth it for this. The Slytherins won’t suspect a thing and we’re more likely to pull it off before they call for help.”

“It’s a Saturday,” said James. “They’ll be in their common room—or the library, or somewhere where we can’t get them.”

“They’ll all be together for dinner.”

James shook his head. “That’s hours away. Do you think we’ll be able to avoid McGonagall and the prefects until then? Besides, I don’t think we’ll be able to douse them during dinner, not with all the teachers and Dumbledore watching. Maybe if we had time to think of a way to get them all and do it without getting into trouble. But we don’t have time; we’ll have to go for someone easier.”

“But it can’t be random,” was Sirius’ condition. “We can’t waste this on some poor bloke whose only crime was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“Someone who deserves it.”

“Someone who deserves whatever’s coming to him.” Sirius quickly came to the same conclusion James had been circling around.

“There’s only one person who fits that description. Sirius, I think the answer is obvious—”

“Snape.” They both said it at almost the same second. Severus Snape, bane of their existence. James could think of no one better to test their variation of Tukwila’s Terrible Tincture on. Snape was always up to one thing or another and it was up to James and his friends to make sure the Slytherin didn’t get above himself.

“Where do you think he’d be?” James asked, mentally running through all the options. “The dungeons?” Professor Slughorn wasn’t holding one of his meetings this weekend, but Snape still went down to the dungeons on a regular basis, being the keen brown-noser that he was.

“Maybe the library.” Sirius was just as unimpressed with Snape’s study habits as James was.

“I don’t think we’ll avoid getting in trouble if he’s in the library,” added James. “There’s too many people in there. Someone’s bound to notice us and complain.”

“Who says I’m worried about getting into trouble?” asked Sirius superciliously. “We’re avoiding the teachers so that they won’t stop us, not because I’m afraid they’ll give me detention.”

James wasn’t afraid, either, and he bristled at the accusation. “You’re the one that suggested the dungeons. The whole reason we’re doing this today is because McGonagall’s on to us. We want to avoid her if we don’t want all our work to be a total waste. That’ll be harder to do if we go to the library.”

“The dungeons then. Well, if we’re going to do this, let’s do this.” Sirius didn’t apologize exactly, but James could tell that he meant it. Sirius didn’t back down from fights otherwise. “Quick, hold the beaker steady while I pour.”

It was a two-man job, filling up the beaker, since they were both forced to pinch their noses to keep the smell from overpowering them once Sirius took the lid off the cauldron. Sirius worked faster than normal, ladling the tincture, and James held his breath until he could cork it.

“Let’s go,” he said when they could breathe again.

Luck was on their side. As they approached the Potions classroom, James could hear voices within.

“Shh…” Sirius whispered into his ear, tugging his arm and leading him closer to the wall. Slowly, they edged up closer. The classroom door was opened just a crack, but that was enough to let them hear the people inside. James recognized a voice as Snape’s almost instantly.

Sirius did, too, quietly whispering, “Ready?” He wound up his arm, getting ready to launch the beaker of Tincture. It came free of the Invisibility Cloak but Sirius didn’t seem to notice.

“Wait!” James hissed back, stilling Sirius by grabbing his arm. His hand looked awkward, floating in mid-air, completely unconnected to the rest of his body. Sirius must have thought so as well, because he slipped the cloak off both of them. James quickly glanced up and down the corridor, just to double check that no one was around, before explaining his hesitance.

“If Snape’s talking, he’s not alone. What if that’s Slughorn in there?”

Sirius conceded the point, wincing at the thought of what would have happened if they’d attacked Snape with the Professor standing right there. At best, they’d be in detention for a month; at worst, they would hit Slughorn with the splatter; then they’d be lucky if they got off with detention for only a year.

“We should put the Cloak back on,” James said nervously.

“There’s no point. We’re not going to get into that room without them noticing us and we don’t want Snape—or Slughorn—to know about your Cloak, do we?” Sirius didn’t even look at James when he said this, too intent at staring at the door as if trying to see through it.

Although it made James nervous, Sirius had a point. He put the Cloak away and leaned in closer so that he could hear better.




Oblivious to what was going on outside the classroom, Snape continued to talk. “The book says you should always add the lacewing flies in first, but the author’s an idiot. It tempers the reaction of the starthistle, dulling the potency in the end.”

Snape was explaining the intricacies of some potion or another. James had to hold back a snort of laughter. That git was entirely too obsessed with showing off to Slughorn and anyone else who would pay attention, always putting the extra work into making his potions come out in just the right consistency and colour even when it didn’t make the potion work better. James had lost track of how many times Slughorn had held up Snape’s work as an example to the rest of the class.

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing.” The voice was feminine: definitely not Slughorn, who probably wouldn’t have argued back anyway, not when he could praise. “If it’s too potent, then it would be easier to overdose. There’s only so much stress a body can take.”

“That’s Evans,” Sirius said with some disdain, forgetting to keep his voice at a whisper. He had no use for the Gryffindor girl, nor anyone else who hung around with Slytherins. James didn’t think she was as bad as that, personally, even if she had the worst taste in friends imaginable. It was too bad she didn’t feel quite as magnanimous towards James, always glowering or shouting at him for the littlest things, like trying to show his house pride or prove just what a slimy git Snape was.

“Shh.”

The debate continued on in that vein for a few more minutes before James risked saying anything else.

“It doesn’t sound like Slughorn’s in there.” The Potions Master would have undoubtedly broken in by then, rarely satisfied with letting others do the talking when he could hear himself speak.

Sirius agreed with the assessment. “Shall we do this then?”

“On the count of three,” said James, but since they were both equally impatient, that was the only signal they needed to act.

James pushed open the door and then ducked out of the way so that Sirius would have a clear shot at Snape. Evans was standing close enough to be hit too, which was a shame since they shared classes together, but James couldn’t feel too sorry for the girl who chose Snape’s side. If they wanted to hit Snape, they had to move before he knew what was going on and that wouldn’t give her time to get out of the way. They would just have to figure out a charm to plug their noses.

As it was, there was enough time for Snape to recognize who had bust in through the door and the danger that represented, if the frown that started to mar his already ugly face was anything to go by. But by then it was too late: the potion was already flying through the air. Snape just started to move for his wand when the beaker crashed at his feet.

When he started sputtering and Evans started shrieking, James knew they had scored a direct hit, even if he couldn’t see the effects due to the sudden purple cloud that enveloped them both. They should have used those few confusing seconds as a head start, James realized afterwards, but the smell hit him then, and he broke into a coughing fit. It was a miracle he wasn’t sick.

James thought they’d have longer. Snape shouldn’t have recovered so quickly, but amidst the swearing and the shouting and the retching, his hand poked through the cloud of smoke, clenching his wand with determination.

“Where are you?” Snape demanded. He may not have been able to see, but James still didn’t relish going up against him. There were plenty of curses that only required knowing their general proximity, and Snape knew them all.

James could see the little extra noses popping up beneath his sleeves—it was an archaic variation on the Tincture that they’d only discovered by sheer luck, but the extra noses was what had convinced them they had to try it. James wondered if he should ask Snape if the extra noses made the smell worse—even Remus hadn’t been able to figure that out from the books they read.

When Snape’s head emerged a few seconds later, his right eye was almost swollen shut. One of the new noses, sprung from his cheekbone, had grown to a size almost as big and prominent as his regular one. Tears were dripping down his face, protection against the smell. It was even better than James had imagined, and it was worth giving Snape the extra time to catch them at it to see that image.

Sirius pulled himself together long enough to say, “Come on, let’s get out of here. The smell is killing me.”

“Yeah,” James agreed. “The Tincture was pretty rotten, too.”

They took off with another peal of laughter that only grew worse as Snape’s furious bellow followed them.

James and Sirius had the advantage of a head start and a better understanding of the castle layout than most students twice their age, but Snape kept on their tail pretty well, even after they ducked through a hidden staircase that James could have sworn hadn’t been used in the better part of a century before they’d found it a week earlier, the dust was so bad.

Two storeys up, the odds in their favour were drastically reduced when Sirius and James ran into a group of Slytherin boys. Neither had been expecting to see anyone in this corner of the castle, and they skittered to a stop in surprise. The suspicious act caught the Slytherins’ attention, and worse yet, allowed Snape to turn a corner and get them in his view (and in range of his stench).

“What?” Mulciber said stupidly, covering his mouth and nose.

James looked between the Slytherin gang, whose noses were wrinkling at the disgusting smell, and Snape. Turning to Sirius, he saw that his best mate was just as aware of their impending doom as he was. Suddenly, it didn’t seem as funny as it had a few minutes ago.

There were times when standing your ground was the only option, but being seriously outnumbered by a gang of Slytherins—in a tucked away corner of Hogwarts where no one was likely to stumble across them for hours, or even days, if things went wrong—was not one of those times. Just as Snape opened his mouth to condemn them, they shouted, together, with real panic in their voices this time, “Run!”

The Slytherins didn’t need much warning or excuse to give chase. They banded together quickly and kept close on their trail.

The flight from just Snape was nothing compared to this. James lost count of how many corners they took and the number of hexes they dodged and spells they cast in futile retaliation before the sounds of pursuit finally faded. The Slytherins were big, but they were way out of shape, and not nearly as motivated as Sirius or James.

Panting slightly, James was just about to suggest slowing down when they ran straight into one of Sirius’ cousins.

James had never learned how to keep the Black girls straight. He wasn’t even sure if this one was in Slytherin, or if the look of disdainfulness she had for Sirius was due to his general disarray and the fact that half his sleeve had been burned off by a well-aimed curse instead. James had been hit, too, and now tried to discreetly pick the feathers out of his mouth before she could turn her contempt on him.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Sirius?” she sneered.

“Showing my house pride,” he said with a grin that would goad a person into retaliation, even if she wasn’t a Black with the same quick temper as Sirius. James tensed again, ready to fight or run as the case might be, but neither of them were ready for what she said next.

“That’s a fine thing to do when your uncle is dead.”

James almost dropped his wand, but neither Black spared him as much as a glance, too concentrated on each other.

“What?” Sirius demanded.

“Uncle Rastaban is dead.”

“What? When? How?” Sirius managed to croak out, looking as flabbergast as James felt. His eyes were wide and his face was splotchy, but that could have been leftover from either the chase or because they’d both spent the past twenty minutes trying not to be sick from the smell Snape was exuding.

She frowned, but otherwise didn’t seem to be too upset that she was breaking the news to him. “He’s dead,” she repeated. “This morning. The dragon pox took a bad turn—there was nothing they could do at St. Mungo’s. Didn’t Slughorn tell you? Oh—or McGonagall, I suppose.”

“I didn’t know,” Sirius said. He turned to James, whose stomach plummeted down to his feet. James had known—that McGonagall was looking for Sirius at least—and he’d convinced Sirius that they had to pull a prank instead of seeing what she wanted.

James should have known that McGonagall never sent someone else to get them into trouble.

“Well, now you do.” Her tone was brisk and she stared at Sirius like she was trying to figure him out. “Now go pack. We’re getting picked up in an hour and here you are, running around like a lunatic.”

With that order, she swept away, presumably back towards her own common room to pack herself.

“Sirius—” James stopped when he realized he wasn’t sure what he could say.

Sirius avoided looking at him when he answered, “I guess we should go back to our room. I need to pack.” His voice was strangely hollow, but at least he wasn’t crying. James wasn’t sure what he’d do if Sirius started to cry.

They started shuffling back towards Gryffindor Tower, and James wondered if he should say something. Sirius wasn’t speaking, either, and James wondered if his throat also felt like one of Snape’s extra noses was growing inside it.

After the shock, James was no longer hyper-sensitive about their surroundings, so when he heard McGonagall’s voice boom out, he jumped. He’d gotten rid of all the feathers, but there were still small purple boils breaking out over his arm, which James hurriedly hid behind his back. Duelling in the halls was frowned upon and he didn’t want to have to come up with an explanation.

“Black!” McGonagall sounded exasperated, but her voice lacked the anger that James was used to hearing after one of their pranks. She didn’t even seem to notice James or his suspicious behaviour. “There you are. I’ve been looking all over. Where have you been?”

Sirius licked his lips and looked over to James. This was usually when they tried to come up with an alibi, but James couldn’t think of a single thing to say. Before he could start babbling the first thing that sprung to mind, McGonagall just shook her head.

“That doesn’t matter. I’m afraid—” She cleared her throat awkwardly, which threw James even more. He had never seen Professor McGonagall look so off-balance. “Mr. Black, I need to talk to you. If you would just come to my office?” The hesitancy left her voice when she turned to James. “Potter, you should go back to the common room.”

McGonagall ushered Sirius away with a firm hand on his shoulder. Sirius kept turning around to look at James, but James wasn’t sure what he wanted. He stood stock-still for a couple more minutes, even after they’d turned the corner and were out of sight, before starting back to Gryffindor Tower.

When he reached the door of their dormitory, he saw a scroll crumpled behind it. In all the excitement, James had never sent that letter to his parents.

~*~

Rastaban Black’s death got mention on the front page of the Sunday Prophet the next morning and the retrospective write-up of his life took up much of the following pages.

He was bumped from the headlines by the disappearance of Meriel Hollingberry, a witch who worked at the Muggle Liason Office. From what he knew of the Blacks from Sirius and his own mum, James wondered how many of them would be more upset over the witch stealing away attention from Rastaban’s death than the possibility that something might have happened to her. He didn’t recognize the last name after all, which meant that Meriel Hollingberry couldn’t be from one of the old wizarding families.

“Are you reading that?” Peter asked when James continued to flip through the pages, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “Only you keep shaking it. If you hold it still, I can read the comic on the back.”

The only reason he and Peter shared a subscription was because of the Martin Miggs serial. James could have just stripped the outer page and let Peter read in peace, but James didn’t actually care to read about Rastaban Black anymore.

“You’re still eating,” James complained, ignoring the half-eaten toast that still lay on his own plate. “You can get it when I’m finished.”

Peter might have made a sound of protest, but it was muffled by the crinkle of the newspaper as James folded it back and set to finding out what newest mishaps the mad Muggle had gotten himself into this week.

Remus, however, wouldn’t let him read in peace. He was in his usual seat, across the table beside Peter. He seemed to be a lot more interested in the front page of the newspaper than the last.

“Did Sirius say how long he’d be gone?” he asked.

“No,” James said. He kept his eyes firmly trained on the comic even as they glazed over at the question.

“Did you know his uncle was sick?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did Sirius—”

James cut him off. “Sirius didn’t say anything. I don’t know anything. I can’t tell you anything.”

It was more or less true. James didn’t really give Sirius the chance to say anything. After he’d been shooed away by McGonagall, James had slunk about the Owlery, not returning to Gryffindor Tower until he was sure enough time had passed for Sirius to be packed and maybe even gone home. He hadn’t explained that to Remus or Peter when he told them why Sirius wasn’t there, nor had he mentioned the way they’d found out and the part James had played in the misunderstanding. He wasn’t sure what they’d think—or even what he thought.

What Sirius thought, James couldn’t even begin to imagine. Sirius had sounded so weird when his cousin had told him the news, but Sirius hated his family, always fighting with his cousins when he ran into them in the hall, so James didn’t know why he felt so torn up over his uncle’s death. Deep down, he was afraid that Sirius was truly more upset with James for lying to him, however unintentional it was.

James thrust the paper at Peter, unread, knowing he wasn’t going to be able to concentrate on Martin’s misadventures right then.

“We should do something for when Sirius gets back,” he said because there had to be some way for James to make it up to him.

“What, like flowers?” Remus asked.

“Flowers?” James made a face, not sure why Remus would even mention them. They weren’t really Sirius’ kind of thing. James couldn’t think of a single way of working them into a prank, the only reason why Sirius might want anything to do with something so girly. “What do you mean, flowers?”

“Well, they’re traditional, aren’t they?” Remus sounded a little defensive. “When someone dies, you send flowers.”

James hadn’t known that. He didn’t actually know anyone who had died before. His grandparents had all been dead years before he was born. His father didn’t have any brothers or sisters and his mum barely talked to hers, except when she couldn’t avoid it. There was a chance she would be at Rastaban’s funeral, James realized. He’d never bothered figuring out how closely he and Sirius were related and he wasn’t entirely sure how Rastaban was related to the rest of the Black clan. There had been a brief sketch of the family tree in the article, but James had skipped over that part.

“I don’t think Sirius would like flowers,” he said, though he was a little less certain now. He might not appreciate them normally, but would he think worse of his friends if they didn’t send them now?

“I think James is right,” Peter said between mouthfuls of egg. He had the Martin Miggs comic in his hand, but he didn’t seem able to concentrate on it anymore than James had. “Sirius would hate flowers unless they, I don’t know, really cast sneezing spells on people who smelled them or something.”

“We’re trying to cheer him up, not make him sneeze! His uncle died, Peter. Have some sense!”

“I think he meant Sirius would appreciate using them on someone else,” Remus said mildly while Peter sputtered his protests.

“Nah, you’re right,” James said. “Sirius would hate flowers, even ones that might make someone sneeze. We should do something else for him, set up another prank for when he gets back.”

“Do you have something in mind?” Remus asked.

It had to be something big, James knew that much. Something that would cheer Sirius up when he got back from the funeral, make up for the mess James had made before he left.

“How about chocolates?” Peter suggested. “We can go down to Honeydukes and get him some chocolates. He’ll like those better than flowers, that’s for sure.”

“I think don’t think chocolates are for someone who’s grieving,” said Remus doubtfully.

“It would cheer me up,” Peter argued.

James shook his head. “We can get chocolates anytime. It’s not good enough for this. His uncle died. We need to do something big. Something… grand. Something brilliant.”

Both Remus and Peter looked as caught up in the moment as James was. Peter’s mouth was open slightly and he looked ready to sign up then and there. Remus didn’t look the least bit worried, his usual default expression whenever James or Sirius started getting excited or talking about something brilliant.

“What’s your plan?” he asked instead supportively.

It had a worse effect than his doubt ever caused. James deflated completely.

“I don’t know. Not yet. But I’ll think of something.”

He turned his attention back to his toast, chewing thoughtfully while he tried to plot. They had a couple days at least to come up with something suitably impressive to welcome Sirius back to Hogwarts and James wasn’t going to let his best mate down. Not again.

~*~

It took the rest of the day and a good portion of the next, but the perfect idea finally came to him in the middle of History of Magic.

“Oh!” he exclaimed out loud, sitting up straight in his desk and knocking over the bottle of ink, smearing the parchment he was supposed to be using for notes. He received a few dirty glares from his classmates, but probably only because he’d waken them from their dozing. Binns didn’t even take notice.

Peter did, passing him a hastily scrawled notes a few seconds later.

What’s the matter?

James tore off a corner of his parchment for the reply.

I just thought of the perfect thing for Sirius when he gets back.

He passed the note back to Peter, pointing at Remus as he did so. Remus was one of the few Gryffindors that conscientiously took notes during this class. Although he must have heard James’ outburst—no one who wasn’t already dead could have missed it—he was trying his best to ignore everything that was going on behind him and concentrate on the English Warlock Convention of 1102.

Peter, sitting in the desk a kitty-corner behind Remus, took James’ hint and leaned over to deliver the note. He wasn’t quite close enough to drop it on Remus’ desk without help and James watched with interest as he leaned further and further into the aisle. Just as it looked like Peter was going to have to give up or risk toppling out of his chair, one of the girls in the seat directly behind Remus took pity on him and plucked the note right out of his hand, passing it up. Remus had no choice but to take it, but still he tucked it under his parchment rather than read it like the conscientious student he was.

James took the time to wink at Ivonette, who was giggling silently over the scene before turning back to his quest to get Remus’ attention.

“Psst,” he said.

He waved. Remus noticed, but determinedly kept his eyes fixed towards the front of the classroom.

“Oi!” James tried. Most of his classmates were looking now, except for Evans, who still hadn’t forgiven James for the attack on the weekend (it didn’t help that there was one stubborn little nostril on her forearm that Madam Pomfrey hadn’t been able to get rid of) and was also determinedly looking straight ahead. Even Binns stopped and peered up. James folded his hands neatly on his desk before realizing he would probably look more innocent with a quill in his hand.

James waited until Binns cleared his throat (well, made a similar sound since the ghost professor didn't really have a throat or anything caught on it) and went back to the lecture, before deciding on a new course of action.

“Pete!” he whispered.

Peter was alarmed, quickly glancing up at Binns to make sure he hadn't noticed before turning back to James and mouthing “What?”

James pointed his chin towards Remus. “Get his attention, will you?”

Remus could hear all this; James knew by the way his face reddened slightly. Plus it wasn't just Ivonette who was giggling now. She had been joined by several of her friends and even a few of the guys had stifled a snort or two.

“How?” Peter still mouthed his question even though Binns hadn't taken notice of James speaking.

James rolled his eyes. Once again he wished that Sirius were back to help him with this. They made perfect partners in crime. Sirius would never have expected him to come up with every detail of a plan—he’d be put out if he couldn’t contribute to the effort. James had already come up with the hard part, thinking of the perfect way to welcome Sirius home, and Peter couldn’t even figure out how to get Remus’ attention in front of the most oblivious teacher.

He was saved from coming up with an answer when Calum Ferguson wadded up a small piece of parchment and threw it at Remus, bouncing it off his head. Calum was sitting on the other side of the room, the complete opposite from James and Peter, which is probably why Remus was startled enough to break his concentration and turn around to see where the wad had come from.

“Potter wants to talk,” Calum said with a small smirk.

Since Calum was on the Quidditch team with him and since the missile worked, James decided that he shouldn't retaliate. If there had been any Slytherins in the classroom, he might have been forced to, since no one threw things at his friends—even just bits of paper—and got away with it, but Calum was a pretty good bloke. They were both still reserve players, but it looked like all the practice the team captain was putting them through was working, since hitting Remus from the back of the room needed pretty good aim.

Unfortunately, Calum spoke a little too loudly, for Binns frowned and started looking around the classroom once again.

It was probably the most he’d paid attention to a classroom since before he died.

Either Binns really wasn't good at identifying troublemakers or the matching expressions of disinterest that were on all the Gryffindors' faces were what he usually saw when he took time to look at his class, because a few seconds later, Binns decided there was nothing amiss.

“This convention was especially important as it was the first time British wizards decided on a standard metal to use in cauldrons...” he droned on.

James decided to take a page from Calum’s book and started throwing bits of paper at Remus himself. Remus didn't turn around this time. The only sign that he noticed at all was that he shook his head every minute or two to dislodge the pieces that stuck there.




Meanwhile, Peter hadn't been able to come up with any idea on his own and had gone back to writing notes, passing them over to Ivonette who was only too happy to put them on Remus' desk. She even added her own postscripts on a couple, still giggling so much that James decided he would have to steal the notes so he could properly tease Remus about his new girlfriend later.

A couple of the other students seemed to want in on the fun. James wondered if maybe they were going too far, since it wouldn't do to let just anyone badger Remus and get away with it. He was considering calling the whole thing off when the bell rung at last, one of the few outside stimuli that Binns actually took note of.

Remus dabbed the remaining ink off his quill, sealing up the inkwell and packing it all into his bag before finally turning around to give James the sourest look he'd ever seen. It didn't improve any when James gave a very cheeky grin back.

Very deliberately, Remus finally deigned to take notice of the scraps of paper littering his desk, digging one out from the bottom of the mess. James could have sworn he picked it at random, but when he unfolded it, James recognized his own handwriting. It was his original message.

James waited to see what his response would be, but when Remus finished reading it, he folded it again neatly. He started to collect the rest of the notes, although he didn’t read any of them just yet, and calmly finished packing.

“You thought of something to cheer up Sirius?” he asked when James lost patience and went over himself. He’d stuffed everything into his own bag, not caring how crumbled or out of order his notes got. “That's what was so important that you had to interrupt class?”

“It's just History of Magic,” James said dismissively. “A firecracker could go off in here and Binns wouldn't be interrupted.”

“Yes, he would,” said Peter, who was also waiting impatiently for Remus. Most of the rest of the class had left, having lost interest in what James wanted when the bell rang. His antics had been more interesting than Binns’ lecture, but not enough to keep them watching during break. “Don't you remember last year when Sirius forgot about the wet-start fireworks he had in his bag and spilled ink on them, making them go off? Binns almost jumped!”

In fact, Binns had only asked Sirius if he had heard anything (calling him Phineas, which had sent Sirius growling even more than the wasted fireworks did), but Peter never knew how to exaggerate properly.

“It's still important,” Remus said, “even if you don't like the class. And the warlock conventions are bound to be on the exam—”

“How do you know that?” Peter demanded while James exclaimed, “Exams? Exams aren't until June. Why are you worrying about them now?”

“I know that because Binns practically said as much,” Remus said patiently, “and if we don't worry about them now then that means two sleepless weeks in June when suddenly there’s no time to put off revising any longer. Like last year. Which was miserable. It's better to keep on top of school work as it comes.”

“It's only History of Magic,” James repeated. It wasn't even interesting, not like Transfiguration or Charms. In those classes, if you paid attention and kept up, then you at least learned loads of new spells to use.

“Still—” Remus was ready to continue arguing, but James had had enough of that. He started to talk over him.

“Anyway, none of that matters. I thought of the perfect thing to do for Sirius when he gets back. It's guaranteed to cheer him up.”

“Yes, that's what your note said,” said Remus. “You realize that Sirius isn't going to be back for a couple days. It could have waited until after class, at the very least.”

“How do you know that?” James asked, ignoring Remus' continued attempts to make him feel guilty about the disruption. It was getting tiresome. “He didn't write you, did he?”

Remus frowned at James. “Write me? He's more likely to write you, isn't he?”

Normally that would be the case, but James hadn’t yet explained why Sirius might be avoiding him. “Then how did you know when he's getting back? Yesterday you didn't have a clue. You were asking me.”

“Yes, well his uncle died on Saturday, right? Funerals usually aren't for three days after. It can't be until tomorrow at the earliest. Besides which, even if Sirius came back right now, we hardly have time to plan and pull off your—whatever your idea is. We have class, remember?”

Everyone seemed to have a better idea of what happened when people died than James did. He wondered if maybe there was something in the library—A Wizard’s Guide to Grieving or something. As soon as he thought that, he felt disgusted with himself. The idea of turning to a book for answers was not James Potter’s way. Sirius, no doubt, would have had something to say about what a bad influence Remus was.

“The funeral isn't until Thursday,” Peter chimed in. “We have three more days.”

“Three days?” James said in disbelief. That’s almost the whole week. Why is it going to take so long?”

“It’s family,” Remus tried to explain. “You can’t rush that.”

“Still,” James complained. “A whole week. Where did you hear that, anyway, Peter?”

“It said so in the paper,” Peter happily answered.

“You read that?” asked James.

Peter misunderstood his disbelief, probably not too surprisingly considering the way Sirius would usually go on when Peter said something particularly stupid. “I can read,” he responded indignantly.

“No one's doubting that,” Remus said before James could react.

“It was just long,” said James. He hadn't gotten through half the article himself.

“In any case,” Remus said hurriedly before a fight could break out, ”we have several days left before he can come back. And we have a two foot essay due in Defence Against the Dark Arts on Wednesday. There’s still plenty of time for… What is your plan?

Sirius would never want to wait, not when there was something this good. James didn’t say this out loud.

“It better be good,” Peter grumbled. “I’m sick of getting caught. We’ve had detention three times already this year.”

“Do you even want to hear what the plan is?” James asked. Already his excitement was ricocheting down, now faced with his friends’ reluctance.

“Is there time before Charms starts?” Remus asked.

They still had two staircases and four corridors to go before they reached Flitwick’s classroom, but with the way things were going, Remus and Peter would continue to poke holes in James’ plan.

“It can wait,” he said.

The only thing James could be grateful for was that neither Remus nor Peter asked why, if it could wait, he had made such a fuss in History of Magic.

~*~

They didn't get detention. James wasn't sure that they could chalk that up to the extra few days they put into planning, though, since nothing else about his brilliant plot went right that night.

By the time Thursday rolled around, the idea had lost momentum. Even James was starting to doubt just how brilliant it truly was, not that he'd admit as much to Remus or Peter, who'd spent the three intervening days naysaying all his ideas.

They had been, at least, when they were actually thinking about the plan and not worrying about schoolwork (Remus) or grumbling that the Martin Miggs comic had been temporarily discontinued due to ongoing coverage of Meriel Hollingberry’s disappearance (Peter—James was annoyed, too, but he had better things to obsess over than something from the newspaper). Neither of them seemed particularly excited and James was pretty sure that if he hadn’t continued to rally them, they would have dropped the matter completely.

As it was, he was beginning to wish that he hadn't, even by the time that they first approached the ticklish pear. The Potters didn’t have a family history of prescience, so James couldn’t blame himself too badly for not recognizing this as a sign that he should have dropped the matter.

By the time that they were ejected from the kitchens with more force than James would have thought a house-elf capable of, that feeling had solidified and then some.

Remus picked himself up and dusted himself off with more dignity than James could muster at the moment. “I think that could have gone better,” he said. It was an understatement, but at least it was better than the “I told you so” James was expecting.

Peter, too, was too fretful to fully place the blame on James just yet. “They can't be serious, can they?” He wrung his hands, looking fearfully at the picture of the pear that served as the entrance to the kitchens.

James opened his mouth to point out that no, they couldn't be Sirius since Sirius was at his uncle's funeral, then closed it again. It probably wasn't a good idea to joke about people being at funerals and the play on words had grown old halfway through first year.

“I'm sure that they'll calm down,” he said instead, but even he could hear how uncertain he sounded. James cleared his throat and tried again. “They can't stay mad forever, I mean. And they do like to be helpful, after all. I'm sure they'll come around tomorrow. Or, er, the next day. Soon, at the very least. They can't stay mad forever.”

“They went spare,” Peter told him, not comforted by the platitudes. “House-elves! You said that this was to help Sirius! How are we supposed to help him if we make the house-elves go on strike!”

“They aren't really on strike,” corrected Remus. “A strike would be a school-wide thing. Or even a Gryffindor-wide thing.”

“It's a us-wide thing.” Peter wasn't too keen on semantics. “That's what really matters! We've pissed off the kitchen staff. What are we going to do without food?”

James cringed at that thought. Now that Peter had mentioned it, his stomach was starting to rumble. He'd only pecked at his dinner earlier, both out of excitement and because the house-elves had never before failed to load them up with as many treats as they could carry.

Remus wasn't as concerned. “They can't stop feeding us,” he reasoned. “They’re not going to make all of Gryffindor suffer because they’re afraid we’re going to trick them into taking our clothes.”

“We’re not going to trick anyone into taking our clothes!” Peter wailed. He had been saying similar things ever since he picked up on the house-elves’ problem with them, but James only wished he'd been as clear and coherent when they were in still the kitchens. Not that he or Remus had been much better, he had to admit, or else they might not be in this mess in the first place.

“Regardless—” Remus raised his voice just a little, to be heard over Peter, but he remembered that it was still after curfew and too much noise would summon Filch or Mrs. Norris in a hurry—“this just means we won’t be able to go into the kitchens. Meals will be served as usual—they’ll hardly fail to put food on the Gryffindor tables just because we happen to belong to that house. Not when there are so many other students that haven't, er, frightened them with a misunderstanding. Now let's go back to our room before a teacher hears us and we get into even more trouble. We'll think of something to do about... this in the morning.”

James wasn't sure what Remus thought they could do in the morning. So far their great plan had resulted in this mess—terrified house-elves who refused to come near them or their room because of a simple misunderstanding. How was James supposed to know that house-elves couldn't take a joke and would mistake James’ kidding around for threats of accidental freedom?

If only Sirius would come back. He knew how to deal with house-elves. None of this would ever have happened if he’d been around. At least when things went wrong when Sirius around, it tended to be because something

~*~

Dear Mum and Dad

How are you? I am well. School’s going fine. Don’t worry, I haven’t got into trouble all week.

After the opening volley, James paused and considered what to write next. He could ask about the house-elves—his mum had brought a house-elf with her when she and James’ dad married, but Abra had died when James was still a baby. His mum would probably know what to do or say to make the house-elves stop being so afraid of them that they wouldn’t even venture into the boys’ room.

But then he would have to admit what happened. He had just told them he hadn’t got in trouble and though James knew there was a difference between causing havoc and being given detention for it, he also knew that his parents didn’t think that difference counted.

He chewed on his quill absentminded, his mouth souring at the taste of feathers. There was a box of sugar quills somewhere in his trunk and he went to find them. His letter was still waiting when he sat back down with the sweet, but James still wasn’t sure what he could write next.

Sirius hasn’t been in school all week because his uncle died and he had to go to his funeral on Thursday, A lot of his family went too and none of them are back yet. There are lots of Slytherins missing, other houses too of course but mostly Slytherins so our double classes with them are really empty, but this morning Edenfield says that means we probably aren’t going to play them next week even though we’re supposed to but they haven’t had enough time to practice so the Slytherin captain is asking for postponement because of that which I guess they need because they’re not really good and even the extra practice wouldn’t let them win. But that means I don’t get to play in next week’s match because Ravenclaw is pretty good and Edenfield would rather I play against the weaker team to start, but I don’t mind much because I’d rather beat Slytherin than Ravenclaw even if Ravenclaw is the better team and beating them would prove what a good Chaser I am. Only now I don’t know when I’ll play at all. I still go to practice most days and next year I’ll be on the first string, so that’s all right.

James paused again to let the ink dry. He’d only found out about the possibility of a schedule switch at practice earlier that morning and he was still upset about it, even though the Gryffindor team captain told him that this was better, that it gave him more time to practice before he had to play a game for real. James didn’t need the extra practice, though, and he’d been looking forward to proving that to Edenfield and the rest of the school.

He didn’t bother to write that down. The letter was long enough now that his parents wouldn’t nag him.

James looked it over just to see if there was anything else that happened this week that he missed, but nothing big stood out. Things had been quiet without Sirius around, boring even. Remus and Peter just weren’t the same. But he couldn’t write that, not without sounding like he was complaining about his other friends, who were good enough most of the time, but they just weren’t Sirius.

Satisfied that there was nothing left to write, James signed his name and was just about to head up to the Owlery when the door opened.

“All right, Remus,” James said cheerfully, forgetting that only a few minutes earlier he had been ready to complain about his mate to his parents.

“James.” Remus stopped just inside the doorway. “What are you doing here? I mean, I thought you had Quidditch practice today?”

“This morning, yeah.” It wasn’t the greeting James expected and it had him frowning. “But it’s over now and I have nothing else to do all day so I thought I’d write my parents. What are you up to?”

“Homework,” Remus said quickly.

“That can wait,” said James. “I’m bored. Let’s play a game or something.”

“I can’t.” Remus shook his head. “I have to get this done.”

“It can’t be that important, whatever it is. We don’t have to hand anything in the week. Do we?”

Remus was generally better at keeping track of due dates, but James was pretty sure he was right about this. He’d had nothing better to do this last week than actually pay attention in class, so he was on top of things for once. They had to demonstrate lighting fires in Charms on Monday and they had a Potions test on Thursday, but there was nothing urgent.

“I have to see Professor Slughorn, actually,” said Remus.

“What, now?” The idea of actively seeking out a teacher on a weekend was antithetical to James’ whole way of thinking. While Remus was more studious, he was hardly that much of a brown-noser. James couldn’t believe he was trying for extra credit, and he was too smart to need the extra help for the test, but there wasn’t any other reason James could think of to explain why Remus needed to see Slughorn.

“Well, I was supposed to meet him on Thursday after dinner, but he was gone for the funeral, remember?” Remus said. He was squirming under James’ scrutiny, shifting his weight from his right foot to his left.

“Yeah, but it can wait until Monday, can’t it?” Most things could wait until Monday in James’ opinion, especially when it came to school.

“It’s about the test,” Remus said instead of answering directly.

“You already know how to brew Deflating Draughts,” James said. “You did it perfectly in class last week. What do you need to see him for?”

“I just have some questions,” Remus mumbled.

“They can wait,” James said. “Let’s find Peter and play a game of Gobstones. You can borrow Sirius’ set. He won’t mind.”

“Peter’s already playing chess with the team. I think they have a tournament this weekend or something, they’ve been at it for hours. He won’t want to be distracted. He’s the one who said you were at Quidditch practice.”

That explained Remus’ initial reaction when coming into the room. Peter tended to lose track of time when he played, chess being the one thing that kept him from succumbing to James’ attempts to save him from himself.

“We can just play the two of us.” Gobstones was better with a group, especially with the modified rules he and Sirius had thought up the year before, but two was better than one. “Or if not that, maybe Exploding Snap.” James didn’t care for the game much, but he knew Peter talked Remus into playing it occasionally, when James and Sirius were off together or in detention.

“I really can’t,” Remus said.

“Slughorn?” James moaned. “Really? Hey, this isn’t about the Slug Club, is it?” Remus wasn’t part of the esteemed group, but he had finished his Deflating Draught rather fast last week, almost beating Snape. Slughorn might have taken notice of that and asked Remus to see him, even if today wasn’t a regular gathering. Being asked to join the Club was a better excuse than having to talk to the professor about school, although James wasn’t sure why Remus would be trying to hide it. Slughorn could be a bore at times, but the Slug Club wasn’t half-bad.

“That isn’t it,” Remus mumbled.

“We need to find a way to get Slughorn to invite you.”

Now that James thought about it, it was a little weird that Remus hadn’t been joined already. Slughorn had snatched up James and Sirius almost as soon as they got off the train last year. Sirius had complained it was because of family connections and pure-blood snobbery, but James knew the real reason he tried to get out of meetings was because he didn’t want to see his cousins any more than he had to, especially not with a teacher around trying to get them to stop sniping at each other. Besides, the other Gryffindor in their year who was a member was from a Muggle family, so Slughorn couldn’t be obsessed blood purity. Remus might not shine in Potions like Evans did, but he was a dab hand at lots of other things.

“Maybe if we let him catch you casting your Tickling Charm. He’s usually pretty good with not giving detention if he’s suitably impressed, and Rictusempre is pretty impressive and it isn’t very hurtful, so it’s the perfect one to be caught casting on someone without Slughorn haven’t to feel guilty about not getting you in trouble. Or we can even say we were practicing duelling, if you’re still worried.”

“James—” Remus interrupted. James expected him to weigh in on the Slug Club, but instead of that, or anything else relevant, he mumbled: “I really have to go. I’m running late. Sorry.”

He left before James could point out that Slughorn, when he kept office hours, was pretty flexible about when students came in. It wasn’t until after that James realized Remus hadn’t dropped anything off or picked up any of his notes, leaving James to wonder why Remus had come to the room in the first place.

His Potions book was still sitting on his desk.

~*~

“All right, Pete,” James said in greeting as he sat down beside the only one of his roommates actually at dinner. It was now well over a week since Sirius had been taken out of school and there was still no definite word as to when he was going to be back. Most of the other Slytherins had been trickling back since the funeral, but there was still no definitive word as to when Sirius and the other Blacks would be back. Rumour had it they were being kept out until the next weekend, but James hadn’t been able to confirm it. Most of the people who would know were Slytherins and he was hardly about to ask them any favours especially since they were as likely to lie out of spite as not.

“Hiya, James,” Peter said. He had mostly forgiven James for the house-elf thing once Remus’ prediction about it not affecting their regular meals came true. Things were a little tense when they were in their dormitory, particularly since James didn’t have the knack for keeping fires going all night and they kept waking up with icicles forming from the canopies, but they didn’t talk about that much. James guessed that neither of them knew what to do to fix things with the house-elves anymore than he did.

“Remus not here yet?” James asked, helping himself to some potatoes and looking up and down the table for their other roommate. “Practice went late—thought I’d be the last one here for sure!”

“Remus?” Peter looked startled, like James was asking him a trick question. “He’s in the Hospital Wing, isn’t he?”

“What?” James exclaimed. “What happened?”

Peter had acted like he expected James to know, but James hadn’t heard any rumours. None of the older students on the team had mentioned anything, or asked after James’ classmate, but then they didn’t always pay attention to the fights in the lower forms. Remus hadn’t done anything to annoy anyone lately (other than the house-elves, but they weren’t about to attack a student no matter how angry they were) but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. There hadn’t been any retaliation from the prank against Snape and even if Remus hadn’t been involved, that wouldn’t stop a Slytherin. Or he could have easily just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Especially now, when so many Slytherins were trickling back into the school.

Just that afternoon, James had noticed Mulciber gossiping away with his gang in about something or other. James hadn’t heard what or thought of it much at the time, but there were a lot of significant pauses that hadn’t stopped even when Professor Slughorn tried hushing them.

There was no reason for them to target Remus, but then Slytherins hardly needed a reason to be nasty.

If they had caught Remus on his own…

“Well, nothing,” Peter said. James heart slowed and he stopped planning revenge. “Only, he wasn’t feeling well all day, was he?”

It was the first James had heard of it. Sure, his friend had looked a little peaky, slight circles under his eyes, but none of them had looked their best since the house-elves had gone on strike. James was really missing being able to sleep the whole night through without having to wake up and relight the fire.

“There is a cold going around,” James said to keep Peter from making the same accusations about the state of their dormitory. “Maybe we should all go down to see Madam Pomfrey, get some Pepper-Up Potion.” He wasn’t sure why he said that; the stuff always gave him the hiccups.

“I haven’t noticed anyone was ill,” Peter said. “Look, not a single head is smoking,” he added, insisting on being logical for once in his life.

The Pepper-Up Potion did have a very noticeable effect, one that was absent in the Great Hall, so James probably shouldn’t have lead with that. Deciding that it was a dangerous path in general, he switched gears.

“Maybe we should go visit him.”

“Who, Remus?” Peter asked as if the thought was outrageous.

“Yeah,” James said, frowning slightly. “He’s our mate, isn’t he? He might be bored.”

Peter was still looking at him weirdly, although James couldn’t figure out why. They usually went to see Remus when he was in the Hospital Wing, didn’t they? Well, often times. He was in there more often than a normal person, and sometimes James and Sirius got so caught up in one thing or another that he was convalescing in their rooms again before they could plan a proper visit with sweets and games and tales of victories against the Slytherins to cheer him up.

“Only, he just went there after class,” Peter said slowly. “He wouldn’t have time to get bored yet, would he?”

“The Hospital Wing is always boring,” said James, who had actually only been stuck in there once last year. Sirius had been caught in the attack too and was laid up in the bed beside him. Once Madam Pomfrey had sorted out their voices, things hadn’t been too bad.

But he didn’t want to tell Peter the real reason he was so insistent on this visit wasn’t that the Hospital Wing was boring, but rather that Hogwarts in general was. All James had done all week was go to class and go to practice, and even Quidditch hadn’t been enough to entertain him. Remus at least had the excuse that he’d been getting sick, not that James had known at the time, but Peter was just too happy that things were quiet for once to let himself be dragged into anything interesting.

“I think he brought his books,” said Peter.

James made a face. The only good thing about being sick was having a good excuse not to do your schoolwork, but trust Remus to mess up that up.

“Fine,” James sighed. “Maybe we can go see him before class tomorrow. If we get breakfast early, we should have a half hour before class.”

He pushed his roast chicken around his plate despondently. Whenever they had roast chicken, the house-elves always made mint humbugs for pudding. There were always leftovers in the kitchen.

Peter was pretty fond of mint humbugs too, so James had a nasty feeling that he was going to get a healthy dose of complaining tonight, without Remus there to temper the whinging over the lack of seconds.

The thought was almost enough to put him off his dinner. Stuffing in a mouthful, he looked around for distraction before Peter come to the same realization and start on it early. As the days went on and no teacher had even hinted at knowing what had happened in the kitchens, Peter had become emboldened, starting to complain not just in the privacy of the dormitory, but in places where they could be overheard, like the Great Hall.

The Slytherin table was still emptier than usual, which made the small groups clustered up and down the table even more noticeable, especially when just about every one of them had a lookout, furtively glancing over his or her shoulder to make sure no one was close enough to listen.

“They’re up to something,” James hissed.

“Who?” asked Peter. “What?”

“Look at them.” James decided against pointing since that was sure to catch their attention, settling for glowering in their general direction. Peter followed his gaze, confused.

“The Slytherins? What have they done? Why do you say that?” He was turning his head anxiously between the Slytherins and James, which was starting to get some unwanted attention.

“Don’t look,” James hissed. He lowered his own eyes to the table.

Luckily, Peter was used to having to follow orders quickly without asking why, though usually it was to avoid a teacher’s mischief-seeking eye. He turned back towards James, digging into his dinner, which would have seemed more natural if he’d started eating properly rather than poking around. “What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice quivering just a bit.

“I don’t know,” James was forced to admit. “But don’t you think they’ve been acting strangely lately?”

“They haven’t been around to act strange,” said Peter doubtfully. “It’s been real quiet ever since Sirius’ uncle died and they all went off to the funeral. Even now that most of them are back, I mean.”

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said James. “How often can we get through double Potions without one Slytherin or another acting like the gits that they are. But not a single thing has happened.”

“It’s been nice, hasn’t it?” Peter made it sound like more of a question than he probably meant it to be.

“They have to be planning something. Big.” It was generally the only reason he and Sirius stayed out of trouble for more than a few days at a time, as McGonagall often despaired, and the Slytherins in their year were bigger bastards than James had ever met. He snatched another glance at the table—Snape was still looking at him with narrowed eyes. It would be childish to stick out his tongue, but then again he would know for sure James was onto him if he let it pass, so James made a rude gesture after a quick glance at the teacher’s table to make sure no one was watching.

Peter coughed loudly in warning. One of the fifth year prefects was looking at them, but James didn’t care. He wasn’t one of the bad ones and probably wouldn’t do anything unless James did it again.

“We have to do something about this,” James declared.

“What do you mean?” asked Peter.

“We can’t just let the Slytherins get away with… whatever it is they’re planning. We have to strike back. We have to strike first.”

“But…” Peter trailed off before he could protest properly, but still James found himself waiting. Normally Remus or Sirius would jump in at this point—Remus to explain why Peter might protest or Sirius to egg James on regardless. Peter, too, seemed to be unsettled by this unusual turn of events, since he forged on after that first hesitation.

“Why?” he asked. “They haven’t done anything and maybe that’s better. Until Remus gets better, there’s only two of us. And almost all the Slytherins are back so there’d be… a lot of them.”

“Do you want them to think we’re afraid?” James asked, scandalized. “The two of us are better than twenty stupid Slytherins, even on a bad day.”

“Not afraid,” corrected Peter, although James could probably argue successfully on that point on Peter’s side, at least, “but there’s no sense starting a fight when they haven’t done anything. C’mon, James. Since Sirius has been gone I’ve almost been able to do all my schoolwork and get caught up in class.”

So had James, but that wasn’t a point he was putting in favour of Sirius’ absence, not be a long shot.

“Besides, they won’t know we’re afraid—I mean, they won’t even think we’re afraid, just because we’re not going out there and… and… provoking them over nothing.”

Provoking. That was a word McGonagall used. Often. James wondered if she’d be glad that at least one of her students was taking her words to heart.

“It’s not like they’re doing anything but talking.” Peter was really warming up now that he thought James was listening and agreeing with him. The words practically gushed out of his mouth and his tone was almost conversational, his near stutters and hesitations all but gone.

“But they’re Slytherins,” James said sullenly.

“So? They haven’t done anything to us. Lately,” he amended as if it mattered how recent an attack. It was crazy to only ever wait until the Slytherins attacked first, to always let them have the first shot. They weren’t like the Ravenclaws, after all, who were generally too busy thinking up new riddles and quoting facts at each other and only planned revenge when someone else had started it. All the Slytherins ever did was come up with new and better ways to be nasty. The only reason they’d been quiet lately was because so many of them were missing, but now that they were back, they had to be up to something, James just knew it.

He had a feeling that trying to convince Peter of that would be useless, so he said nothing, which Peter took as confirmation. He smiled a little too triumphantly, altogether too pleased to have gotten one up on James.

“Let’s just wait and see what happens. If they attack, then yeah, sure, we should do something back. If not… well, let’s just wait until Remus gets better and Sirius gets back. Then there’ll be more of us. Then we can do something.”

“Yeah,” James said faintly. He could hardly wait until Sirius got back. Then things would get better.

They could hardly get any worse.

~*~

By the time Sirius got back to Hogwarts, there was a fine layer of dust atop the lesser used areas of their room. Mostly it was just covered the headboards and piled away in the corners of the room, but since Sirius hadn’t been around, both his trunk and his desk had noticeably flecks of grey.

James didn’t think that maybe he should do something about it until Sirius was already in the room, staring down at the speckled pattern. Remus had taken to wiping down his areas with an old cloth, but when James had tried to brush it away, he’d only sneezed when all the motes went swirling through the air and up his nose.

“What is this?” Sirius asked stonily, completely ignoring James’ cheerful greeting.

“Er…” James stalled, trying to think of the best way to explain the mess. “The house-elves… umm… they’re kind of on strike.”

“What?” It was flat, almost not a question at all, which made James cringe even more. Yelling, he could understand. Shocked disbelief and grumbling would be a good, normal reaction, one that James had experienced himself until Remus had snapped at him to shut up, since it had been James’ idea that had led to the house-elves being so angry and frightened in the first place. It would be nice to have someone else to commiserate with, since neither Remus nor Peter had been up for the job.

Now it looked like Sirius wasn’t, either.

“The house-elves…” James hesitated, wondering how to put the best spin on this. It had been over a week and he still couldn’t think of an explanation that didn’t make him look like a fool. “They won’t come to our room anymore.”

“Why?” If Sirius had sounded more curious, James might have been able to get through the next part a little easier. Normally, his best mate would be jumping all over him for details—figuratively and literally, but Sirius sounded more demanding than anything else.

“We… we wanted to do something for you when you got back. A surprise. Needed the house-elves help. But when we went to the kitchens we said—well, I said something. Didn’t mean it, really, at least not that way, but the elves thought I was threatening to give them clothes. Which I guess they really don’t like. Umm… So they got really upset and were all but kicking us out of the kitchen and then I really put my foot in it. I kind of… sort of… didn’t say as much as I might have joked…

“I didn’t mean it, of course. I wouldn’t really do anything of the sort. But I might have implied that there’s usually loads of clothes lying around our room when they’re tidying and you never know what might have been transfigured to look like a stray sweets wrapper instead of a pair of dirty pants.

“Which, when you think of it, would be a great joke, don’t you think? Imagine Peter’s face if we told him the quill he was holding wasn’t really a quill. No, forget Peter, Snape. We’ve been stuck with him here, you know. Of all the Slytherins to stay behind, why he couldn’t be one to go to the funeral… I… don’t know.”

Sirius stayed quiet for the whole explanation, not even having the decency to stop James when it was apparent that he was really babbling and letting him walk right back into the funeral trap. James bit his lip, uncertain whether he should continue, or if he was supposed to say something about Sirius’ uncle now, or whether he should just pretend the entire thing had never happened.

“That’s… That’s just…” Sirius shook his head in disbelief. Some emotion had seeped back into his voice, replacing the awful monotone, but it wasn’t the improvement James was hoping for. He wasn’t used to words failing Sirius; the other boy always was quick to talk--or shout—or jinx—depending on the circumstance.

“House-elves just don’t go on strike!” Sirius said so vehemently that James flinched.

“I didn’t think they could, either,” James admitted shamefully. “I didn’t think it was that bad—I mean, the teacher’s didn’t even catch us, no one knows what happened at all, but, well, I guess you can see that they weren’t kidding.”

“They don’t!”

James hesitated. “No, I’ve never heard one make a joke, but it just seemed so unreal, that they’d stop cleaning—”

“No!” Sirius cut him off. “House-elves don’t just decide that they’re going to stop cleaning someone’s room.”

James knew he had been rambling, but he didn’t think he’d wandered around the point that badly that Sirius had missed it entirely. Still, he tried to tell him again. “No, they didn’t just decide. It probably is my fault. I mean—” he cleared his throat—”I’m to blame for frightening them like that. It’s sort of understandable, that they’d just… stop coming, isn’t it?”

“NO!” Sirius shouted.

“All right,” James said, a little taken aback by the emphasis of Sirius' denial.

“That's not what they do!” Sirius continued to shout. He kicked his bed, causing James to jump back a bit. It didn't do much except cause him to wince at the pain. It wasn’t enough, either, since the next thing Sirius did was shove his trunk. It had been resting on top his bed covers and now it spilled open, the robes and sweets he'd brought from home tumbling out and falling on the floor.

“Sirius...” James said hesitantly. He wanted to ask what was wrong but wasn't sure how to do it. Every time he opened his mouth these days, all he did was put his foot in it.

James didn't get the chance to figure it out, since Sirius ignored him, ignored the mess, and stomped out of their room pushing the door hard enough that James was surprised it didn’t come off its hinges. He had to hurry to keep up as they marched down Gryffindor Towers.

“We should probably get to class,” James ventured when they missed the turn out to the Herbology greenhouses. “Only it starts in a few minutes.”

He wasn't very surprised that Sirius ignored that—it would have warranted a derisive laugh at the best of times, the idea of hurrying to class—but their goal, when it became apparent, was enough to surprise him. About three corridors away from the kitchens, James realized that was where they were heading.

Sirius didn't so much tickle the pear as maul it, but the picture swung open anyway, probably in self-defence. It closed again almost immediately in protest and James had to stick his hand in to keep it from closing on him.

By the time James scrambled through the entrance, several of the house-elves were already gathered around Sirius, delighted to see him as ever. They always enjoyed it when they had visitors since it let them show of their hospitability. Two of them were already loading up a trolley with a selection of snacks—James recognized last night’s pudding, but there were also cookies, pumpkin tarts and jammie dodgers.

There were a couple of gasps and some hand-wringing when they caught sight of James, which James didn’t think was entirely fair, not when taking into account Sirius’ thunderous expression.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” Sirius asked when the elves with the snack trolley pushed it to him.

“We’re sorry, sirs,” the house-elf on the left squeaked. In one corner, where elves were working at cleaning up the last of this morning’s breakfast, a murmur went up that he might prefer a proper English breakfast and a frying pan was washed and dried on the double.

“Sirius…” James tried again uncertainly, trying to ignore the looks of fright that the house-elves were giving him. “Maybe we should leave them alone.” He didn’t know what was going to happen but he had a feeling it wouldn’t be good.

“My room is a mess.” Sirius spoke clearly, enunciating every word properly. He hadn’t yet raised his voice, which worried James. It wasn’t like Sirius to lose his temper like this, so quietly.

“It’s my fault,” James tried again. “I didn’t mean to threaten them with clothes. I mean, I didn’t threaten them at all and I didn’t mean it to sound like I threatened them with clothes.”

“They deserve clothes!” Sirius roared. The house-elves had all stopped what they were doing and as one cowered at the words. Several burst out in tears. It was a pitiful sight, but one that didn’t affect Sirius at all.

James didn’t interrupt him this time as Sirius continued his rant.

“My room is covered in dust. There is no fire in my fireplace. Instead, it’s full of ashes and covered in soot. A fizzy drink spilled all over my friend’s desk and nobody cleaned it up. It was left there to become a sticky stain.” Peter had actually knocked over one of Remus’ potions and they hadn’t cleaned it up because it wouldn’t stop sending sparks up, but Sirius wasn’t to know that. “The beds are unmade and there are books all over the floor. I could trip and break my neck. I expect better of my room and I demand better of you.

“Just what do you think you are?” he demanded. “You’re house-elves! You clean. You don’t decide to skip a room because you don’t like someone. If you were my house-elves, I would give each and every one of you clothes right this very instant. I’d be ashamed to let anyone know I had ever even had a house-elf. I’d rather lie and let someone think I were too poor or common rather than let on that I had the likes of you in my employ.

“You’re afraid of finding clothes in our room? You should be. What you’ve done, missing a room on your cleaning rounds, it’s disgraceful. I’ll give you another chance. If you’re really lucky, if you do a good job, then you won’t find clothes there tomorrow morning. But this will be your only warning. You try anything like this ever again and it will be clothes for the lot of you. Do I make myself clear?”

The night of the incident, as James had taken to thinking of it, most of the house-elves had looked terrified with only a few of the very bravest daring to tell them to leave. James, Remus and Peter had only been too happy to get away from there after things had gone so drastically wrong. James had spent the ten days since almost mad with guilt. He’d never seen anything more pathetic as the house-elves crying over the idea of someone trying to trick them into picking up clothes.

They were even worse now. The crying was the least of it. Even though the noise grated on James ear, making him wish for a pair of earmuffs like the ones they used in Herbology when growing Mandrakes, it was nothing to the way most of the house-elves were now punishing themselves. The heavy pans that had been used to fry breakfast now were being used to smack themselves in the head. The oven doors were being used to crush hands. One of the house-elves had grabbed the poker from the great fireplace, but James didn’t dare turn that was to see what he did.

It was sickening to watch.

Sirius didn’t notice anything wrong, just marched back out to the portrait hole without as much as a backwards glance.

James thought about trying to say something to placate the house-elves, or just to get them to stop, but nothing came to mind. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. After a few seconds when the cries only got louder, James could think of nothing to do but follow Sirius.

He had only just swung the pear closed when the voice rang out.

“Potter! Black! What are you doing?”

James should have expected Professor McGonagall to come across them. Everything else had been going so wrong, of course they’d be caught climbing out of the kitchen portrait. He just hoped that they could talk her out of going in there and talking to the house-elves. If she even caught a glance at them in their current state she would demand a good explanation. James didn’t think he would be able to think of one. He wasn’t sure there was a good explanation for what had just happened.

A quick look at Sirius showed that he was still glowering, so James hurried out an excuse before he could say anything and make things worse.

“Er, Professor McGonagall. Sirius just got back.”

“I know that, Potter,” McGonagall said with a touch of impatience. “And already you are skipping class. Honestly, I’d expect even you could go two hours back at Hogwarts without getting into trouble.”

“We’re not skipping,” said James, although he knew that if he looked at his watch he’d have to admit that they should have been in class fifteen minutes earlier. “Sirius didn’t get here in time for breakfast. He was hungry. We just thought we could stop by the kitchen and see if he could get a snack before class.”

Sirius would normally, at this point, jump in and embellish James’ story. It usually worked out in their favour, except for the times when he went a little too far with the details, stretching McGonagall’s disbelief past the breaking point.

He stop scowling long enough to even look at their teacher this time. James supposed he should be grateful, since Sirius was almost certain to make things worse—and not because he couldn’t resist bragging this time—but it was a little disconcerting.

“Er,” James said when it became obvious Sirius wasn’t going to speak, “we’ll go there right now. And, erm, sorry. Didn’t mean to skip class or anything.”

The closed look on McGonagall’s face didn’t give anything away until she said, “Next time, tell a teacher, don’t just run around by yourselves. Students aren’t supposed to be in the kitchens and I could have made sure Black got something to eat if he missed breakfast. Tell Professor Carrow to talk to me if she wonders why you’re late for class. And go straight there.”

“Thanks, Professor, sorry Professor.”

James grabbed Sirius’ sleeve and pulled him away before McGonagall could change her mind. Thankfully, Sirius let him lead the way without saying a single word. James kept stealing looks at his best mate, whose anger was still very apparent, but when it came to finding the words to ask him what he could do to make it better, James’ mouth dried.

When they got back to their room after dinner, James was not at all surprised to find it spotless, all except for the pile of clothes that had spilled out of Sirius’ trunk when he had slammed it down.

~*~

Every time Sirius cut into his eggs, his knife hit the plate with such force that it caused it to wobble a bit. The first time it had happened, James had looked up, ready to tease Sirius on his table manners, but as it happened again, and again, he realized there was something else at work here. James was trying to decide whether he should say anything when Remus, who was also watching the tableau with some concern, spoke up.

“Has your food, er, done something to offend you?” He kept his tone light, but James thought he couldn’t have picked worst words. The food was made by the house-elves, whom Sirius was still furious with. He muttered under his breath every time any of their belongings were the slightest bit out of place, even when it was Peter or James who’d just dropped them minutes earlier. James had taken to checking their room for stray pieces of clothes after Sirius left just to make sure he hadn’t followed through on his threat to get the house-elves unlucky enough to clean their rooms to free themselves accidentally.

“What?” Either Sirius wasn’t amused by the pseudo-joke or else he hadn’t been listening. James didn’t know his friend’s mood well enough to tell which one it was.

“You’ve been acting weird ever since you got back,” was Peter’s complaint. He cut to the thick of things, but it probably could have been done with more grace.

“We are sorry about your uncle,” said Remus, who had said similar platitudes several times in the past few days, none of which Sirius had even acknowledged. James was a little surprised when he responded this time.

“I’m not,” Sirius said. “For all I care my entire family could die and I wouldn’t be sorry.”

Remus tried to catch James’ eye, though what he thought James could do, James wasn’t sure. He had only proven himself marginally better than Peter at not saying the worst possible things when it came to Sirius and his grief.

“You, er, don’t mean that,” James tried. It came out awkwardly since he was pretty sure Sirius did mean it. He was always saying things like that about his family.

“Of course I do. They’re nothing but—” His description of his family had Remus and James both looking around to make sure no teacher was close enough to overhear, and Peter’s jaw drop open in either amazement or admiration.

“But they’re your family,” said Remus, who went home to visit his sickly mother on a regular basis even though it put him behind on his schoolwork every time. Neither he nor Peter had grown up hearing the rumours and whispers about the Blacks and other families so closely affiliated with dark magic as James had.

“And I never want to see any of them again. Ever.”

He said this with a particular steely glare at the Slytherin table where one of the Black girls was laughing especially triumphantly, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder in a rather flirty manner. The boys surrounding her were hanging on her every word. None of them seemed too torn up about Rastaban Black’s death, either, but James was willing to bet that it wasn’t for the same reason as Sirius. For one, they didn’t seem to feel his anger.

The rest of the boys looked at each other awkwardly, uncertain what to do or say now. Sirius went back to his breakfast with no less force attacking the food as he’d had before their talk. James wasn’t sure whether they were saved by the owls arriving with the daily mail or if they’d just put off the inevitable for a little while longer, but he was glad for the distraction nevertheless. Peter snatched the paper right out of James’ hand as James fed his owl bits of his toast.

Peter at least was certainly happy about the distraction, thumbing through the back pages of the newspaper rather than look at Sirius.

“Martin Miggs still isn’t back,” he moaned when he could find nothing but articles and advertisements. “Look, it’s another article about Meriel Hollingberry, only this time talking about her work with Muggles and her crusade for clearer laws regarding enchantments of Muggle objects. I mean, who cares? It’s been two weeks, I’m beginning to think that they aren’t going to bring back the comics.

“Have you heard about the disappearance of Meriel Hollingberry?” he asked Sirius politely after finishing his rant, possibly hoping that some juicy gossip would get Sirius’ mind off his family but ruining it with the next bit. “Everyone’s been talking about it while you were gone.”

“He knows that, Pete,” James said impatiently wishing Peter hadn’t reminded Sirius of his recent absence from school. “It’s in the Daily Prophet.”

“I know all about Hollingberry’s murder,” Sirius said darkly.

“Disappearance,” Remus corrected since he was the sort to actually read through the articles and retain the information. “The Magical Law Enforcement Squad suspect foul play but so far there’s been no evidence either way of what really happened.”

“It’s murder,” Sirius said with such conviction that James shivered.

Peter sounded just as awed. “What do you mean?”

“How do you know?” James asked.

“She was murdered, and I know because I know who did it.”

~*~

The letter from his parents surprised him.

Not that he’d received it, since James’ mother was twice as good at writing to him than he was at writing to her and his dad, but rather at the contents.

He read it again, hoping to make more sense out of the short message the third time.

James,

Honey, I don’t know what you’ve been hearing but don’t worry. There are a lot of rumours going around but things are not as bad as they seem. No matter what happens, you’re safe at Hogwarts. Dumbledore is a great wizard, always has been, always will be. He has done more to stop the advance of the Dark Arts than you can even imagine.

Remember that you’re a true Gryffindor and you will always be brave.

Love,

Mum and Dad

He certainly hadn’t told them about Sirius’ revelation—hadn’t even hinted at it. He’d written that Sirius was back, but he hadn’t said a thing about the bad moods or the outbursts or anything that Sirius told them in strictest confidence had happened at the funeral. But somehow, James’ parents seemed to know anyway.

His mum would have been at the funeral, James was sure of that now. She would have heard the same people Sirius did, would have been introduced to the same followers of this new Dark wizard.

That thought, that his mother would be so close to this, made James shiver even though the house-elves were keeping the room twice as toasty as it normally was this time of year. They were still trying to make amends, or to keep out of Sirius’ bad books, James didn’t know.

James read the letter one more time. His mum might have been trying to reassure him, but all the words did was make him feel worse.

It confirmed that it was real.

When Sirius had finished his story, Peter had blustered, sputtering out denials and questioning how Sirius could know something like that, ignoring or forgetting Sirius’ story of the gathering of wizards after his uncle’s funeral. It spoke to how frightened he was since he rarely vocally doubted Sirius at all.

Remus had questioned just how powerful this wizard could be. Grindelwald had terrorized the continent until he met with Dumbledore, and that had been years ago. Their Headmaster was even more powerful now; surely a new Dark wizard wasn’t going to try anything right under their headmaster’s nose.

James hadn’t said anything at all.

Even now he was still trying to wrap his head around the reason why Sirius had been acting so strangely. It hadn’t been anything to do with him, not with the way James had misinterpreted McGonagall’s summons leading them on a merry goose chase while Sirius’ uncle lay dead, nor with the way he’d cocked things up with the house-elves when he’d been trying to fix things and make them better for Sirius’ return. It had nothing to do with him at all.

Now that he knew that, James almost wished it was his fault, because that would be better than this.

You will always be brave, his mother had written. He was happy his mother could only write letters to him because if she saw him in person she would know just how scared he truly was.

~*~

Over the next few days James saw signs of worried students everywhere.

Looking back, he should have noticed earlier. There were more subscriptions of the Daily Prophet being delivered than James ever recalled seeing before, mostly by older students who would flip through their copies as furiously as Peter. The only difference was that they retained interest even after discovering that there were no comics.

James read through the Sunday’s edition, front to cover. It wasn’t something he had ever done before, and not something he would do again in a hurry between the articles about the elections in Germany and the piece on why the Ministry should outlaw the cultivation of Chinese Chomping Cabbage (James couldn’t figure out why anyone would care let alone write about it for half a page. Despite its name, it didn’t actually chomp on stray insects or fingers that wandered to close, which at least would have made it interesting).

The articles on Hollingberry were more informative. He hadn’t actually read through much more than the headlines before and only knew that she was a witch who worked at the Muggle Liaison Office at the Ministry who’d disappeared a little more than a month earlier. The reporters at the Prophet had uncovered what seemed to be her entire life’s story.

Her mother had been a Muggle who had died about the same time as she had disappeared, which is why the Muggle Law Enforcement Patrol thought the whole thing was suspicious. (They had talked to the Muggle “please men” who said Mrs. Hollingberry had died in something called a “car crash” but although the paper had done its best to describe what that meant, James still thought the entire thing sounded fishy.)

She'd been Head Girl at Hogwarts, attending school over a decade before James, so he doubted even the upper years would have known her. She lived with one of her friends from there, a Muggle-born witch who had stopped talking with the press within a week of the story breaking.

Meriel Hollingberry also wasn't the only witch or wizard to have disappeared under mysterious and suspicious circumstances in recent times. James supposed he shouldn't be surprised, since it tallied with what Sirius had said about a Dark Wizard who had been gaining power without anyone taking notice, but it still was jarring. They were all, without fail, Muggle-born or related to Muggles in some way, through their job or just living in a predominantly Muggle area of town.

James wondered if the people at the Daily Prophet had put that part together, or if listing their blood status was a simple matter of course, like the fact that every person who warranted mention in the paper also had their age listed beside their age.

He had been looking for confirmation, he knew that when he finished the paper, folding it up neatly even though he was only going to chuck it as soon as he got back to his room. Peter had all but started to boycott the Prophet when they stopped running the Martin Miggs cartoon even now that he knew why, Remus had already glanced through those articles that interested him and Sirius knew more about the case than the rest of them, it seemed.

The only thing left, it seemed, was decide what to do now.

~*~

Sunday dinner was usually something to look forward to. The house-elves always outdid themselves. Even during the worst of their anger—or rather what James had thought was the worst of their anger until he'd seen them with Sirius and realized that they did not get angry in the same way that wizards did—they had not once even considered skimping on the Gryffindor's feast, not even the section of the table where James and his mates usually sat.

Tonight was a more sombre affair. It wasn't just the second year Gryffindor boys, who seemed to be as disconcerted as James himself felt. Sirius was the only exception, having started to regain some of his former humour now that the secret wasn't his burden and his alone to bear—James just wished he could feel happier about being there to help out his friend.

It was the rest of the table as well. Lonnie Georges, the seventh year prefect, was Muggle-born. She always was rather soppy if James did say so himself, more likely to burst in tears when interrupted during her studies than take points like her fellow prefects. She was starting at everything these days, including when Harriet Dunnington, her best mate, dropped her spoon against the plate, setting it clattering. What she would do if someone pulled a wand, James hoped he wouldn't see. They were Gryffindors, as his mother had reminded him, and even if he felt he was letting the team down with his cowardice inside, at least he could still put on a brave face.

Hufflepuff seemed to be battering down. There were worried expressions all around, but there were also some determined ones. James wasn't sure what exactly they planned to do since this was Hufflepuff, but it probably beat his lack of plans.

Ravenclaw was still pouring over the newspaper, comparing articles. More than one student was taking notes, which by itself wasn't unusual (this was Ravenclaw after all) but usually they only did that when accompanied by heavy foreboding tomes from the library.

The only table who wasn't acting strangely was Slytherin. Instead, they seemed almost smug, with more smiles than normal adorning their faces and atypical, unpleasant laughter breaking out on a regular basis.

There was the general chatter as students filed in and started to serve their food onto their plates, but it died fairly quickly when Dumbledore stood and caught their attention.

“Thank you,” he said when everyone had quieted down. “I won’t keep you from your dinners for too long, but there is something that I must share with you first. Some of you have already heard some of this, but it is important that everyone knows the truth.”

Here, he did a visual sweep of the assembled students. It was a little shocking when his gaze paused for a brief second on James and his friends. Dumbledore also singled out several groups of Slytherins and some fifth-year Ravenclaws before he resumed speaking.

“We are under attack by a user of the Dark arts, a wizard calling himself Lord Voldemort.”

There were gasps at this pronouncement from all corners of the Great Hall, even those areas where James was sure the students already knew. His friends weren’t as noisy, although he did notice Remus’ brow furrow and Sirius sit up straighter and take more interest in Dumbledore’s speech.

“I don’t mean the people here at Hogwarts or those witches and wizards who already stand up against him in the world outside our school, but rather every single one of us, pure-blood or Muggle-born. There are those who would say that since he claims he is only trying to rid the world of Muggles and bring back the sanctity of the pure-blood lines that it doesn’t involve him. That isn’t true, even if you were to believe him. What he hopes to do will affect all of us.

“What we need to do is stand together, to stand against him. He will use fear and terror to try to keep people in line, but you must not let him succeed.

He sat down when he was finished, a little unpresumptuous considering the news he had just imparted on the student body.

James wasn’t the only one who was so shocked at the turn of events that he was barely able to eat any of his supper. He just hoped the house-elves wouldn’t take the amount of leftovers as an insult on their cooking and fret unnecessarily.

~*~

James was certain that Dumbledore would have been proud to know that his speech resulted in James’ sleepless state that night. He, Sirius, Peter and Remus hadn’t talked much after dinner, though it seemed that they were unique in that respect. The rest of the Great Hall broke out in furious whispers amongst themselves. There were a few panic attacks, mostly from those who had barely been aware there was such a thing as a Dark Lord let alone that there was one stalking through the countryside these days. They came mostly from James’ fellow second-years and the other grades around them, though James was interesting to note that not one of the panicked students came from Slytherin. The others who had been pulled from Hogwarts to attend Rastaban Black’s funeral had apparently wasted no time sharing all that they knew.

Now James could only toss and turn, unable to stop thinking about what Dumbledore had said, what Sirius had said, what his mother had said.

He punched his pillow, hoping that if he were more comfortable he might finally drop off to sleep.

“You still awake?” There was a sound of curtains drawing back and when James peaked out from his bed, he saw Sirius was as wide awake as he was.

“Can’t sleep,” said James rather redundantly.

“Me neither,” said Sirius. He sat at the edge of his bed, crossing his legs. James imitated the position, pulling up his blanket so that it draped around his shoulders. Even with the house-elves tendering properly to the fire once again, he still liked the extra warmth his blanket gave him.

He’d just gotten comfortable when he heard another set of curtain rings scratch against the rails.

“We should keep it down or we’ll wake Peter,” warned Remus. He didn’t say anything about waking him, leading James to believe he’d been as troubled with the night’s events as the others had.

“I’m already awake,” said Peter, also bereft of any sounds of sleepiness in his voice. He didn’t even yawn when he scrambled to join them. “Maybe we should go down to the kitchens and get some warm milk. That’s what our mum always did when I couldn’t sleep when I was little.”

“Er.” James hesitated. Sirius was less angry than he had been when he’d lost his temper with the house-elves, but he wasn’t he’d calmed down enough. Neither Remus nor Peter knew just how badly Sirius had lost his temper, James giving them a much abbreviated and partially made-up version to explain why the room was suddenly being cleaned again, and he wasn’t sure

“I have some Chocolate Frogs,” Sirius suggested, preventing James from having to make a decision.

“Brilliant!” Peter exclaimed, forgetting all about the kitchens as he dove for Sirius’ trunk. His sweets were always kept in the same place, which was regularly booby-trapped, not because Sirius didn’t trust his friends but because he found it funny when they fell for one of his tricks. Peter remembered to hand the Frogs to Sirius rather than start munching on them right away. Sirius threw a handful at Remus and another at James. James caught most of his, but a couple fell from his hands, scattering on the bed and falling onto the floor. He would have to remember to pick them up in the morning, but for now he was content with the ones he had caught.

Peter opened his right away and started munching on it before he even got back into his bed, yanking the covers out from the foot and bringing his pillow down so he could lie down and still look at the rest of his friends.

“Thanks,” Remus said before unwrapping his, giving the other boys pause and making James and Peter mumble their own thanks a few seconds later, though Peter’s was rather muffled due to the fact that his mouth was already full of chocolate.

James looked at his card before sticking the frog in his mouth. He had got Laverne de Montmorency. He didn’t think he had her already, but then she was only famous for inventing a great number of love potions and James couldn’t see what the big deal about that was.

It was a few long minutes where none of them did anything except chew before Sirius, the only one who hadn’t yet touched his chocolate, finally broke the silence.

“What do you suppose Dumbledore was doing, telling the school about… him?”

“What were you doing, telling us about the Dark Wizard?” Remus asked back. He hadn’t meant it negatively, but Sirius reacted badly anyway, screwing up his face in anger. James broke in before he could say anything, since the last thing they needed was to get into a fight right now and even now Sirius was spoiling for a fight, just as he had been ever since getting back to Hogwarts.

“I think Remus just meant Dumbledore wanted all of us to know, just like you wanted us to know when you told us.” It was a rather simplified version of the reason Sirius had told them—James suspected the truth lay closer to the fact that Sirius had lost his temper and let it slip more than it being a conscious decision, but Remus had apparently felt blessed to be let in on the secret.

“At least this means Dumbledore knows about this Voldemort fellow,” said Peter, flipping through the cards he’d got. “That’s good, isn’t it? I mean, he defeated Grindelwald and this new guy can’t be worse than him, can he?”

“Voldemort’s worse,” said Sirius flatly.

“We can’t know that,” Remus said quite reasonably, careful not to doubt Sirius outright. “It looks like they stand for the same sort of things—mastery over Muggles and that stuff.”

“You didn’t hear them talking,” said Sirius. “It’s all that shit they say about purity of blood, but more.

“Dumbledore said—Dumbledore seemed to think it wasn’t just the Muggles, either,” James said slowly. “Didn’t you hear him? He said Muggle-borns. I think he meant that Voldemort is going to go after witches and wizards, too. Only actively hurt them, not just because they’re getting in his way.”

Sirius looked at him blankly, not seeing what the problem was. “That’s what I said. To hear some of them talk, there’s no difference between Muggles, Muggle-borns and half-bloods. They’re all inferior to their thoughts.”

“Some of the people who’ve disappeared, they’re half-bloods,” Remus volunteered. “My mum went to school with Kelly Moffat. I think they dated at one point. Said it wasn’t like being with my dad, whose parents were both wizards, since Kelly’s dad was a Muggle-born, too, so they didn’t think anything of the fact that her parents were Muggles.”

“But we don’t know that this wizard is behind the disappearances, do we?” Peter was starting to sound a little more panicked again. His parents and his grandparents were all wizards, James remembered, but there was the occasional Muggle and Muggle-born beyond that. It was enough to be marked as a half-blood according to some of the more fervent believers in blood purity.

“Didn’t you listen to what Dumbledore said?” James asked.

“But he knows about this wizard. He can do something about him. He beat Grindelwald, after all, he can do it again, can’t he? Or he can tell the Minstry, let the Aurors deal with him.”

Sirius barked out laughter. “As if it were that simple,” he said derisively. “If the Ministry hasn’t figured it out by now it’s because they’re in denial or because they don’t care.”

“I do think it’s a little more serious than that,” said Remus, a little more gently. “Dumbledore wouldn’t have told us if it was a simple case of Muggle-baiting or something like that that the Ministry could deal with easily.”

“No,” said James, firmly. “He told us because we’re all going to figure it out sooner or later—probably sooner. I mean, think about it. How long have these disappearances been going on for? People are going to start asking questions. His supporters actively admitted what they were up to at Sirius’ uncle’s funeral. It’s not like they’re really trying to hide it anymore.”

Sirius snorted again, but James ignored that. He was pretty certain that it wasn’t truly a case of Voldemort’s supporters finally letting the Blacks in on the secret, but felt a little uneasy accusing Sirius’ family of being Voldemort supporters.

“So the real question is what do we do?” James asked, finally vocalizing the central question that had been gnawing at him since he first heard the name Voldemort from Sirius’ lips.

“Do?” Sirius asked. “What do you mean, do?”

“I don’t think there is anything we can do,” said Remus.

“These are grown wizards we’re talking about,” said Peter, his voice quavering a bit. He’d tucked his blanket in under body and was clutching his pillow pretty close to his chest. “We’re just kids, we can’t do anything to stop them.”

“Maybe not,” James admitted. “But that doesn’t mean we should just sit here and do nothing and… and… just be scared. Didn’t you hear what Dumbledore said? Fear is a weapon, one that Voldemort is going to try to use. Do we want him to use it on us?”

“But...” Peter protested, licking his lips. “Shouldn’t we be scared?”

“We’re Gryffindors,” Sirius said, unconsciously echoing James’ mother in her letter. “Gryffindor’s don’t get scared.”

“Gryffindors remain brave even when they are scared,” Remus corrected since it was pretty obvious all of them were a little terrified.

“Exactly,” said James. “We can’t let this Voldemort bully us into hiding away under our covers, too scared to even move.” He noticed Peter kick at his blankets surreptitiously so they loosened a bit. “So what do we do?”

“We can make the Slytherin House’s life a living hell,” Sirius suggested. “They’re the ones that go on about pure-blood and embracing the Dark Arts and all that bollocks.”

“Don’t we do that already?” Remus asked dryly. “We’re always after one of them or another, or retaliating because they’ve done something to us.”

Not lately, they hadn’t, but James refrained from pointing that out.

“Your big plan to show Voldemort up is to go on causing as much mischief as you can at Hogwarts?” Remus asked, choking on the words a bit.

“What’s wrong with that?” James asked defensively.

“Nothing,” said Sirius fiercely. “It’s a great idea.”

“But it’s what we would do regularly, anyway. Even if there wasn’t a Dark wizard out there,” said Remus.

“And isn’t that what Dumbledore told us to do?” Sirius demanded.

“If we start acting differently, if we start acting afraid, then hasn’t Voldemort already won?”

Remus tried one more time. “But doing what we always do—it’s not much of a plan, is it?”

James Potter had not had much luck with plans recently, but somehow he thought this one might be different. It would be very difficult indeed to mess up something this simple and maybe that was just what they needed.

Opening up the last of the Chocolate Frogs, the one he’d fished up from the floor, he popped it into his mouth.

“I think it’s a brilliant plan,” he said.

“The best we’ve got,” Peter said quickly, probably

“The best there is,” Sirius corrected, also smiling.

“We’re going to get into so much trouble,” Remus moaned, burying his head under his pillow at the thought of all that detention.

James didn’t have the heart to tell him that was the entire point.

~*~

Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry was not the same place now as it was when Minerva McGonagall graced its hallowed halls. Her time as a student had been far more carefree. Even in her upper years, when Grindelwald had begun his ascent to power, his influence was barely noticeable at the school since the worst of it had taken place in Europe, not Great Britain.

There had never been any of this fear spread across the school. Minerva wondered again at the wisdom of Albus informing the students of some of the facts that even the wizarding public was not yet fully aware, but he had been insistent that knowledge was a great weapon. As a devotee of education, Minerva could hardly argue with that.

It hadn’t done much to squash the rumours that were flying around the castle, though. If anything, it made them worse, as the students who hadn’t known tried to make sense of Dumbledore’s warnings and the students who had been already aware felt free to discuss the Dark Lord openly, weighing the likelihood of increased Muggle tortures and the use of the Unforgivables Curses. Minerva just wished she could do more than order them to change the subject when she overheard such conversations, but the students—mostly Slytherins from the old, pure-blood and prejudiced families that were fertile grounds for Voldemort’s recruitment—though emboldened by the recent announcements were still smart enough to cage the arguments as hypotheticals, never fully admitting their admiration or hope for involvement. There was little McGonagall could do as a teacher.

She had considered speaking to Horace directly though Albus had cautioned against that. The Slytherin Head of House still had his head firmly stuck in the sand about the whole thing and refused to see just how dangerous some of his students were.

He wasn’t the only one, either. Even amidst the rest of the panicked rumours, there were a few vocal deniers, claiming that nothing could be wrong, since their parents worked for the Ministry and would have told them otherwise, or because the Daily Prophet had not yet pieced everything together—though Minerva suspected it wouldn’t be much longer since some of the reporters were starting to ask the right questions.

Most, however, recognized the danger even if they didn’t realized the true extent of what was going to come.

Minerva wondered if she knew it herself.

Still, it was her duty to give these children the best education and the best childhood she could no matter what was going on outside in the Wizarding world, and that is what she planned to do.

With that steely determination, she marched towards the Transfiguration classroom where her second year Gryffindors were seated patiently at their desks. Minerva had a soft spot for this class, which was populated by a few more clever students than usual, although she had to admit that at times they were more frustrating as well since several of those said clever students spent more of their time trying to wreak the most havoc than get the most out of their education. Recently, they’d been quiet, shaken by what Sirius Black had undoubtedly shared with them about what happened at Rastaban Black’s funeral.

Minerva was almost liked the quiet, her enjoyment only tempered by the fact that it was coming at the expense of their personalities.

There was a low murmur coming from inside the classroom, which Minerva thought nothing of as she opened the door. Then her jaw dropped as she saw what was going on inside.

She had just enough time to think, fleetingly, that things were getting back to normal, Voldemort be damned, before she regained her senses.

“Black! Potter!” They whirled around, not having expected her to arrive so soon. She could see the guilt on their faces, though it was disguised as manic innocence. They weren’t the only ones with such expressions, either. “Lupin! Pettigrew!”

“Er, hi Professor,” said Black, innocently, as Potter flashed her a wide, cheeky smile.

“Just what is going on here?” Minerva demanded.

The boys exchanged looks with each other, then at the thing in the middle of the floor, then back at Minerva, who was resisting the urge to tap her foot in impatience.

As they started their explanation, which was just as unlikely and extravagant as Minerva had become accustomed to hearing from them, she realized that yes, things were back to normal for these four particular boys at least.

Title: Full Value of Joy
Author: Di/dogsunderfoot
Artists: chalada and epithalamium
Pairing(s): James/Lily, eventual Sirius/Remus (also inc. Remus/OC and mentions of Sirius/OCs)
Rating and Warnings: PG-13 for language, off-screen deaths, sexual innuendo, and adult situations
Summary: After personal tragedy strikes, Remus disappears from the lives of his friends for five years. When Sirius finally finds him, Remus is reluctant to re-establish their friendship. Is it because of his unspoken grief—or something else entirely?
Word Count: 38,200 (Give or take a few words)
Notes: A few liberties have been made with the timeline for the Marauders—and the year of Harry’s birth.
Thanks and love to the twin-of-my-soul, remuslives23 for her support and help with this monster.
Also: thanks and adoration to ‘my’ wonderful artists: chalada and epithalamium. Hugs to you both because you’re fabulous!
Thanks, too, to fallenmelody and to brighty18, the mods. May you each reap the harvests that you have sown!
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all characters, places, objects, ideas, and related material are the property of JK Rowling and her various publishing entities. Neither the author, the artists, nor the marauderbigbang are in any way making a monetary profit from this posting.


*****

Grief can take care of itself, but to get the full value of joy you must have somebody to divide it with. ~Mark Twain

*****

The doorman smiled broadly, completely ignorant of the fact that his yellow, crooked teeth made him look rather sinister. His apple-round pink cheeks and twinkling blue eyes fortunately softened the effect to the point that most people didn’t even notice the menacing incisors.

"Good morning, Mr Black. How are you this fine morning?"

George’s slight exaggeration about the quality of the day was easy to overlook when his most piercing of whistles was able to call a cab to the kerb in something like ten seconds.

"Doing well, George. And you?"

"Never better, sir, never better."

"How’s the missus?"

"Her lumbago’s acting up a bit, but she’ll be right as rain in a day or two."

Sirius slid into the cab and grinned. "Tell her to feel better soon, George. Stay as dry as you can today."

"You’re a fine man to think of me," George replied. In a rather harsh tone, he said to the driver, "Move along, now. Sharp-like!"

"Where to?" the cabbie asked, as George slammed the door shut and retreated back under the awning.

Sirius gave the man an address that was around the corner and half a block from the building in which he worked. He’d recently discovered a small coffee shop that made the world’s best coffee and he didn’t feel alive until he’d had at least two cups of it. He could also pick up the daily newspapers and the occasional magazine there.

"What do you think Man U’s chances are?" the cabbie asked, breaking into Sirius’ not-quite-awake thoughts.

"Manchester?" Sirius repeated. "Fuck. They couldn’t find the goal if it were painted bright orange and had flags flying on the top of it."

The cabbie laughed and they had a spirited discussion throughout the traffic-packed streets about Man U’s newest goalie.

"Mark my words," the cabbie said as he finally nosed the cab toward the kerb in front of Sirius’ destination, "he’ll be sent packing in three months."

"They’ll be lucky if it’s only three months." Sirius exited the vehicle then leaned into the passenger side window to press some money into the cabbie’s waiting palm. "It was a pleasure."

The man took a glance at the pieces of paper, surprise evident in his eyes. "Blimey, sir!"

Sirius grinned and backed away. Years of internships at publishing companies that paid him with nothing but experience had led him to take jobs bartending and serving tables. Once he’d found his niche at Vernon-Gray Publishing, he’d worked his way up the ladder, using smiles and a few well-twisted daggers until he’d achieved his current position. He appreciated what he’d been through too much not to consider the others who made life more comfortable for him now.

Inside the small coffee shop, Sirius picked up the two newspapers he usually read, and was pleased to realise the newest issue of Writer’s Point of View was on the stand. As an editor in a large publishing firm, he enjoyed the writing process more than most. He’d once intended to become a newspaper reporter but, after only eight months of university courses, he’d discovered he’d rather tear stories apart and rebuild them than create them from scratch. That didn’t mean he didn’t like to read articles about writing and the author’s mindset. Truth was, sometimes he’d come across insightful items that would help him to deal with recalcitrant and moody writers that he dealt with on a daily basis.

"Mr Black, we’ve got some delightful pastries today," the pretty girl behind the counter told him.

"No, Sally, I think I’ll stick to my usual." Sirius grabbed two Snickers bars and tossed them onto the counter next to the periodicals and the white paper bag containing the two cups of coffee.

She shook her head, but gave him a flirtatious glance from beneath long lashes. "You should get yourself a girl to make you some bacon and eggs in the morning."

"Oh, I’m perfectly capable of doing that for myself," Sirius assured her. "What I need is for morning to come a few hours later than it does."

He winked at her, snatched up his items and headed to his office.

"Sirius, Barbara Wellington called. She said she doesn’t understand those revisions you recommended last week."

Sirius rolled his eyes, but kept walking. His assistant, Emmeline, kept pace, flipping through a note pad and shifting sticky notes from one place to another.

"And Flitwick called, saying he was going to be late, and would you mind telling Helen to start on the research for that book for Minerva—"

Sirius held up the bag with the coffee. "Em, coffee first, think later."

"I’ve already had a cup—"

"I haven’t."

"You’re twenty minutes late, Sirius, and your schedule is full, beginning with that meeting with Mr Hoskins in forty minutes! Ms Vernon has already been down here looking for you and you’re telling me you’re incapable of thinking until you have a bloody cup of coffee?"

Sirius opened the door to his office, turning to block her from entering. "Be a darling and find Helen for me, won’t you?"

The woman opened her mouth to protest, but Sirius grinned even wider and winked. "You’re an angel."

"You always bloody say that," she grumbled, her resolve suddenly collapsing under the weight of masculine charm and brilliant grey eyes.

"And I always bloody mean it," he maintained, gently pushing the door closed.

He sank gratefully into his plush leather chair, reaching for one of the cups of coffee and the magazine. Mr Hoskins was forty minutes away which meant forty more minutes of peaceful employment. After that, well...

He’d edited three books for the eminent jewel in the publishing house’s crown and had enjoyed working with the man. The author’s latest manuscript, however, was shit. Sirius had no easy fixes for it—short of burning it.

No, the meeting was not going to go well, and Sirius half-smiled as he thumbed through the Writer’s magazine, scanning through employment advertisements and wondering if he should start jotting down the names and addresses. He opened the first Snickers bar and started to munch contentedly.

He paused at an article entitled, "How to Get an Editor to Work With You—Not Against You". Snorting in disdain at some of the writer’s suggestions, he licked some chocolate from his finger and turned the page.

"Why Did They Stop Writing?" asked the letters at the top of the page.

Sirius’ eyes drifted over the photographs of authors who had written several best-selling stories and novels, and then had abruptly quit, for whatever reason. Most of the photos were taken directly from book jackets or were copies of publicity photos. There were a few candid shots showing the authors in their new professions.

Sirius read quickly through some of the captions, opening the second Snickers bar. "You’re better off teaching maths," he said to the photo of one man. "Your last book was the biggest bit of tripe I’d ever had the misfortune to read. Gorgeous tripe, but tripe none the less."

He took a drink of coffee and turned the next page. There were only two photographs on the page: one of a wrecked car surrounded by fire fighters; the other was of a tall, sandy-haired man carrying a plastic bag full of groceries through a parking lot. The photographer had caught him looking over his shoulder, so the man’s face could clearly be seen.

Sirius slowly lowered the Styrofoam cup and stared more intently at the picture. A strange, suffocating feeling stole through his chest, robbing him of breath and making him very cognisant of every beat of his heart. "Oh, God, Remus. What have you done to yourself?" he whispered, his voice breaking with emotion.

The man in the photo said nothing and Sirius let his finger lightly trace the man’s face. He was thinner than the last time that Sirius had seen him—and he’d never had much meat on his bones to begin. His hair was long and stringy and he had a moustache and several days’ growth of stubble that was just short of ‘beard’ status. Sirius hated it, if only because he could remember the man laughing once, saying, "Who wants a caterpillar on his face?"

It was his eyes, though, that made Sirius’ heart hurt. Even through the graininess of a telephoto lens, Sirius could see they were haunted, aching with loss. Sirius found himself counting on his fingers.

It’s been five years. It’s still as fresh to him as if it happened yesterday...

Sirius glanced again at the photo of the wrecked car and steeled himself to read the caption: "Wolfe’s wife and son were killed in this accident, prompting the best-selling author to withdraw into relative obscurity in a small town in America."

America? Sirius took a long drink of coffee and stared at a spot on the wall. He’d guessed France. Peter had guessed South Africa. James had only half-jokingly said, "He’s gone to some Buddhist temple in Tibet."

The door to his office suddenly swung open and Emmeline came in, already mid-sentence: "—on her way. She’s already done some of the research, so you should be pleased. What won’t please you, however, is that Mr Hoskins is here. He’s—" She stopped and stared at the dark-haired man. "Sirius, are you all right? You look, well, you don’t look good at all."

Sirius sat back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with a thumb and forefinger. "I’ll be fine, Em."

"Can I get you something? Something for a headache or something to settle your stomach?"

"No." Sirius managed to stretch his lips into a smile. "I’ll be fine. I just need a minute. Where’s Mr Hoskins?"

"He’s in the blue room. Are you sure I shouldn’t tell him you’re ill and—"

"I said, I’ll be fine. Just—go get the old boy a scotch and soda—"

"It’s not even ten yet!"

"Coffee, then! Damn it, Emmeline, just keep him occupied, please? And for God’s sake, don’t tell him I’m ill. The old bugger will smell blood and bring me down like a three-legged gazelle."

His assistant blinked rapidly several times. "As far as analogies go, that one was either bloody brilliant or the worst piece of shite I’ve ever heard."

"Consider it brilliant and be gone," Sirius ordered with a wave of his hand. Emmeline regarded him for another moment and then left, closing the door softly behind her.

Sirius leaned his elbows on the desk and pressed his face into still-shaky hands. "Fuck, Remus. I did not need to see this today."

Would tomorrow have been better? Why can’t one schedule shocking news? ‘Em, I need to schedule some time for dismay and sorrow at seeing how one of my best friends has ruined himself. Could you pencil that in around two?’ Fuck. I did not need this today. Why in the hell would Remus allow this?

He looked down at the picture, looking at the angle of Remus’ line of vision. He was definitely not looking at the camera; he seemed unaware of it altogether. And then realisation smacked Sirius in the face: He doesn’t know.

The editor shook his head disapprovingly. The magazine had no doubt been refused entrance into Remus’ world—with every bit as much finality as his former friends had. Unlike his friends, however, they’d chosen to disregard his grief and rejection and had gotten what they needed.

We gave up too easily. America. Bloody hell.

He gave himself five more minutes to pull himself together before making his way down the corridor to the room where Fred Hoskins was waiting.

Fred Hoskins had been a well-established author before he’d come to Vernon-Gray ten years before. Sirius had ‘inherited’ the honour of being his editor when another editor had retired. A more cantankerous, obnoxious man didn’t exist—but he wrote brilliant novels. Sirius could still remember the day that the Misses Gray and Vernon had come into his office and informed him that he had been given a ‘promotion’.

"You’re the best candidate to deal with him."

"You’ve got talent, Sirius, and more than that, you’ve got a way about you."

"With that silver tongue of yours, you’ll be able to get him to agree to changes, but still make him think the changes are his decision."

"You’re perfect for this."

Through trial-and-error, Sirius had finally discovered the perfect way to get the man to accept his changes. Most of the time, he was blatantly deceptive, offering back pages that had already been slightly edited and then telling the man that they would have to talk about edits to those. The man occasionally looked at the sentences and said he hadn’t thought he’d written it like that originally, but never pursued the issue, to Sirius’ relief.

Today, however, was going to be very different—and Sirius was of no mood to mollycoddle the man through it, though he’d have to try.

He plastered a smile on his face before he went through the door, greeting the man with an effusive, "Good morning, Fred!"

"You’ve kept me waiting," the silver-haired man snapped.

"Ah, yes, couldn’t be helped. Shall we get started?" Don’t expect me to apologise.

"I was ready to get started ten minutes ago."

So, the old badger was ready for a fight, was he? Oh, he’s come to the right bloody place, then.

Sirius took out the manuscript and put it on the table between them. "Before we talk about what you’re planning to write next, I have to share this with you." He forced a laugh. "You won’t believe what someone has done, Fred. Someone sent in the first three chapters of a book and used your name. Of course, once I struggled through the first chapter, I realised it couldn’t be yours, so I nearly chucked it in the bin. I saved it, though, thinking you might have a right good laugh out of it."

The man pulled himself up straighter, if it were possible, and stared at the bundle of paper in front of him. Even through the top sheet, he could see the red ink peeking through on the first page of the story underneath. "Young man—"

"Oh, I know, I know." Sirius held up a hand to stop him. "It’s not proper or nice, but I did think you might find it somewhat amusing that someone would even think of duplicating your style and talent."

He almost laughed at the man’s expression. The old man obviously didn’t know whether to be pleased at Sirius’ compliments or offended that Sirius had dismissed the new manuscript so offhandedly.

"You’re welcome to have a look at it, if you’d like," Sirius said, pushing the papers closer to the man.

Hoskins finally reached for it and started to flip through it, his eyes widening at Sirius’ comments and the red ink that bled from every page. He finally put it back down and folded his hands on top of it.

"Not much of a plot, eh?"

Sirius shrugged. "Well, the plot is not necessarily the problem. After all, how many bloody plots are there in the world? No, it’s the execution of it. No one would ever believe that a father would decide to turn his son in for murder just because he disapproves of the boy’s girlfriend. It’s not logical."

"But if the boy has caused problems for his father for years—"

"That’s not what it says, though," Sirius said. "If the son was that much trouble, there’d have been other brushes with the police, other times when he was ready to write him off. As it is, the author says on page six or seven that the son hadn’t given the father any problems until—"

"Maybe the father had been oblivious to the other things his son had done—"

"Then it needs to be said," Sirius insisted firmly. He finally leaned his elbows on the table and looked into the man’s dark brown eyes. "Fred, I’ve edited your last three books. Do you trust me?"

The writer’s eyebrows lowered and he answered slowly as if it hurt him to say, "You’ve done a good job for me, I’ll admit."

"Then trust me when I say that this manuscript doesn’t give enough. If you want to do something more emotional, then do it, but you’re going to have to give us the details. You have to make us understand why the father is angry. You have to take us step by step through it all. You have to make us feel the anger and the frustration and the confusion and the sadness. But more than that, you have to be willing to feel it if you want us to feel it. Are you ready to turn yourself inside out for the sake of this book?" He sat absolutely still, waiting for Hoskins to respond. Sirius’ authority had often been established by sitting motionless like this, letting an author decide how to respond to his straightforward honesty.

And then, suddenly, a memory from ten years before crept on velvet paws into his mind:

"You have to be willing to give more than this, Remus."

"I don’t understand—"

"You hold everything back. You hold your emotions back so much that no one knows what you’re feeling. You’re doing the same thing to your book! You have such a stranglehold on it, it can’t fucking breathe! Let the characters tell us what they’re feeling, not just what they’re thinking!"

Remus had walked out of their flat, obviously hurt and angry. When he’d come back, he’d sat down at the computer and started typing. His keystrokes were quick, sharp, and furious. After two hours, he’d come into Sirius’ bedroom and tossed twenty stapled papers at his friend and walked out. When Sirius returned the pages to Remus twenty minutes later, he had tears racing down his cheeks.

"God, Remus, if this is how you feel things, I don’t know how you get through one day."

Remus hadn’t looked up from his bowl of cereal and the crossword puzzle he’d been working. "That, Sirius, is why I hold things back so much."

Hoskins suddenly sighed and reached out to brush one hand across the top sheet of the manuscript. "You never thought someone else did it."

Sirius shook his head. "No. I was trying to give you a way to walk away from it."

"With my pride intact, eh?"

Sirius shrugged. "I thought if you were willing to fight me on it, it might be something worth fighting for."

The older man regarded his editor with something Sirius didn’t recognise. Then he picked up the manuscript and began flipping through the pages. "Do you think this is completely ridiculous? Fred Hoskins, writer of adventure and detective novels, taking on something like this?"

Sirius chuckled. "It’s a chance to prove that you’re a brilliant writer all told, not just a brilliant writer of adventure."

"But—?" the man pressed.

"I won’t let you take any shortcuts. I’ll demand that you give me everything."

The older man rose and tossed the sheaf of paper on the table. "Will you know how to do that without making it sound like a damn woman wrote it?"

Sirius smiled grimly, thinking of the photo in the magazine and a young 20-year-old man typing away furiously at God-awful hours of the morning. "I’ve done it before."

*

James had the door to his office open, anticipating a visit from a new client. As a result, he could clearly hear his secretary when she answered the phone.

"Good afternoon, Hennessey, Garber, & Jones. James Potter’s office."

There was a pause, and then Sophie giggled. "You’re going to get charged with harassment someday, Mr Black. You mark my words."

James rolled his eyes, almost fearful of whatever comment Sirius might have made to the woman. "Chances are, she’s right," he muttered.

"Mr Potter is in his office, would you like to speak to him? Just a moment, then."

James picked up the phone as soon as he saw the ‘hold’ button light up. A quick conversation with Sirius should put him in a slightly happier mood and make it easier to put his new client at ease. "Sirius! It’s been so long! Oh, wait. We saw you last night for dinner. Why can’t I get rid of you?"

Sirius chuckled. "It’s because you fed me last night. With food like that, you can’t possibly think I’m going to go away."

"I told Lily to put more saffron in the chicken."

"Cunt."

"Now what is it that happens if you eat saffron?" James asked slyly.

"My oesophagus will swell shut in a matter of minutes and I’ll turn a lovely shade of blue. Then I’ll fall face first into my plate and die, which might or might not ruin your dining pleasure."

"Hmm. I suppose how much pleasure I get out of it depends on how much of a git you’ve been, flirting with my wife."

"Would you rather I flirt with your daughter?"

"Sirius, she’s five."

"She’s already informed me she’s going to marry me."

"Only because she hasn’t had enough experience to know how much of a pouf you really are."

"Hey, for the right woman—"

"I suppose I should be glad you’re not flirting with my son, now that I think about it."

They chuckled and James could hear the creak of Sirius’ chair which meant that he was leaning back and propping his feet up on his desk.

"So, why are you calling, Padfoot?" The lawyer kicked his own feet up on his mahogany desk, narrowly avoiding kicking a stack of documents onto the floor. There was a deep sigh on the other end of the line. Worry scurried up James’ spine. He doesn’t sigh like that unless he’s genuinely upset about something. "Sirius?"

"He’s in America."

James inhaled sharply. There was only one person who could create that tone of regret and longing in Sirius’ words. Remus. It has to be Remus. Slowly he lowered his feet back down to the floor and leaned his elbows on his desktop."How did you find out?"

"There’s a story in a magazine, and some photographer got a picture of him."

James closed his eyes. A stupid photographer was able to do what we couldn’t: find him. "How does he look?"

Sirius’ reply was uncharacteristically subdued. "He looks like hell, James."

"Bring it over tonight, all right?"

"Six?"

James thought quickly. "Make it seven. Harry has football practice."

Sirius made a sound of assent. "Will you call Peter?"

"I will."

Sirius disconnected, but James stared at the receiver for a long moment.

America. Now we know where he is. How long until Sirius decides we need to do something about it?

*******

Sirius was leaning against the window sill, staring sightlessly outside, when Julia Gray came into his office and took a seat in Sirius’ leather chair.

"You’ve been terribly distracted today," she said without preamble.

He sighed and scratched at the back of his head. "Yes."

She rested her elbow on his desk and began to twirl a strand of her auburn hair around her finger. "You weren’t very nice to Marvin earlier."

Sirius snorted in disgust as he thought about the explosive confrontation he’d had with the children’s book division editor. "Marvin is never nice to me. I’m just finally returning the favour."

"Marvin isn’t nice to anyone," she pointed out. "Why is it just suddenly bothering you today?"

He turned his gaze back out the window. "Have you ever had one of those moments in which you suddenly realise you made a terrible, terrible mistake?"

"Haven’t we all?" She paused, both in speech and in the twisting of her hair for a moment before asking, "Has this anything to do with Mr Hoskins?"

"Fred?" Sirius glanced at her, smiled, and then looked away again. "No. This happened so many years ago that I don’t know if I can fix it."

He heard the sound of leather creaking as if she were settling herself into the chair more comfortably. "Would you like to talk about it?" she asked.

He considered telling her ‘no’, but the fact was that he liked his employers and was able to talk to them about anything. Julia Gray and Diana Vernon had taken a large risk hiring him over older and more experienced editors, and they let him know that they had never regretted it. Like older sisters, they teased him unmercifully about his looks, his sexual conquests—and the lack thereof—and anything else; but they respected his opinion and respected him. She deserved some sort of an explanation for his aberrant mood.

"When I was in secondary school," he began, "I met this bloke. We became friends—it was like we’d known each other since we were sprogs." His quiet chuckle was barely more than a puff of air. "It didn’t take me long to realise that he was destined for bigger and better things. We went to uni together. The professors didn’t seem to think he was anything special, but, God!" He shook his head. "He had a novel eating away inside him. He started telling me the plot one day while we ate cheese sandwiches between classes. After that, every day, he’d tell me a little more. It was fascinating: the characters were amazing and so believable, the plot was interesting and fun..."

Sirius closed his eyes. "Every time I eat a cheese sandwich, I remember sitting on concrete walls or in stairways, listening to him tell the next bit. After a while, it became obvious that it wasn’t just one novel, but a whole damned series. We sat down and plotted how he could expand some of his ideas into larger plotlines, not realising that it would all come to fruition."

"He got his book published? Is he someone I know?"

"Page thirty-seven," he said, without looking back. She was a smart woman; she’d figure it out.

After a moment, he heard the sound of pages being turned. "R. J. Wolfe?" Her tone was both shocked and inquiring.

"Remus," Sirius said softly. "Remus John Lupin, actually."

She was quiet for a moment, and he took the chance to look over at her. She was scanning the magazine article, continuously winding the strand of hair one way and then the other around her finger. He pushed himself away from the window and slipped into one of the plush wingchairs on the other side of the desk.

Slowly, her blue eyes rose to meet his. "I remember when Old Moon was published," she said thoughtfully. "I bought it to see if it was everything people were making it out to be."

"What did you think?" Sirius asked, his voice deceptively light.

She laughed. "I was insanely jealous and incredibly angry that we hadn’t gotten our hands on him first. And I mean that quite literally, because Di and I talked about how cute he was."

Sirius chuckled. "Maybe I shouldn’t tell you this, but I was the one who told him to send it to Snell’s. I was doing an internship there at the time and had high hopes they’d hire me. I thought they might appreciate the editing I’d done on Old Moon."

"You—?"

"We were roommates. He’d type a chapter; I’d ‘fix’ it for him. I went through it two or three more times as a whole and then he sent it in. Most of what’s in the published book is what he originally submitted."

"That’s highly irregular," Julia commented.

"Of course. But he’s an incredible writer and I’m a bloody fantastic editor. We worked well together."

"Obviously. Was that in spite of your arrogance and confidence? Or because of it?" They both smiled and then she asked, "What happened after that?"

"Snell’s got him another editor and I didn’t have him waking me up at three in the morning to read something because he just wasn’t sure it was any good or not."

"Did you stay in touch?"

"Until Dora and Teddy died, yes." Sirius reached over and pulled the magazine closer to him. "Remus has always been—different. He had a tendency to push good things away because he believed he didn’t deserve them. Considering his childhood, I’m not surprised that he was as fucked up as he was. And he’d be the first to say so," he hurried to say, seeing Julia was getting ready to protest. She closed her mouth and rolled her eyes, gesturing for him to continue. He crossed one leg over the other, letting his ankle rest on his knee, and reached down to fiddle with the laces of his shoes. "Getting him to propose to Dora took many, many nights of drunken conversations that I’m sure neither one of us completely remember. After she got pregnant, he left her for a month, because he believed he’d be a lousy father and she’d be better off raising the baby without him."

Julia tilted her head to the side. "You know, that character, Jasper, in Old Moon—"

"Oh, that’s Remus, up and down. He’d never admit to it, though. Once Teddy was born, Remus took to fatherhood like a duck to water. He was happier than I’d ever known him."

"And then this?" She motioned toward the article.

"And then that. He shoved his friends aside after the funeral. He wouldn’t accept our calls, he wouldn’t return our e-mails, and he wouldn’t even answer the door if we drove to his place."

"Poor boy," she whispered.

"The ‘poor boy’ took off without telling us where he was going. Bastard. For a year, I searched for him, but couldn’t find him. I just found out today that he’s been living in America." Sirius flicked his finger at the page in front of him.

"So, the mistake you mentioned at the beginning of this conversation—?"

Sirius rubbed his chin with the backs of his fingers. "Jules, would you be terribly angry if I said I might need to take a small holiday?"

*******

Peter tried not to be self-conscious as his eyes tracked across the bright orange highlighted lines, but it was difficult to ignore Sirius’ piercing stare. Still, he made himself finish reading the bit about Remus and went back to the photos on page thirty-seven. Finally, he gently placed the magazine down on the table and looked at Sirius.

"Well?" Sirius demanded.

"Well, what?" Peter blinked at Sirius’ almost aggressive tone. "I need a minute to process this, Sirius."

"He looks like shit," Sirius moaned. "Look at him!"

"He looks as if he’s twenty years older than his actual age," James commented, taking a drink of ale.

"We should have tried harder," Sirius said forcefully. "He needed us then. He needs us now."

"That’s not what he said when he slammed the door in my face five years ago," James shot back with a hint of anger.

"He didn’t know what he was saying. We knew he was hurting—"

"You agreed that we should give him some time and some space," James argued.

"Don’t make us guilty of a crime we didn’t commit, Sirius," Peter said sharply, more than a little irritated with Sirius’ attitude. Of course, he’s never been rational when it’s come to Remus. "Had we known he was going to leave like he did, we would have tried harder."

Sirius acknowledged the truth of Peter’s comment with a nod, but it was clear from the scowl on his face that he didn’t like it. "We should have known. I should have realised. He was so wrapped up in Dora and Teddy—I should have known that he was going to do something desperate."

"Considering everything, it’s a bloody miracle he didn’t commit suicide," Peter said, voicing the worry that had filled every waking moment in the weeks following the accident until Remus disappeared.

James banged the bottle down on the table. "What he did wasn’t desperate, it was cowardly. Fucking hell, Sirius, how many times did he say we were his family? Who would have guessed that he would have taken off to parts unknown without telling us? That’s not the way that you treat family."

"Not unless you’re Remus and you have the horrible family that he does. I won’t even go into my family to offer further proof," Sirius sighed and sipped at his ale. "I’m going to the States."

James and Peter exchanged glances. "Do you think that’s a good idea?" James asked. "If he hasn’t made an attempt to get in touch with us in five years..." He let his sentence trail off for Sirius and Peter to complete with their own assumptions.

"Maybe he needs to know that we still care about him and we still miss him."

"Maybe he doesn’t give a damn," Peter said quietly.

"No. I refuse to believe that!" Sirius reached for the magazine and turned it so they could see Remus clearly. "Look at him! He’s miserable! The Remus we knew would never let himself get to this point!"

"That’s just it, though, isn’t it, Sirius?" Peter folded his hands tightly together until his knuckles whitened. "This isn’t the Remus we knew. He hasn’t been that Remus since Dora died."

*

Peter’s words took the wind out of Sirius’ sails, and the dark-haired man fell sullenly silent. He didn’t know what to say to convince them he was right. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he was. He’d hoped that a long talk with James and Peter would have solidified things in his head, made a path of action clearer. Instead, he felt more confused.

He allowed Peter and James to turn the conversation away from Remus to the things that were important in their day-to-day lives now. They tried to draw him into their light-hearted teasing, but he was in no mood for it. He grimly nursed his beer, responding only when necessary, his mind trapped in never-ending circles about what he should do—and how soon he should do it.

"I have to go," Peter suddenly said. "I’ve got to finish getting ready for my meeting about the funding for my project."

"When is that?" James asked.

"Monday. I still have charts and graphs to prepare, and some last minute data to enter, though."

James walked Peter to the door, where they stood muttering quietly to one another before Peter left. Once he was gone, James came back to the table and sat down across from Sirius.

The editor recognised the look in James’ eyes: he was about to say something he knew Sirius would not agree with. The perverse side of Sirius decided to tackle the issue head on. "You don’t think I should go."

James was silent for a long minute. "I don’t know, Sirius. He obviously doesn’t miss us or care about getting in touch with us. Is it right for us to push our way into someplace where we’re clearly not wanted?"

"He might be afraid we’re angry with him—"

"He should be! I am as mad as hell with him!" James exploded. "And before you go on, let me remind you that I know this is what he does. After all, he spent half of that month away from Dora in our spare bedroom. He sabotages his own happiness, Sirius, and then he expects other people to beg, push, or jolly him into accepting the things that were his in the first place."

"You know why."

"That’s an excuse," James snapped. "I know he had a bloody awful childhood, but he’s got to grow up and start accepting things like an adult. He can’t keep running away from things. And running from happiness and friendship is—it’s ridiculous."

Sirius rubbed his thumb over the condensation on the bottle, concentrating on the small print on the label. "You have to admit, James, if you always seemed to lose the things that made you the happiest, it might make you a bit jaded. It might make you want to push the good things away because you’re afraid you’re going to lose them anyhow. It’s a way of taking control of your destiny, deciding to get rid of those things on your own terms instead of losing them to the will of God, or the Fates, or karma, or whatever else has determined that you shouldn’t have it anymore."

"You’ve always made excuses for him."

Sirius looked up at the slight tone of disgust in James’ voice. "What do you mean by that?"

"Exactly that." James put his elbows on the table and leaned toward Sirius. "If it were Peter who’d told you to fuck off and then flew off to America without telling you, would you be ready to fly across the pond to find him?"

Sirius felt every muscle in his body tighten. "If Peter looked that miserable, I would."

James continued to stare at Sirius silently.

"What? You think I wouldn’t?"

"You want to know what I really think, Sirius?"

Oh, God, no, I don’t. I already know—

"I think you’re still in love with him."

Sirius made a scoffing sound. "It was a long time ago, James."

"I’ve loved Lily for fifteen years. You haven’t dated anyone seriously in the last fifteen years. Not since we all became roommates."

"That’s not true. What about Andrew?"

"Andrew was your first gay crush. He was little more than an experiment. You recognised that fact two days after he broke up with you."

"What about Alice?"

"That wasn’t serious. You only wanted to marry her because you were lonely."

"That’s a fine fucking thing to say."

James’ gaze was steady as he replied softly, "But it’s true, and you know it."

Sirius felt the weight of truth pressing down on him, pushing the air out of his lungs, making spots dance in front of his eyes as if he were going to pass out. "I loved her."

"You loved the idea of her. Lily and I were married, Remus and Dora were married, Peter and Eleanor were engaged... You were a third wheel no matter where you looked, and you hated that."

He couldn’t deny it. It was true. It was very, very painful, but it was true.

"It’s always been Remus, Sirius. It’s always been about him. You gave him everything, and he let you do it."

Sirius’ eyebrows lowered dangerously. "Be careful, James."

The other man ran a hand over the back of his head. "Sirius, when you first went to uni, what were you planning to do with your life?"

"I was going to be a journalist, but—"

"What did Slughorn say about your writing?"

"He said I had real talent, but—"

"Why did you stop writing?"

"I realised I had a better talent for editing—"

"And whose work were you editing?"

Indignation and anger made Sirius’ silver eyes flash. "That’s unfair!"

James banged his hand on the table, making the bottles and the other man jump. "Answer the question, Sirius!"

"He never asked me to do it! We did it for each other, reading each other’s pieces and offering suggestions and such."

"He didn’t offer to stop writing for your sake, did he?"

Sirius’ hands clenched into fists. "It wasn’t like that! He had more to offer than I did, writing-wise. And I did realise that I liked editing better than writing. It was a better fit for me, rearranging things and helping to fix things to make them stronger and better! I’m good at what I do, damnit, and I’m not going to make any apologies for it!"

"He let you do it. He let you give up your dream for his."

Sirius shot to his feet, shoving the chair back with an ugly scraping sound across the tiled floor. "No. He never did that. I helped him achieve his dream, yes, but it wasn’t at a price that I wasn’t willing to pay!"

"Sirius, calm down—"

"Calm down? You bastard! How do you expect me to calm down?"

"I didn’t mean to upset you—"

"‘Didn’t mean—’ Well, what did you mean by all this, then?"

James sighed. "I don’t know," he admitted, his shoulders slumping.

Sirius looked beseechingly at his friend. "I thought you liked Remus."

"I do! Hell, Sirius, he was as much my brother as you are." James lowered his forehead to rest upon his forearms for a moment. When he raised his head again, he was frowning. "Look, when we were boys, your dream was to write. And you gave that up for him. Without regret, yes, and yes, I know he didn’t ask it of you. But..." He rubbed his hands over his face. "Sirius, did you two ever talk about how you felt about him?"

Sirius fell back down into his chair. "Once."

"What did he say?"

"What do you think he said? He wasn’t interested."

"I don’t want your heart broken if you find him and he’s still not interested," James blurted out.

Sirius ran his thumb over the corner of the magazine, flicking the pages. "James, I’ve missed him. I’ve missed his friendship. I’ve missed the four of us together. I don’t want anything more than that." His fingers stroked the slick paper. "Well, with the exception that I want him to look happy."

James reached across the table and touched Remus’ photo. His fingertips brushed Sirius’. "I want that, too."

"I’m going to America," Sirius stated softly.

James smiled sadly. "I didn’t doubt it for a minute."

*******

"Snell Publishing."

"Yes, this is Sirius Black, over at Vernon-Gray. Could you tell me who R. J. Wolfe’s agent is?"

"I’m sorry, sir, but I am not authorised to give out that information."

"Could you tell me who has that authority, then?"

*

"Cornelia Stewart’s office."

"Hello, my name is Sirius Black, from Vernon-Gray Publishing. Is Ms Stewart in?"

"She is in a meeting. Would you care to leave a message?"

*

"Cornelia Stewart’s office."

"Hello, it’s Sirius Black. Again."

"And, again, Mr Black, when Ms Stewart is available to talk to you, she will return your calls."

"What’s your name?"

"Pardon?"

"I asked your name. I’ve been through this sort of thing before, so I might as well know your name so that the next time I call because she’s deliberately ignoring me, I can just say, "Hey, whatever-your-name is, it’s me, Sirius. How’s the weather over there on the south side?"

*

"Sirius Black."

"Mr Black, this is Cornelia Stewart."

"Pardon me?"

"I said, this is Cornelia Stewart."

"Good God. You do exist."

"I hardly think that remark appropriate."

"It was certainly more appropriate than ‘I’ll have to come over there and give Angela a thorough snogging for convincing you to call me.’"

*

"Cornelia Stewart."

"May I just call you Cornelia?"

"Is this you again, Mr Black?"

"I am nothing if not persistent. Though, if I do say so myself, I am also extremely handsome."

"You are obviously extremely vain."

"Well, of course. Wouldn’t do to have the looks that I do and not be able to appreciate it."

"I’m still not giving you Mr Wolfe’s phone number."

"Isn’t there anything I can use as bribery?"

"I’ve always wanted a Jaguar."

"The car or the cat?"

*

"Sirius Bla—"

"Sirius Black, you are the most interesting man I’ve had to deal with."

"I hope that’s a good thing, Cornelia."

"The flowers were beautiful."

"Good. I certainly paid enough for them."

"I haven’t decided whether the little model car was a stroke of genius or a sign that you’re truly mad."

"It’s difficult to tell, sometimes."

"Hmm. Indeed."

"Am I interesting and genius enough to get R. J.’s phone number?"

"I’ll probably regret this, but... Do you have a pen and paper handy?"

*

"I’ve got his phone number, James."

"It only took you six days. I’m impressed."

"I am persistent, charming, and interesting."

"And a complete and utter git. What kind of sexual favours did you have to promise?"

"Would you like to come with me one night and find out?"

*******

He stared at the phone all morning, going over what Remus might say, what he himself would say—and wondering if he should call in the first place.

What’s the worst that could happen? He could tell me to leave him the hell alone and hang up on me.

It was early afternoon when he picked up the handset and, heart pounding frantically and loudly in his chest, punched the series of numbers that would enable him to call out of Britain and into some unknown area of the United States. Even though he’d expected it, the actual ringing of the phone startled him.

Oh, fuck. What do I say?

Two rings. Three. Four. A mechanical voice came on the line to ask him to leave his name and number. Sirius replaced the handset. This was difficult enough without leaving a message.

He tried four more times throughout the afternoon and was ready to ask the answering machine its name so he could ask it how things were across the ocean. The final time was right before he left for the day. He eyed the clock on the wall, thinking he should have considered the time difference before hitting the redial button.

One o’clock there. Where would he have been all morning? Working? If he has—

"Hello?"

All thought and breath went out of Sirius’ body. The voice was raspier, slightly deeper, but it was unmistakeably familiar.

"Hello?" the voice asked again.

"Moony."

Of all the things in the world that Sirius had thought of saying, reverting back to a nickname he hadn’t used in years hadn’t been one of them.

There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone and then a quiet, "Sirius?"

"Got it in one, mate."

"Fucking hell."

"Nice. And I was going to say it was good to finally hear your voice."

"How’d you get this number?"

"Finally got pushy with your agent. I had to threaten her with plagues of Biblical proportions before she finally gave it to me. If it makes you feel any better, there was great wailing and gnashing of teeth involved."

Remus decided that was all the witty banter he wanted. "What do you want, Sirius?"

"I wanted to talk to you. It’s been a while, you realise."

"Yes."

There was an awkward pause, and then Sirius blurted out the first thing he could think of. "I’ve missed you."

"Have you?"

Sirius picked up a red pencil and began to doodle across the top of the closest manuscript—which was intended for the trash. "Yes. James doesn’t appreciate pub crawls—or rather, he does, but Lily doesn’t—and Peter just isn’t any fun anymore, now that he’s on the brink of some amazing scientific discovery and is desperate to find funding."

He could have been wrong, but he thought there was a slight chuckle after his breathless diatribe. "So, you’ve missed me because you’ve been inconvenienced?"

"And lonely."

"There’s no... significant other?"

"Who would have me, really? I doubt I’ve improved since you left."

"Gotten worse, no doubt."

"Absolutely." Sirius took a deep breath and then said, "You left us, Moony. Without a word, without a note, without any warning."

There was a long sigh.

"Why did you do that?" Sirius pressed.

"I didn’t want you to stop me."

"Mission accomplished, then. Why didn’t you tell us where you were once you’d got settled?"

"Oh, God, Sirius."

"We were worried about you. We had no idea where you were. James said you were in so Buddhist temple in Tibet."

"I couldn’t stay there anymore, Sirius. I felt like the walls were caving in on me."

"And so you went to America without a word?"

"I went to France first."

"The point remains."

"Then I went to Italy for a couple of months," Remus continued, ignoring Sirius’ comment and the point he was trying to make. "Then I more or less meandered through India and Australia and somehow ended up here."

"Somehow."

He could almost imagine the shrug of Remus’ shoulders. "It’s peaceful here."

"So is Dartmoor."

"You know what I mean."

No memories, no ghosts of the past, no-one to ask questions or to offer condolences; yes, I do know what he means.

"No-one knows you as R. J. Wolfe, then?"

"I think there are a couple of people who suspect, but they’ve been very good about it."

Was it one of those people who clued the magazine as to Remus’ whereabouts? Sirius wasn’t ready to ask about the article he’d seen.

"How are you doing? Are you writing?"

"No."

That answer should have told Sirius everything he could want to know, if he were absolutely convinced Remus wasn’t lying. The answer was a little too quick to suit him. "Your publisher is no doubt pulling their hair out."

"They can go fuck themselves for all I care."

"So, what do you do there in the wilds of the American colonies?"

There was a long silence and then Remus said, "I survive, Padfoot. I survive."

And with that, he hung up.

*******

Sirius waited a week before calling again. This time, he only had to try twice before Remus answered.

"Hey, Moony."

There was a long silence, and then, "You aren’t going to leave me alone, are you?"

"I didn’t know you wanted me to."

"The fact that I haven’t called didn’t tip you off?"

Sirius could hear many emotions bleeding through Remus’ words, and none of them were good. "Remus—" Before he could go any further, the other man stopped him.

"Sirius, don’t call me."

It took Sirius a moment before he realised that Remus had again cut the phone call off short.

*******

"Why don’t you try, Prongs?"

"Why are you calling me that? I thought you’d gotten out of that habit."

Sirius shook his head. "I don’t know. For the same reason that I’ve been calling him ‘Moony’, I suppose."

"Am I ever going to get the story about why you call each other those ridiculous nicknames?" Lily asked, coming into the living room and handing each of them a bottle of ale.

Sirius stared at James. "You’ve never told her the story of ‘Prongs’?"

James groaned. "No, and you’re not going to, either. ‘Padfoot’ is because Sirius liked to creep up behind us and scare the shit out of us. Remus named him after he’d read a book about the Grim—you know, the legendary black dog that is a harbinger of doom?"

Lily considered Sirius for a moment. "It fits, sadly enough."

"‘Moony’ is because Remus has always been a daydreamer. He’d get caught by Sirius’ antics more than any of us. He found himself in a rather unfortunate position when he had his pants jerked down right in front of a girl that he’d been lusting over for a while."

"You didn’t!" Lily gasped, staring at Sirius. Then she rolled her eyes. "My apologies. I forgot who I was talking to."

"I thought I was doing him a favour. Considering his, er, everything, I thought she’d be impressed and go out with him." Sirius shrugged. "James named Peter ‘Wormtail’ because when Peter refused to dissect his first lab rat when the time came. Peter brought the rat home and caught all kinds of hell for it. We wanted to call him ‘Ratface’, because honestly, when you look at him the right way, he does have some ratty features: the pointy nose, the small, beady eyes..."

James grinned. "‘Wormtail’ seemed vaguely kinder."

"God help someone if you decided to nickname someone you didn’t like," Lily remarked. "Now, what about ‘Prongs’?"

"No. Never," James said, pointing to Sirius and shaking his head. "Swear to it. Now."

"Oh, come on, James, you can’t expect me to—"

"Swear!"

Sirius’ gaze went from Lily to James and back again. A wicked smile appeared right before he said quickly, "It’s because of you, Lily, and his obvious pleasure in seeing you one day in that white dress you used to have—that strapless thing with the little pink flowers."

"Oh, you are dead!" James yelled, jumping out of his chair and pulling his friend onto the floor for an impromptu wrestling match.

Twelve-year-old Harry came into the room to watch the two men. "Mum?"

Lily shook her head. "Don’t ask, sweetheart. Just—walk away while you can."

Five minutes later, after a lot of cursing, insults, and two accidental collisions with furniture, James and Sirius crawled back into their seats.

"We’re getting too old for this shit," Sirius said, panting slightly.

James rubbed the elbow that had banged into the coffee table leg. "I hate being thirty-four. I feel so old."

"Yeah," Sirius agreed softly.

They sipped at their ale for a moment, and then Sirius again brought up the original reason he’d come over. "Maybe he’d talk to you. You’ve always been more—sympathetic and grown-up. He’s always respected you."

"Bollocks. I listened to him and told him what I’d do and then he’d do whatever you told him to do."

"Still, if you called—"

"Sirius, he told you to fuck off the last time you called—"

"Not true."

"Sorry. He hung up as soon as he heard your voice the last time you called. He told you to fuck off the last two times before that. He doesn’t want to talk to us. That’s all there is to it."

"But if you’d just try—"

Lily walked into the room, the cordless phone in her hands. "What’s the phone number, Sirius?"

James’ forehead creased in alarm. "Lily—"

"He’s going to keep badgering you until you call, James. He’s not going to leave Remus alone until he sees that Remus is going to be completely pissed off that we’re calling now. Phone number, Sirius."

"He might have some choice words for you as well," Sirius pointed out, digging in his pocket for his wallet and the creased piece of paper that he’d kept in it.

"Not with me, he won’t," Lily said firmly, pressing the buttons rapidly and then raising the phone to her ear.

The men stared at her in trepidation as she held up one finger, then a second... She tensed visibly and her eyes went unfocused as if she were listening intently to something.

"I understand completely, Remus, I do, but this is Lily, not Sirius," she said finally. She waited to hear Remus’ reaction, then pointed a finger at Sirius and grimaced. "He’s been hounding James to call you. They’ve been fighting about it, actually."

A pause.

"The couch is going to live, fortunately, but I have my doubts about the coffee table."

She smiled and winked at James. "If I’m the one calling, who do you think won?"

"Why will he talk to her and not me?" Sirius whispered harshly to James.

"Because he likes her and doesn’t like you," James replied quietly.

"Prat."

"Git."

"Arse."

"Bastard."

Lily’s voice got a little louder. "They’re arguing over who the biggest idiot is, actually... You think so? Yes, I can understand that. If you were here, I wouldn’t have to deal with them both alone, you know. I have to grapple with my sanity every day because of them."

She turned slightly so they couldn’t see her face as Remus supposedly responded to her gentle admonishment. "I know, dearie, but—" Again, she fell silent, listening. Her face changed subtly, becoming softer and sadder. "Oh, God, Remus, you know we understand why you needed to get out of England, but can’t you understand that we love you and miss you? It’s been so difficult because we didn’t know if you were even alive, for God’s sake."

She suddenly turned and walked back into the kitchen, leaving Sirius and James staring at each other in disbelief.

"Did she just walk away from us so we couldn’t hear this conversation?" James asked rhetorically.

"I do believe she did, Prongs."

The two men scrambled from their chairs and darted into the kitchen. Lily was standing by the sink, staring out of the window above it, speaking quietly. "...himself. He doesn’t mean to hurt you. We don’t mean to hurt you. We just don’t want you to cut yourselves off from us completely. Why is that such a difficult thing to ask?"

She didn’t turn to look at James or Sirius while she listened to Remus’ reply. Sirius noticed that she reached for a hand towel she’d had laying on the counter and clenched her fingers tightly into it.

"Remus, I’m going to be blunt, and you can tell me exactly how you feel afterwards, but I have to say it. I know you think you’re protecting us and protecting yourself by keeping yourself away, but it’s absolutely the most selfish and cruel thing you can possibly do. Bad things will happen, no matter what. Even if you never talk to us again, Sirius could still get shot because he’s had a sordid affair with some woman’s husband, or I could put cyanide in James’ eggs one morning because I’m sick of his snoring. Peter’s lab rats could break out and infest him with all kinds of horrible diseases. But to deliberately hurt and cut people out of your life because you’re merely afraid you’re going to lose them is ridiculous. We could be helping you through everything instead of knowing you’re suffering alone. You haven’t given us the chance to be the friends we want to be."

Sirius caught his breath and thought James had done the same. Lily bowed her head and listened some more. Finally, she said, "Can we at least call you at Christmas?" There was a long moment and then she nodded. She must have remembered Remus couldn’t see her, because she hurriedly said, "Yes, I understand. We love you, Remus. Yes. I’ll tell him. All three of them. Take care of yourself, all right?"

She thumbed the ‘off’ button and turned toward the two men. "Done. Happy now?" And then she burst into tears.

*******

It was a month later that Sirius sat staring at the phone again, the neatly folded paper once again in his fingers as he debated what to do.

He’ll just have to bloody deal with it.

The phone rang twice and then there was a breathless, "’Lo?"

Sirius spoke quickly so he could get everything out before Remus could hang up, should he be so inclined. "Remus, I thought you should know that James’ mum died."

He waited a moment, but there was no click, no dial tone. It seemed as if Remus might still be on the other end of the line. He decided to check. "Are you still there?"

"What happened?" came the muffled response.

"Cancer. They caught it too late to do anything more than just give her painkillers for the past month."

"Oh, God. How’s James?"

"Bloody miserable."

There was a pause, then, "How are you?"

Sirius blinked tears from his eyes and chuckled bitterly. "Bloody miserable."

"I’m so sorry, Padfoot."

Sirius almost missed the softly spoken nickname, but by the time he realised what Remus had said, the other man was already saying, "She was a wonderful woman."

"More of a mother to me than my own," Sirius said, truthfully.

"Yes, I know."

There was more than just acknowledgement of Sirius’ relationship to James’ mother. It was empathetic agreement—and Sirius heard the remorse colouring the simple words. Still, he didn’t point out that James’ mum had been as devastated by Remus’ disappearance as they’d been. He also didn’t point out that Mrs Potter had considered Remus a third son. By the regret in Remus’ voice, however, Sirius thought that maybe Remus was thinking it. "Er, I have to go. I need to get some work done because I’m going to take the next couple of days off."

"Yes, of course."

An awkward silence fell between them, and then Remus said, "Thanks for calling, Sirius."

Anger flared for a moment, and Sirius—who couldn’t be said to be the most patient of men in the first place—spoke before thinking, "So, it’s all right if I call you to tell you that someone’s died, but it’s not all right to call you because we’re friends and I want you to know I’ve missed you?"

There was a sigh, and he could almost imagine Remus rubbing his temple with two long fingers. He himself rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger tiredly. "Don’t answer that, Remus. I don’t want to fight about this now."

"Will you want to fight about it later, then?"

"Most definitely." Sirius did smile a little at that. "Thanks for not hanging up on me."

"Don’t make this a habit," Remus warned.

"Don’t make what a habit?" Sirius asked, hearing resentment rise in his voice that Remus was again going to grumble about him calling.

Remus didn’t answer right away, but Sirius waited. "Don’t make a habit of calling me with bad news," the other man finally said. "It might be—nice—to hear some good news. Occasionally."

Sirius felt some of the muscles in his shoulders unknot, and he pumped his fist in the air. Yes! "When I have some, I’ll call again, then."

"Okay."

"Take care, Moony."

"Give James my condolences."

"Of course."

They hung up without another word, but Sirius sat back smiling. Remus might just forgive him yet.

*******

"Sirius Black?"

"Yes?"

"Cornelia Stewart."

"Ah, the lovely lady that was so helpful to me."

"Yes, well. I just rang your office, and they said you weren’t going to be in. I wondered if you could possibly stop in at my office today."

Sirius glanced at his watch and made a few quick calculations. "Can I ask why?"

"I have something here—something unusual that you might very much like."

*******

An hour later found him sitting in a rather uncomfortable wooden chair on the other side of Cornelia Stewart’s massive desk.

"Let me offer my condolences on the loss of Mrs Potter," the white-haired woman said.

Sirius felt his eyebrows lower in confusion. "How did—?"

"Before I explain, let me thank you also for doing something that I was beginning to fear was impossible."

"What was that?"

Her brown eyes shone brightly. "You got him to write again."

*******

Sirius waited until he was in his car before he finally opened the manila folder. On top was a simple handwritten cover sheet for a fax. Sirius ran one finger over the familiar half-print/half-script that formed the simple sentences:

To: Cornelia Stewart
For Sirius Black. His mum, Abigail Potter, died yesterday. He’ll know what to do with this. Please excuse the imposition.
RJL

Sirius closed his eyes to keep the tears from falling. ‘His mum, Abigail Potter’. As usual, Remus had taken a few words and made them emotional landmines. Swallowing hard to dislodge the lump in his throat, he opened his eyes, blinked a few times, and then moved the cover sheet aside.

The sight of Remus’ handwriting, so long lost to him, made the blood thump wildly through his veins. It was everything Remus was: not altogether organised, occasionally rushed, full of contradictions. An ‘s’ might be printed in one spot, but written in another, depending on how quickly Remus was thinking and writing, and how absolutely engrossed he was in what he was doing.

For all that, however, there were few mistakes or corrections.

He always claimed he thought better with a pencil and paper than with a computer.

His eyes scanned over the pages. By the end, his tears were falling unchecked. He’d wondered if Remus had known how devastated Mrs Potter was by his disappearance, and if he’d realised she’d considered him a third son. By the obviously heartfelt words, Sirius now had his answer.

When he read the letter to James twenty minutes later, the other man also cried—and agreed with Sirius that there was only one thing that they could do with what Remus had written.

*******

Sirius stepped up to the podium and cleared his throat. "Today, I received a letter that James thought I should read to all of you. It’s from a good friend of ours, one who is too far away to be here today. Otherwise, I have no doubt he would be."

He opened the manila folder, running his fingers lightly over the Remus’ handwriting.

I hope I do this justice, Remus, for your sake.

He cleared his throat again and began to read: "‘Dear James, Lily, Harry, Katie, and Sirius—
I wanted to tell you how very sorry I am at your loss, but I know how very small that word, ‘sorry’, is when thinking about how much you’ve lost. It is an inconsequential word, a word truly incapable of expressing the grief and sorrow that exists when someone so dear is taken from us. There can never be a word to adequately describe how I feel at knowing that the most graceful and gracious lady I’ve ever known is no longer here among us lesser mortals.

"‘I know there will be many people at the funeral service who will remember your mother for her beautiful gardens. There will never be redder roses or more vivid peonies anywhere than in your mum’s back garden. I never see lilac without thinking of how she made me trim that shrub at the corner of the house because only I was tall enough to reach the upper branches. The small pond in the centre of the garden was always a sanctuary against the chaos of a world gone mad.

"‘There will be others at the service who will remember the parties that she organised, and her bizarre predilection for unusual hats, which led to more than one joke about her being the ‘Mad Hatter’. Others will remember her devotion to her causes. The Historical Society will finally be able to name that wing of the local museum after your mother, now that she is not there to protest the idea.’" Sirius paused, half-smiling, as he allowed the few titters of laughter to die down. The next part would be difficult, however, and he steeled himself for the brutal words and the images that they would conjure.

"‘But I will remember your mother as the one woman who taught me that there is more to being a mother than alcohol-induced comas and alcohol-fueled rages. She taught me that a mother doesn’t need to be abusive or hurtful, doesn’t need to hit or swear. She taught me that a mother’s love doesn’t demand tears and apologies after bruises or broken bones. Through your mum, I discovered a new world: one of peace, warmth, and safety. I longed for her smiles of approval, felt sadness beneath her gazes of displeasure, and relished the gentle pat on my shoulder that meant she was proud of me.’"

Sirius’ voice cracked and he gripped the sides of the podium as he blinked several times to bring himself back under control. He had to get through this without crying. For Remus, if no one else.

"‘I never told her how I felt, and I regret that deeply. I hope she understood that my respect and love for her could be found in simple things like helping her trim lilac shrubs, and peeling potatoes, and painting that bloody bedroom three times until she was satisfied with the colour. I hope she understood that one of the only reasons why my name exists on the covers of books is because she once said to me: ‘You have a gift. Don’t waste it.’ I didn’t want to disappoint her.

"‘I wish she had been my mum, too, James. She was truly an amazing woman and I adored her.’" Sirius very carefully closed the folder and looked down at James. The other man smiled through his tears and nodded in approval.

Sirius cast a glance over the sniffling crowd, fully realising something that he’d only half-recognised up until then. You knew, Remus. Somehow, you knew that I’d want to say what Mrs Potter meant to me and you—and I’d never be able to find the words. It’s always been that way for us, and I miss that. Don’t you?

******

The lift doors opened, and Sirius’ step forward faltered when Emmeline suddenly appeared in front of him.

"The misses want to see you," she announced, looking both curious and concerned.

Sirius’ mind immediately began sifting through things he’d done, things he hadn’t done, and what could have gone wrong while he was out of the office for the past four days. None of the things he could imagine seemed drastic enough to be called to the offices of Julia and Diana. He nodded to Emmeline and pushed the button for the next floor.

Oh, God, it had better not be Fred Hoskins complaining that I didn’t return his phone call the other day. I told Emmeline to call and explain that I was attending Mrs Potter’s funeral and would call him today. The bastard is probably still upset that I said that last chapter was crap and is looking for a reason to get me fired.

He brooded on Fred Hoskins, his footfalls becoming firmer and louder as he walked. He was mumbling under his breath about arrogant authors and old fools by the time he pushed the door to Miss Diana’s office.

"...out of his contract," Di was saying, her eyes intent on her laptop’s monitor. "How much do you think it will cost us?"

I couldn’t have pissed him off so badly that he wants out of his contract! For God’s sake, isn’t he adult enough to handle a little criticism?

Julia was casually leafing through a publishing magazine. "I don’t know. Certainly a few thousand. Sirius said—" She caught sight of the man standing in the doorway and smiled broadly. "Speak of the devil."

Di looked up from the screen and stared at him for a moment before saying, "Nice tie."

Sirius glanced down, unable to remember which one he’d grabbed that morning. It wasn’t anything special, merely a mottled mass of reds and greys.

"What she means is, that suit looks amazing on you," Julia translated.

"It fits so nicely," Di drew the last word out, punctuating it with a feral grin.

"You are not allowed to think such things," Sirius said, shaking his finger at the brown-haired woman. "You’re married."

"Oh, I can think those things," Diana protested. "I just can’t do what I’m thinking I’d like to do."

"You realise I can have you two charged with sexual harassment," Sirius warned.

Julia and Diana exchanged glances and then burst into laughter.

"Sit down, Sirius, and let’s have a bit of a chat, shall we?" Julia said, motioning to the mate of the chair in which she was seated.

"How effing long does it take for an e-mail to cross the ocean?" Di muttered crossly, staring at the laptop once again.

"I told you, he probably didn’t even write a resignation letter yet. He wants to see what we know first," Julia admonished her friend lightly.

"I don’t know why in the world he wouldn’t think we’d fire his ass."

"Because he’s stupid, hon. Incredibly stupid."

Sirius waited patiently, sipping at his coffee from the shop around the corner. While it seemed like something interesting was happening, he knew they wouldn’t tell him unless they thought it was necessary.

"Sirius, are you still thinking that you need a small holiday?" Julia asked suddenly.

He sighed. "Not at this moment, I don’t think."

Her eyes were full of sympathy. "Mr Wolfe, er, Lupin still doesn’t want to talk to you?"

Sirius sighed. "He has finally agreed to let me call him occasionally. It only took three months and Mrs Potter’s death to get that far. If I announce I’m coming to visit, it might send him into the wilds of Canada or to Timbuktu or something."

Diana sat back in her chair, chewing on the inside of her cheek thoughtfully. "How would he react if you said you had to discuss a business proposition with him?"

Sirius’ eyebrows rose slightly. "What kind of business proposition?"

"We want him," she replied bluntly. She looked toward Julia and a wicked smile appeared. "In more ways than one, actually..."

"Two hot boys under one roof may be too much for us to handle," Julia said, her expression mirroring Di’s. "But we’ll take our chances."

"You know him, you’ve worked with him, and, regardless of what was happened in the past five years, I’d be willing to wager he trusts you and your work." Something on the computer screen caught Di’s eye, making her pause. She slid her finger over the touchpad, muttering, "Finally!"

Julia picked up the thread of her business partner’s thought. "How happy has he been at Snell’s?"

Sirius shrugged. "He never complained to me."

"Do you think we could convince him to sign with us? Is there a specific set of conditions or something that we could use to lure him over here?"

"I really don’t know." Sirius exhaled loudly. "You’d have to talk to him—or talk to Snell’s. He hasn’t written anything for five years. They may be willing to release him since he hasn’t done anything recently."

"I wonder how much pressure they’ve put on the poor boy?" Di wondered, turning her laptop around and pushing it toward Julia.

Sirius waited until Julia read whatever it was on the monitor. She started twisting a strand of hair around her finger as she did.

It must be serious.

"What a fucking lie!" she suddenly exclaimed.

"My thought exactly," Diana agreed. "Sirius?" She waited until his grey eyes met hers and then said, "Congratulations. You’ve been promoted. We’ll discuss your salary and all that crap later, but for now, we need you to get on a plane to the States."

Sirius slowly straightened, blinking rapidly in shock. He’d known the partners to do some mad and maddening things at times, but this was rather unprecedented. "What are you talking about? What kind of promotion? And why am I going to the States?"

Julia rolled her eyes as if it should be all self-evident. "To sign Lupin, of course. And to settle the mess in our Philadelphia office."

"What mess?"

"Bloody stupid Lucius Malfoy has decided he wants to start his own publishing company and he’s trying to take some of our best American authors with him. It says in his contract that he’s not allowed to start his own company or poach our authors should he leave us, but he’s trying to do it behind a screen of someone else’s name," Di explained quickly. "He fucking denies all of it, the ratfink bastard."

Sirius stifled a chuckle at the transplanted American’s epithet. "And what am I to do, exactly?"

"Punch him in the nose," Di suggested.

"Kick him in the balls," Julia countered.

"I like that better," Di conceded, with an appreciative nod. "We don’t care. Just get him to understand that he can leave— with our blessings at that—but if he tries to take anyone with him, we’ll sue him for everything he owns, including those incredibly pretentious Italian loafers he likes."

Sirius smiled. He’d met Lucius Malfoy several times and had never liked him. This could be rather fun.

"We’re not going to tell him you’re coming," Julia warned.

"So, be prepared for anything," Di said. "Knife in the back, poison in the coffee..."

"We’ll have a letter for you to hand deliver to him that explains you have our authorisation to deal with him as you see fit."

"And if he so much as twitches without your permission after you hand that letter to him, fire his stupid ass."

Sirius couldn’t hold back his laughter any longer. After a moment, Julia and Diana joined him.

"God, I love working for you two," Sirius finally said. "What is the official title of my new position? I should know that before I go kick Lucius in the balls."

The two women stared at each other, uncharacteristically speechless.

"I have no idea what you’d call it here," Di mused. "I guess you’re our Chief of Operations?"

"Some kind of Executive Operating Officer?" Julia shrugged.

"We’ll have to call someone and get your official title, I suppose." A mischievous gleam appeared in Diana’s eye. "How about ‘Di and Julia’s Boy Toy’?"

"‘Di and Julia’s Muscle’?"

"‘Editing God’?"

"‘Operations God’?"

Di shrugged. "We’ll work it out."

"Just get your gorgeous arse on a plane and get moving," Julia said firmly.

*******

The taxicab’s tyres squealed as it pulled away, leaving Sirius standing outside the building that housed the Philadelphia branch of Vernon-Gray Publishing.

Sirius had been to the Philadelphia office three or four times, sent to help with some kind of editing problem, or because Julia and Di needed a confidential manuscript or document delivered in person. He’d been treated nicely enough, but dismissed as soon as his mission had been accomplished. This time, he strode into the main lobby with his most expensive wool suit and black cashmere topcoat. He looked every inch an executive, and he felt a guilty pleasure at the looks he was already getting.

He went to the reception desk that served all the businesses that shared the building and leaned on it, winking at the matronly woman who seemed unable to do anything but stare at him. "Sweetheart, could you please tell me if Lucius Malfoy of Vernon-Gray is in yet?"

"Uh, yes, he just arrived a few minutes ago."

"Perfect." Sirius straightened. "Have a wonderful day, won’t you?"

"Thank you," she responded weakly, seeming confused. "You, too."

He smirked at her. "Oh, I most definitely will."

The lift doors opened on the ninth floor, and Sirius strode into the reception area for Vernon-Gray Publishing. The two receptionists looked up, their jaws dropping slackly.

Damn, I look good.

"Ladies," he said. "I’m here to see Lucius Malfoy."

The older one looked down quickly at the appointment book. "Your name?"

"Sirius Black, but my name won’t be there," he replied. "You might want to pencil me in for the rest of the day, however."

*

Lucius Malfoy slowly folded the letter and put it back into the envelope. "Well, congratulations on your promotion, Black."

"Thank you." Sirius sipped at his coffee and shuddered. "Good God, Malfoy, this is the worst coffee I’ve had in months."

"Well, thank you for coming all the way from London to let me know that," Lucius said, tilting his head slightly, inviting Sirius to tell him exactly why he was there.

Sirius reached across the desk and spun Malfoy’s phone around and hit the button to call the man’s administrative assistant.

"Yes, Mr Malfoy?"

"Actually, this is Mr Black. Do you think you could do a favour for me and find me an actual cup of coffee?"

"I thought I—"

"Stacey—your name is Stacey, right?—Stacey, I like my coffee so strong that a spoon can stand upright in it. Do you think you could find something like that for me?"

"I’ll see what I can do, Mr Black."

"You’re an angel."

Sirius pressed the button again, but sat staring at the phone thoughtfully.

"Is there a problem, Black?"

"Well, there might be a small one. See, Julia and Diana are a little concerned about some rumours they’ve heard recently."

"Oh? What kind of rumours?"

"The ‘he’s planning on starting his own publishing company and stealing away some of Vernon-Gray’s best authors’ kind of rumours."

"Oh, really? I hadn’t heard that," Malfoy said calmly, smiling slightly.

"Really? Well, what a relief." Sirius put the coffee mug on the desk, giving it a little extra push to make it slide away from him. "I was absolutely shocked when the girls told me."

The Executive Editor of the Philadelphia branch sat back in his chair and picked up a sleek, silver pen. "I admit to being absolutely shocked as well."

"I can tell."

Malfoy tapped the pen against his lower lip. "It’s horrible how rumours get started."

"How do you suppose those rumours got started?"

"God knows."

"Yes, I’m sure He does. And I’m here to find the origins of those vicious, terrible, little stories." With a smirk, Sirius reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. "Let’s ring Alastor Moody, shall we? He’s one of the authors they say you’re taking to the new publishing company. Let’s see what he knows about it, shall we? How do I get an outside line?"

Malfoy’s smile diminished slightly and his eyes were much harder than a few minutes ago. "Moody is very temperamental. Disturbing him with this rumour might lead him to believe that our company is troubled and in danger of collapsing from the inside."

"Really?" Sirius held up the receiver. "Do I press here, where it says, ‘Line 1’?"

The blond man frowned. "Yes, but I warn you that if Moody takes this call badly, I will be ringing London directly afterward."

Sirius nodded and commenced with pushing the digits according to the paper he’d unfolded and laid on the desk. He saw Malfoy trying to read the other names on the paper beneath Moody’s, so he deliberately turned the paper upside down.

The frown became a glare, but Sirius smiled. "The phone is ringing. Ah, here we are. Yes, Mr Moody, this is Sirius Black. I work at Vernon-Gray Publishing... No, there’s no problem, really, just a small matter of some clarification... Good. Mr Malfoy wanted me to ask you if you had given any more thought to his proposition about signing on with his new publishing company."

Across the desk, Malfoy stiffened, and his eyes narrowed. "This is totally inexcusable," he said. "You are completely misrepresenting yourself."

Sirius held a finger to his lips and then pointed to Malfoy. "Sorry about that, Mr Moody. You were saying? Yes, he most assuredly did listen to your concern that his company might not be able to compete with the percentages you’ve already been granted. Your fame and your talent precede you, however, and I’m sure your book sales will be just as wonderful with his new company... Well, yes, I do work for Vernon-Gray, but Mr Malfoy’s new company is so incredibly interesting." He drew the last word out, his grey eyes intent on Lucius’ cold blue ones. "I tell you what, Mr Moody. How about if I have someone get in touch with you in the next couple of days to help you make a decision? Splendid. I look forward to working with you."

Sirius disconnected, but his finger hovered over the button that would give him access to the outside line. "Who do I try next, Malfoy? Cornelius Fudge? Marlene MacKinnon? Or should I just call Tom Riddle right now and ask him about the company he’s setting up right now—and how, after the loyalty clause in your contract expires, he plans to sell it to you for an absurd amount of money?"

"You have no proof," Malfoy snarled, tossing the silver pen down on the desk.

"I’ve got all the bloody proof I need," Sirius said, picking up the pen and tucking it into his shirt pocket. "Consider your arse fired."



*******

It took two days to sort through the editors and their qualifications and personalities to find the right person to take Lucius Malfoy’s place. Actually, it took Sirius only three hours to decide he had the right person. The rest of the time was spent interviewing those who felt they had a justifiable reason for having the job and for soothing ruffled feathers when they realised Sirius had made his choice.

Sirius also used the time to do some investigating. Two mornings after installing Kingsley Shacklebolt as the head of the Philadelphia branch, Sirius stepped on a plane bound for Pittsburgh.

*

"Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?" James queried.

Sirius exhaled loudly. "What else can I do, James? You know if tell him I’m coming, he’ll run away again. Or hide."

"It feels too much like ambushing him."

"Well, yes, that’s because it is. I have to give him these books from your mum. I don’t want to leave them on his front stoop without an explanation, especially considering how expensive they are."

"That’s assuming he has a front stoop. He might be living in a cave for all we know."

"Considering the countryside I’ve seen on the way here from the airport, I think it likely."

"Is it really that horrible?"

"No, it isn’t," Sirius admitted. "Actually, what I’ve seen is very pretty. My hotel room is quite comfortable, too. Nothing crawling between the sheets but me tonight."

James made a few sexual innuendoes that Sirius responded to with even more filthy ones and then they said their goodbyes.

Lost in thought, Sirius absently flipped his cell phone closed and open again several times. He would only have one chance, and he had to strike the right chord.

The answering machine took his call, and he took a deep breath before saying lightly, "Remus, I’m in Pittsburgh. Well, not technically in Pittsburgh—I’m at a hotel not too far from the airport. I’d like to see you, and I have something for you from James’ mum. Before you tell me to shove off, let me warn you that I have your address in my hand. Yes, I do. I have ways of getting information, you understand." He paused to give an evil laugh. "I also have my laptop and internet access, so I can get directions to your place with just a few taps of my fingers. So, here are your options: By what the desk manager said, you can have your arse here in two hours. Now, I know you could be busy right now, so I won’t expect you here in exactly two hours from this moment. However, if you haven’t graced me with your presence by dinnertime, I’m renting a car and coming to find you. I will warn you that I still drive as fast and as badly as I ever have. Do you think I can remember to drive on the right-handed side of the road all the way down to your place? The time is one o’clock, Moony. The countdown has begun."

*

Sirius glanced at the clock before thumbing his cell phone open. It had been almost two hours since he’d called Remus.

"Sirius Black."

"For God’s sake, Sirius, stay. There is no need to endanger innocent people. Where exactly are you?"

Triumphantly, Sirius gave Remus the name of the hotel and his room number, and then settled back to wait.

*

As a knock went, it was surprisingly common. It wasn’t timid, as if Remus didn’t really want Sirius to hear it, and it wasn’t demanding, as if Remus were trying to beat the door down and kick his arse for his arrogance. It was just a knock: three quick, sharp taps with bony knuckles against a hollow steel door.

And yet, it made Sirius’ heart stop.

He went to the door and opened it eagerly. The tall figure standing in the hallway was so familiar, yet so alien. He was the same height and had the same thin build that Sirius could remember; but the beard and the long hair pulled back into a tail that hung just slightly below slumped shoulders made Remus seem like someone new. It wasn’t until he looked into the familiar blue of Remus’ eyes, however, that the grin Sirius had been wearing disappeared. He could see the pain he’d seen in the magazine photograph, but the knowledge that he was seeing the ache firsthand made tears suddenly spring to his own eyes.

"God, Remus." He flung himself forward, wrapping his arms around Remus’ shoulders, oblivious to the tension in Remus’ frame at first. "I’ve missed you."

Remus clumsily patted him on the back. "You’re a bloody fool, then."

Sirius pulled back, now feeling the taut muscles and the vague, desperate tugs that Remus was making against his embrace. "Come in, Moony. Check out my lodgings."

Remus followed Sirius into the room, his eyes dutifully scanning the room. "As far as hotel rooms go, I’d say it’s a nice one."

"Soft drink?" Sirius offered. "Or, even better, how about dinner?"

Remus smiled lopsidedly. "You’re as bottomless a pit as ever, aren’t you?"

"It should be nice to know that some things don’t change. I thought dinner might give us the perfect opportunity to catch up."

"So, really, you’ve only called me up here because you want me to chauffeur you to places to eat."

Sirius shrugged. "Someone has to do it. Why not you? I can pay you for your trouble." He smirked. "I’ve got a corporate credit card."

"Whatever possessed your boss to give you that?"

"Whatever it was that possessed them to give me a promotion and a raise."

"They do realise you’re insane." It was more statement than question.

"That’s what they love about me. Well, that and the fact that I fill out a suit rather well."

Remus snorted in amusement. "Have a preference? Steak? Seafood? Italian?"

"I’m so hungry, it all sounds good."

The brown-haired man pulled his keys from his pocket. "Let’s go, then."

He led Sirius down to the car park and wordlessly pointed to a blue SUV.

"I wouldn’t have picked this vehicle for you," Sirius said as he clambered into the passenger side.

Remus peered at him, tilting his head slightly. "Why? What’s wrong with it?"

"You were the one wondering how many books you’d have to sell in order to get an Aston-Martin."

At first, Remus said nothing, easing the Jeep out of its parking spot and then onto the road that ran in front of the hotel. "An Aston-Martin would never be able to get up my road in the mud or the snow. Actually, to call it a road is a compliment. It’s nothing but ruts with gravel."

"You live that far away from civilisation?"

"No," Remus said curtly. His jaw clenched for a moment and then he softened his tone. "It’s a poor area. There isn’t much money for paving every backwoods road. They barely have enough money to keep the existing roads in decent repair."

Sirius didn’t bother to hide the long look he gave his friend. It had been five years since he’d had to read Remus’ subtle gestures and expressions, but he remembered enough to realise what he was seeing. "You’re really pissed off that I called you."

"Well, fuck, Sirius! What did you expect?" Remus exploded, slapping the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "It’s so bloody typical: you call, and you expect everyone to drop everything to come and attend to your every whim."

Sirius reared back as much as the seat would allow. "That’s not—"

"So, ‘I’ll give you two hours to get your arse here, or I’ll drive in a terrible manner to invade your house and home’ doesn’t sound vaguely familiar?"

"If you were so angry about it, why didn’t you just tell me to bugger off?"

"You bloody threatened to come anyhow! Besides, I know the way you are. You’ve found my phone number, my address, and yes, I have no doubt you’d have found directions on the internet, if you’d had to. You’d probably gone out and bought a bloody GPS system if you’d thought it would help."

"If you were going to be this angry, you should have told me to stay away," Sirius said. "I wanted to see you, but not enough that I want to spend a couple of hours being yelled and cursed at."

Remus again fell silent as he manoeuvred the Jeep through a busy intersection and then eased into the other lane.

"The truth is, Remus, you wanted to see me every bit as much as I wanted to see you," Sirius continued softly, somehow intuiting exactly what was bothering his reclusive friend. "You’re angry because of that. You don’t want to be happy to see me, because then you’ll have to rethink what you’re doing, hiding out in the middle of nowhere."

He deliberately looked out the window so he couldn’t see the anger flare even higher. A minute passed, then a second. Sirius shifted slightly in his seat, only partially cognisant of the stores and restaurants that they were passing. Was Remus so busy driving that he couldn’t yell at him?

The car stopped and he looked up to see the light was red. He took the moment to ask, "Should I get out and walk back to the hotel now?"

"No."

The muscle in Remus’ jaw was taut, but he was rubbing his temple with his index and middle fingers as he did when he was thinking things through—or when he was troubled and was looking for words. Sirius didn’t say anything more. Long forgotten memories were now pushing their way to the surface: recollections of Remus flaring angrily, hotly—and then becoming quiet and introspective while he considered if the charge against him had validity. It was then that he would fully accept the criticism or calmly offer justification why the other person was incorrect in their thoughts or words.

It’s probably better not to ask him anything now, considering the traffic and all the intersections and lanes and everything... and he’s only got one hand on the steering wheel.

The Jeep swung in toward a restaurant and came to an abrupt stop. Sirius’ fingers fumbled for the door handle, but halted when Remus suddenly said quietly, "You’re right."

Sirius blinked. It was rare for Remus to so quickly admit to something so emotionally charged, and he wasn’t quite sure how to handle it. "I am?"

"Not completely," Remus said, looking straight ahead. "I am... glad to see you and I didn’t think I would be. Or should be."

Sirius smiled triumphantly.

"That doesn’t mean I’m going to question why I’m here," Remus warned him. "I have my reasons and I’d not be here if I hadn’t thought everything out completely. Don’t expect me to feel guilty about any of it." And with those words, he shoved the door open and exited the vehicle.

*

"So I sat there—in his leather chair, mind you—watching him pack up his personal things. I was quite helpful, too, reminding him that the stapler and the pens were company property. He appreciated my help."

Remus took a drink of his beer and tilted his head slightly to the side. "And you know he appreciated your help because he said..." He let his voice trail off, waiting for Sirius to finish the sentence.

"Well, because he said so." Sirius raised the tone of his voice until he sounded uncannily like Malfoy’s, "‘You’ve been so very helpful, Black.’"

Remus smiled and peered at the label on the bottle. "I’ve heard Lucius Malfoy is a bit of a bastard."

"‘A bit of a bastard’? My dear Moony, that’s a complete and utter lie. He’s a great heaping bastard."

The brown-haired man chuckled and Sirius grinned at the fact that he’d made Remus laugh. It had been difficult, working through appetizers and salads before Remus seemed relaxed enough for them to have an actual conversation. He was finally starting to see more of the Remus he’d known, even if it was a more subdued and sadder version.

"Now, I’ve been talking about me for the past forty-five minutes. What about you?"

Remus shrugged. "There’s nothing to tell."

"What do you do with yourself all day?"

"A little of this, a little of that." Remus seemed to consider something very carefully before saying, "I’ve been helping my neighbour with his business recently."

"What line of business is that?"

Again, Remus hesitated before answering. "I’ve been writing some articles for his newspaper."

Shock washed through Sirius. Remus had flat-out lied to him on the phone, denying he’d been writing. He hadn’t thought Remus was writing at all; neither had Remus’ agent. Still, he should have realised that Remus couldn’t stop writing completely. It was too deep in the man’s soul. In fact, he would have said that Remus bled ink. "What kind of articles?"

"Mostly fluff pieces. The quilters from such-and-such church are having an auction to raise money for some organisation or another; those sorts of things."

Sirius was very careful to make sure he was smiling when he asked, "Do they realise that it’s R. J. Wolfe writing these pieces?"

"My neighbour knows. He owns the house I’m renting, and I had to provide all kinds of information before he let me rent the place. He’s been very supportive—and circumspect."

A strange little stab of jealousy went through Sirius, and he heard James’ voice as clearly as if the other man were sitting beside him: "What were you planning to do with your life? He let you give up your dream for his..." "Do you like writing for a newspaper?"

Remus frowned. "It’s... writing. It gives me something to do; gives me a way to fill up some time."

"Your agent didn’t think you were writing anything."

"I’m not writing anything that she would find important or worthwhile," Remus said sharply. "Not unless she wanted to go to the spaghetti dinner for the seven-year-old girl who has leukaemia. Are you done?" He reached for the check, but Sirius was quicker.

"I told you I’d pay."

Remus capitulated readily enough. Sirius wondered if he were thinking that a free dinner was the least that Sirius could do for demanding his presence in such a way.

As they walked through the restaurant, a man approached them. "Excuse me, are you R. J. Wolfe?"

Remus shook his head, "No, sorry."

"You certainly look like him."

"Poor guy, if he looks like me," Remus commented. Sirius suddenly realised that Remus’ Blackpool accent had disappeared, leaving a broad southwest Pennsylvanian drawl.

"It’s almost unbelievable how much you look like him," the other man insisted yet again.

"Who is R. J. Wolfe anyhow?" Remus asked. Sirius had seen him do this often: pretending to be ignorant of R. J. Wolfe’s identity was often the most certain way to get people to leave them alone.

The man’s eyebrows rose. "You’ve never heard of R. J. Wolfe? The author of Old Moon? Wonderful book. One of the best I’ve ever read."

Remus shook his head, turning away and starting for the door. "I guess I’ll have to look it up sometime. I’m not much of a reader."

"I’d kinda forgotten about him until I saw that article in that magazine last month," the man mused, following them.

Remus turned slowly. "What article?" In his shock, the British accent had seeped back into his words, but the other man didn’t seem to notice.

"Oh, about authors who’ve given up writing for one reason or another. God, are you sure you’re not him? You look exactly like that picture of him: same hair, same beard..."

Remus’ eyes widened and Sirius saw the beginnings of anxiety and confusion stir in his friend’s blue eyes. "Hey, sorry about this, but we’re going to be late," he said, concentrating on one of his favourite American actors and trying to deliver the line as he thought the actor might have. He gave the stranger a friendly smile and wave and shoved Remus none-too-gently at the door.

Outside, Remus turned to look at him. "You don’t seem surprised. What article was he referring to?"

"Just as he said, it was an article about authors who haven’t written anything recently, telling what they’ve been doing."

"And I’m in it?"

Sirius took a deep breath. "Among nineteen others, yes."

"What magazine was it?"

"It’s Writer’s Point of View in Britain. They have an American counterpart, though I can’t remember the name of it right offhand. The story was probably in it, too."

Remus muttered a curse under his breath. It wasn’t until they were in the Jeep and on the way back to the hotel that he finally asked, "How terrible was it?"

Sirius fidgeted with his seatbelt. "Could have been worse."

"He said there was a picture..."

"There was."

"I don’t remember a photographer—"

"That’s because they took it with a telephoto lens. It’s rather obvious you didn’t know they were taking it."

"Bastards," Remus mumbled. His fingers tightened on the steering wheel and Sirius wondered fleetingly if the vehicle wasn’t moving just a tad faster.

"You should be thankful they took five years to find you," Sirius commented, keeping his tone as light as he could.

"How did they find me, though? And why would they want to?" Remus sounded bewildered.

"God, Remus, you wrote not just one, but three critically acclaimed books, and then, for reasons unbeknownst to most people, you disappeared. People can’t help but wonder what happened."

"And they can’t just leave me alone? If I wanted that kind of attention, I’d still be writing the bloody books." The muscle in his jaw twitched. "Did the article tell everyone where I was? Should I be expecting the entire bleeding world to come beating on my door?"

"If they haven’t by now, they’re not going to," Sirius said dismissively. "The article I saw was published five months ago."

Remus shot him a look. "You called me five months ago."

"Fine, Remus, I’ll confess. I saw the bloody article with the bloody picture and I was worried about you. That’s when I badgered your agent into giving me your number."

"Shit," Remus whispered. "Fucking hell."

An uncomfortable silence fell between them. Again, Remus rubbed his temples; Sirius massaged the back of his own neck, feeling the tension settle there. He couldn’t think of what to say. He didn’t know Remus well enough anymore to know what would pacify him or what would set him off further.

It wasn’t until Remus had pulled up in front of the hotel that he finally looked at Sirius and asked sharply, "What was it in the article that made you decide to track me down? You had five years, Sirius, that you could have tried to find me—"

"No, stop right there," Sirius said, resentment exploding within his heart. "I tried to find you. I flew to France to try to find you, but you’d left the day before. For months, I asked your editor for any news, and he just kept telling me he didn’t know anything either, that you had left general directions for depositing your checks and that you would phone them for messages. Then I tried to talk to your agent, but he said he didn’t have the first idea where you’d gone. When he retired, that’s when things changed, and they got stricter about confidentiality. I didn’t know what else to do to find you. I didn’t even know where to begin to look."

He slammed his head back against the headrest. "Damnit, Remus, you wanted to disappear, and you did. I was trying to respect your need to get away, to be free of—whatever it was that you needed to be free of. I hated not knowing where you were. I hated every birthday and every Christmas that passed because you weren’t there. I wanted to see you and be with you and talk to you and..." He stopped and looked over at the other man who was staring at him with widened eyes.

Before he could stop himself, Sirius reached over and gently framed Remus’ face between his hands. "I wanted to know you were all right. I wanted to talk to you and know that you were finding some kind of happiness again." His thumb gently traced Remus’ bearded jaw. "When I saw that picture in the magazine, I knew that you hadn’t."

Remus gently pulled away. "Don’t, Sirius. Please."

"Don’t touch you at all? Don’t tell you what I’m thinking? Don’t yell at you for being so bloody maddening as to disappear from our lives for five years?" His voice softened. "Or don’t yell at you for disappearing from my life for five years?"

Remus looked out the driver’s side window, without saying anything.

Sirius sighed. "I’m sorry. I don’t..." He shook his head, unable to verbalise the feelings of fear and worry—and want—that were swirling through him. "I don’t want to fuck this up. I don’t want you to disappear again."

Still, there was silence.

"Remus, talk to me. Say something. Even if it’s to tell me to keep my bloody hands away from you."

Finally—finally—Remus turned to Sirius and gave a weak smile. "It must have been one hell of a terrible photo."

*

They sat in Sirius’ hotel room as Remus read the article. Sirius held his breath when Remus turned the page, revealing the photos of himself and of the car accident. Strangely enough, Remus didn’t react until he’d finished the entire story.

"I feel like I’m a disappointment," Remus finally said. He went back to the first page and pointed to an author who had decided to become a social worker. "I haven’t been nearly as self-sacrificing."

Sirius smiled. "I’ll bet you bought a ticket to that spaghetti dinner for the girl with cancer."

Remus grinned. "Of course. And sent an anonymous donation as well."

*******

When Sirius awoke, it took him a moment to remember where he was.

Too many hotel rooms in the past week.

His next thought made him look quickly over to his left, to the other bed in the room.

He’s still here!

A thrill of excitement went through Sirius. It had taken all of his persuasive skills to get Remus to agree to spend the night there. After Remus read the article, they’d ended up at the hotel’s bar where, to Sirius’ relief, they seemed to find the familiar and comfortable conversational strides that they’d had years before. As a result, they stayed later than either of them had intended. Remus had agreed, albeit reluctantly, that it was too late and he’d had too much to drink to drive the hour and a half back to his house.

All the same, Sirius had half-expected the other man to leave during the night. The fact that Remus was there, huddled beneath the stiff sheets and thin blankets, told Sirius that Remus might not want to be alone after all.

Sirius stayed where he was, studying the small bit of Remus’ face that he could see. It was all too easy for him to imagine waking up in the same bed as Remus, and he inhaled deeply as he felt the stirrings in his belly and lower that told him that he was still very much attracted to his friend.

Mustn’t touch. Mustn’t think about it. Mustn’t think about how I want to shove my tongue—

Remus’ eyes fluttered opened. He caught sight of Sirius and frowned slightly. "Padfoot?" His voice was deep and raspy from sleeping—and went straight to Sirius’ groin, making certain parts of his anatomy twitch uncomfortably.

"Hey, Moony." Sirius sat up and willed his erection to subside enough that Remus wouldn’t notice.

"What time is it?" Even as he asked, Remus was raising his left arm to look blearily at his watch.

"Time for breakfast!" Sirius announced. "I’m starved."

"You’re always starved," Remus groaned, burying his head beneath the pillow.

"Oh, come on, Moony." In one fluid movement, Sirius got out of bed and ripped the pillow away from Remus’ light grip.

"Shit, Padfoot!" Remus made a grab at the pillow and failed miserably.

"I’m for a shower, if you don’t mind," Sirius said smugly. "And then breakfast, all right?"

Remus sighed and crossed his arms over his face. "I can’t drive home on an empty stomach, I suppose."

"Aren’t you going to drive me around and show me the sights? I’ve heard that the view coming into Pittsburgh through some kind of tunnel is something to behold."

"God, Sirius, you can’t seriously be thinking that I’d want to spend the day with you in Pittsburgh?"

"Aren’t there museums? Some kind of quaint shops or something? I have to get something for Harry and Katie."

Remus didn’t respond right away, and Sirius was concerned that maybe his friend had fallen back asleep. "Oy, Remus!" he yelled, tossing the pillow back at Remus’ head.

"Bastard!" Remus shot from the bed, pillow in hand, and smacked Sirius with it. "I was thinking!"

"Pillow fight!" crowed Sirius, reaching for a weapon of his own.

After a few hard thumps and a few near-misses of breakable items, the two men collapsed breathlessly onto Remus’ bed.

"It’s been so long since we’ve done that," Sirius said, chuckling softly.

"At least ten years," Remus estimated, staring up at the ceiling.

Sirius’ eyes slid along his friend’s profile, taking in details that he’d missed for so long: the light eyelashes, the slightly too long nose, the lips that quirked up to one side when Remus was amused...

Remus suddenly turned his head and their eyes met.

James was right. I am still in love with him. What kind of idiot am I?

"Sirius..." There was a wary and apprehensive light in Remus’ eyes as if he might suspect what Sirius was thinking.

"That’s me, and you’re Remus. Now that we have that straight..." Does he know his eyes made me more breathless than the stupid pillow fight? Thank God he slept in his jeans last night, or I’d be embarrassing myself mightily right now.

Remus sat up quickly and reached for his shoes. "I need a cigarette."

"You smoke?"

Remus gave him a puzzled stare. "I always have."

"I thought you quit—" Sirius choked before saying, "—when Teddy was born."

Tension suddenly filled the air between the two men.

"I started again," Remus said sharply, rising and making his way to the door, pausing only to grab his button-down shirt from the chair where he’d thrown it the night before. "I’ll be outside when you’re ready to go."

Sirius smacked himself in the forehead and cursed repeatedly under his breath as the door slammed shut behind his friend.

*

"I’m really sorry," Sirius said later as they were driving to whatever restaurant that Remus was taking them for breakfast. Those were the first words they’d spoken since Sirius had got into the Jeep.

Remus shot him a quick glance.

"What? Can’t I apologise for being thoughtless?"

Long fingers wrapped themselves even tighter around the steering wheel. "It’s that you so very rarely do."

Sirius winced as Remus swung into the left-handed lane to pass another car. "I don’t know how in the hell you got accustomed to driving like this," he remarked instead of taking on Remus’ comment. "This would give me a heart attack trying to drive like this."

"You’d get used to it quicker than I did," Remus said after a moment. Before Sirius could think of something else to say, Remus asked, "Do you still have Esmerelda?"

Sirius smiled broadly at the thought of his classic motorcycle. "You don’t think I’d get rid of my best girl?"

"How many citations have you gotten in the last five years?" came the sly question.

"Just one." Sirius couldn’t help chuckling. "Would have been two, but I was going too fast to be caught."

He thought Remus was coughing—and then he realised that the man was actually trying to choke back laughter.

With that, the tension between them eased once again, but Sirius kept his comments and questions to those about their surroundings and the buildings they were passing.

They were nearly to the restaurant when Sirius’ cell phone rang.

"Sirius Black here."

"Sirius! Diana."

"Di! My lady, my love!"

"Have you seen that gorgeous thing yet?"

"I see him every time I look in the mirror."

"Oh, good one! That will count toward your Christmas bonus."

"I get a bonus this year?"

"Depending on your answer to my question."

"The answer is: I have, but I don’t have an answer yet."

"Have you at least asked him? Is he considering it?"

"Well..."

Diana sighed. "All right, I’ll give you another day or two. By the way, Kingsley’s already called this morning to say that he’s re-signed that Lockhart guy. I hate those bloody books of Lockhart’s, but they do sell."

"You’ll love him and his bloody books when you and your hubby are in a gondola in Venice next summer."

"Hmm. Yes. Anyhow, give us a call once you’ve talked to Remus."

Sirius assured her he would and then disconnected.

"Is everything all right?" Remus asked.

"Wonderful," Sirius said with a grin. "One of my bosses calling to check on me."

"I’m amazed they let you out of their sight."

"I’m very reliable, you know."

Sirius guessed that Remus’ doubtful stare would have been a lot longer if he hadn’t been driving.

*

Sirius waited until they were almost finished eating before asking, "Are you happy with your publisher?"

Remus tilted his head to one side. "I wouldn’t think they’re overly happy with me, waiting for another book."

Sirius popped the last bit of toast in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. "Can I ask you something horribly personal that might make you never want to talk to me again?"

"Sirius, you used to ask me two horribly personal questions on a daily basis. I’m still talking to you now, aren’t I?"

Considering we haven’t talked in five years, I’m worried the rules might have changed.

"Is there no book because you just haven’t gotten around to putting it down on paper? Or has your muse buggered off for parts unknown?"

The silence that greeted Sirius’ question was more introspective than angry, so he waited for the answer.

"I don’t know," Remus finally said. "I think—"

"You think what?"

Remus reached for another piece of toast and opened a small packet of grape jelly. "Do you remember at the end of the third book, I had Sara and Jasper unsure of their relationship? But Sara was pressuring Jasper into a commitment he didn’t want?"

"Yes. They were supposed to get married in the fourth book," Sirius said, amazed at how much of the story he could recall.

"I think—" Again Remus cut himself off.

"What? You don’t mean to tell me that after all that you’ve put poor Sara through, that Jasper wouldn’t marry her?"

Remus kept his eyes on his plate as he said, "I think Jasper might be in love with someone else."

Sirius’ eyes widened. "Really? Who? You don’t have any other strong female characters other than Sara and Bridget, who’s married to Colin. You don’t have him falling in love with that strange girl with the scarves, do you?"

Remus glanced up at him and then away just as quickly. "Sybill. Her name is Sybill, and no, he’s not in love with her. You know curiosity killed the cat."

"Then we can be thankful I have a more dog-like nature. Come on. Tell me who Jasper loves, then, if not Sara."

Remus shook his head. "I’m still working it out. But if I’m right, then it upsets almost everything in the fifth book."

Sirius thought quickly, trying to remember what specifically Remus had outlined as happening in the fifth book. "And you’re not going to tell me?"

Again, Remus shook his head. "Not until I’m sure it’s the way it is."

Sirius sensed the finality in Remus’ words. He knew there’d be no point in trying to get an answer out of the other man at that point. It also seemed like the wrong time to bring up Diana and Julia’s offer, so Sirius changed the subject altogether. "What are we doing today?"

"‘We’?" Remus repeated. "I have an interview today—"

Shock exploded through Sirius. "You’re giving an interview?"

"No. I’m writing a piece for the paper about a man who restored an old Victorian home into a bed-and-breakfast. I’m supposed to meet him this afternoon."

Sirius stifled a burp and took another drink of coffee, considering his next move. "I get to come along, right?"

"No, you don’t get to come along. The place is not far from where I live."

"Aren’t you going to take me to see your place? I shared my lodgings with you. Shouldn’t you return the favour?"

Remus blinked slowly at him, as if he couldn’t believe Sirius had suggested such a thing. "Sirius—"

"Come on, Remus. It’ll give me something to tell James and Peter when I go back. I won’t be much trouble. And I’ll rent a car to bring me back to the airport when you get sick of me."

Remus was already shaking his head. "I live out in the middle of nowhere—"

"Do you have a second bedroom? A couch? I’ve slept in worse places. You were with me sometimes when I have. Just for a night or two. Come on, Remus," he wheedled. "It’ll be like old times. We’ve still got a lot to get caught up on."

"You’d be bored out of your mind."

"No, I wouldn’t! And I’ll be as good as gold." He could see the indecision in Remus’ eyes, even if the jaw was stubbornly set. "I don’t have anywhere that I need to be, and—let’s face it, Moony—you’ve missed me dreadfully." He batted his eyelashes at Remus, who didn’t seem to know whether to be horrified or amused.

The waitress suddenly appeared at their table. "Can I do anything else for you boys?"

"As a matter of fact, you can," Sirius said with an ingratiating grin. "Convince him to take this poor, miserable, homeless Englishman in for a couple of days."

The woman ogled Sirius shamelessly and then said, "If he doesn’t want you, I’ll kick my husband out and take you in for a night or two."

Sirius spread his hands out slightly, as if to say, "See?" and sat back in his chair, giving Remus a subtle wink.

Remus stared at him for a moment before shaking his head, obviously realising he had lost. "You pay for breakfast, then. And you’re buying groceries—I know what it costs to feed you."

*

"How in the hell did you convince him of that?" James’ voice rose in pitch from his disbelief.

"I have my ways, Prongs."

"You’ve drugged him."

"I used my charm." Sirius glanced behind him to see if Remus was coming out of the toilets.

"Again, I say you’ve drugged him. He’s always been immune to your charm."

"No one is immune to the Sirius Black charm: old ladies, children, literary hermits..."

A soft voice in the background interrupted the comment that James was about to make. "Lily says to behave yourself and not scare him away."

"What in the world would---hey, he’s coming. I’ll talk to you later."

*

"The two rivers form the Ohio River at Pittsburgh. That’s why they call it ‘Three Rivers’." Remus took one hand from the steering wheel to sketch the rivers in the air.

"The man who was sitting next to me on the plane said Pittsburgh has more bridges than Venice. Is that true?"

Remus thought about it for a moment. "If it doesn’t, it’s very close."

"Do you think when you bring me back to the airport, we can take a detour so I can see it?"

Remus’ eyebrows rose. "I thought you were going to rent a car to drive back."

Sirius splayed a hand across his chest. "Honestly, Remus, would you trust me with a car on these roads?"

Remus rubbed his chin with the side of his finger. "No, I suppose not."

"Will you take me to Pittsburgh, then?"

Remus cast an amused glance at him then reached for a battered leather-encased notebook tucked between his seat and the centre console. He tossed it onto Sirius’ lap. "Find the last page with my writing on it and you’ll find a phone number for a man named Bob. Call and see if I can change the interview to tomorrow."

*******

Sirius and Remus spent the day touring Pittsburgh. Knowing how much Sirius liked Pop Art, Remus took him to the Andy Warhol Museum before taking him to something Remus called the Strip District (which had nothing to do with disrobing and dancing women) for one of the best sandwiches Sirius had ever tasted. While in that area, they investigated several small shops that provided Sirius with enough cheap souvenirs to make the Potter children—and James—happy.

"God, this has been a wonderful day," Sirius sighed as they drove south that evening.

"You’re like a child," Remus said with a smile.

"Have you forgotten how often Lily accuses me of that very thing?"

Remus chuckled. "No, I haven’t."

"Then why do you seem surprised?"

Remus looked out the driver’s side window before answering, "I didn’t realise how much I’d missed it."

*

As they continued on, Sirius began reminding Remus of things and people they both knew in London and how they’d fared in the past five years. They were near their destination before Sirius mentioned James’ mother.

"She’s left the estate to James, of course, but he doesn’t know what to do with it," Sirius said. "It’s so old and draughty, and too far out of town for him to travel each day."

"It’s too bad he just can’t magically pop from one spot to another," Remus mused. "The grounds are incredible, and the kids would love growing up there."

"Like we did, eh, Moony?" Sirius grinned impishly. "Can you imagine Lily’s reaction if Harry jumped out of the hayloft like James always did? Or if Katie ate as many of those little green apples as you did that time?"

"The ones that made me sick for two days?" Remus shook his head. "I don’t think I’ve ever been so sick in my life."

"I don’t suppose James, Peter, and I helped, bringing you chocolates and crisps to cheer you."

"Not at all." Remus smiled, but there was a softness to it that was quite incongruous with the topic of their conversation. It was explained a moment later when he said, "Mrs Potter called my foster mother and told her to just let me stay there. She sat by the bed for hours, watching me."

"She did the same thing for me when I first ate saffron and had my first allergic reaction to it."

"She was a very soothing person, and a very kind one."

"She was," Sirius agreed. He cleared his throat. "Your letter was perfect, by the way."

Relief was evident in Remus’ eyes. "I had to say something."

"You know there was a reason why she left you that three-volume first edition set of Great Expectations, don’t you?"

"Besides the fact that James wouldn’t know what to do with them, and you’d want to mark them up with red ink?" Remus’ smile was forced.

"She had a long talk with James and me about you right before she died."

Remus massaged his temple with his fingers. "I’m sure I disappointed her greatly."

"No. You didn’t. She was more worried about you than disappointed."

"Did she see that article?"

"She did. She wanted you to know that she was very proud of you and what you accomplished. You exceeded every expectation that anyone ever had for you. That’s why she left those books to you."

Remus said nothing.

"She told me to keep calling you and not let you push me—us—away again."

Remus shot a glance in his direction. "Did she really?"

"She did. And Remus—"

"What?"

"I’m not going to disappoint the woman that was the closest thing to a real mum that we both had." Sirius left the question, "Are you?" unspoken, but Remus could apparently feel the words hanging heavily in the air between them.

He whispered, "No."

*

"It’s just around this bend. It’s not much," Remus said in warning as the Jeep slithered down the gravel road.

A grey squirrel scampered across the gravel and then sat beside the road, flicking its tail at their intrusion.

"What other kinds of creatures do you have out here?" Sirius asked, starting to imagine the worst.

"The typical woodland animals: deer, raccoons, opossum, chipmunks—"

"Bears?"

Remus shot him an amused glance. "You ain’t afraid of a little ol’ bear, are you, Sirius?" The Pennsylvanian accent was back and Sirius laughed.

"Should I be?"

"I’ve not seen one," Remus said. "They do come through occasionally, though. This is it."

The house was a cedar-shingled bungalow with a black roof and dark green trim around the windows and door. A deep porch ran the entire length of the house, and nothing but trees could be seen in any direction. Sirius’ initial impression was of peace—and sanctuary.

"Don’t you get bored out here?" he wondered aloud.

"Bored?" Remus brought the vehicle to a stop and looked around, smiling. "No."

A big, black dog suddenly came bounding out of the woods, tongue lolling and tail waving furiously.

"There’s my boy!" Remus pushed the door open and knelt to accept the armful of wiggling canine.

"My God, Remus, he looks like a Grim!" Sirius commented in awe. "He’s yours?"

Remus finished stroking the silky ears and then stood up. "He just showed up one night two years ago. He comes and goes."

The dog trotted over to Sirius and began sniffling at him, trying to figure out if the dark-haired man was friend or foe. "What’s his name?"

Remus scratched at the back of his neck and looked up at the treetops as he replied almost too quickly for Sirius to understand, "Padfoot."

"You named the dog after me?"

"No, I named the dog after a legendary creature. The fact that you happen to have that nickname is mere coincidence." Blue eyes finally met grey and Sirius saw laughter in the sapphire depths.

"You did name the bloody dog after me!"

Remus laughed—an actual, full-throated chuckle—"Well, it seemed appropriate. And you weren’t here to complain."

The dog, having concluded that Sirius must have been a long-lost relative, suddenly reared up on his hind legs and braced his paws on the man’s chest so he could lick Sirius’ cheek. Then, with a happy yip, he ran back to Remus, pausing only to let Remus ruffle the fur on his head before disappearing among the trees.

"I’ll probably get rabies now," Sirius muttered as he followed Remus into the cabin.

Remus’ chuckle told him he’d been heard.

*

They spent the evening drinking cold beer and reminiscing. At first, Sirius made a conscious effort to avoid saying anything that might alarm Remus. As the night progressed, however, he lost the need to guard his tongue. Their conversation became less stilted, and laughter rang freely throughout the small house.

It was late when Sirius finally yawned one too many times and Remus suggested they go to bed. He led the way to the back of the small house where the two bedrooms were and pointed to the room on the right.

"Thank you for allowing me to stay," Sirius said, pulling Remus in for a quick hug. He noticed that Remus was not nearly as stiff and uncomfortable as he’d been when they’d first embraced the day before.

"Thank you for forcing me to let you stay," Remus replied with a lopsided smile.



*******

"It’s a beautiful place," Remus said to the owner of the bed-and-breakfast.

The man preened. "Thank you. I’m quite proud of how it turned out, especially since I had no experience in carpentry or decorating when I started."

"Can’t say that now, can you?" Sirius teased.

Bob laughed. "No, not at all. And I’ll never take on another project like this again, I tell you."

Remus stopped to make another note in his tablet while Sirius drifted toward the small bar the man had installed in what had once been a parlour. Bob followed him.

"How about some Guinness?"

Sirius turned, his interest piqued. "You have Guinness?"

"I do. It’s a personal favourite of mine, so I keep some for myself. Not many of my visitors care for it, but seeing as you’re from the other side of the pond..." He opened the small refrigerator under the counter and glanced back at Remus, who was slowly making his way across the room, admiring the hand-carved mouldings around the perimeter of the ceiling. "How about your partner?"

Sirius glanced over his shoulder. "Partner?"

"Aren’t you two... involved?" Bob’s confident manner wavered slightly.

"Involved?" Remus’ voice was sharp, his glare telling. "We’re friends, nothing more."

"Oh."

Sirius could tell that Bob was thinking quickly, trying to cover his mistake in a way that wouldn’t make him look worse than he already did—and ruin the article that Remus was supposed to be writing. "Look, it’s all right," Sirius said quickly. "People make that mistake all the time." He laughed. "We have a friend, James, and when we were in school, people were constantly trying to link all three of us together. God, if we’d actually done what people thought we did, I’d need physical rehabilitation for the rest of my life."

Bob chuckled dutifully, though he cast a doubtful glance at Remus. The writer’s expression was dark, almost angry.

"The man’s got Guinness, Moony." Sirius said. "Bob?"

Bob was all too ready to hand two bottles across the bar to Sirius, who then held one out to Remus.

"It was a mistake," Sirius said softly.

For a few seconds, Remus merely stared at the bottle. Just when Sirius was about to order him to take the bloody Guinness and stop acting like an arse, Remus accepted the bottle, nodding hesitantly. Sirius and Bob each found themselves breathing a little more freely as he twisted off the cap and began to drink. He said little then, focussing his attention on his notes while Sirius and Bob talked of more random topics. After about five minutes, Remus plunked his empty bottle down on the bar, interrupting them. "I think I have everything I need to write a decent article. If I have any questions, I’ll call, if that’s all right."

Bob nodded and rushed to say, "Absolutely, no problem. I’m sure whatever you write will be just fine, though."

After that, it was as if Remus couldn’t get out of the place fast enough. Sirius had just barely settled his backside onto the seat before Remus was backing out of the driveway. Sirius did wait, however, until they were a mile or two down the road before asking, "What in the hell was that about back there?"

"It was a mistake, right?" Remus replied harshly. "That’s what you said."

"As many times as we were accused of being lovers, you’re suddenly taking offense now?"

Remus said nothing.

"We went to a gay club once and had a laugh pretending to be partners."

There was no comment.

"Remus, talk to me."

The muscle in Remus’ jaw was so tight that Sirius found himself wondering if the bone would snap. Still, the man didn’t say a word.

Sirius stared out the side window, a very ugly realisation forming inside his head. "It’s me, isn’t it? It’s what we—what I said to you that night."

Remus didn’t confirm or deny it, but a quick glance revealed a crimson flush stealing across his cheekbones.

"I thought we were over that," Sirius said softly. "I thought it didn’t matter to you."

"Would you just fucking shut up?" Remus exploded. "It didn’t. It doesn’t. It’s just—"

"What? Fucking hell, Remus, we were fine for years after I told you—after that night. Why does it bother you now that someone might think we’re lovers?"

"It just does, all right?" Remus growled. "Now, shut the fuck up before I pull over and make you walk back to Pittsburgh."

Sirius closed his eyes. Note to self: telling Remus that I’m still in love with him might not be the best thing to do right now.

***

"Lily? Where’s James?"

"Sirius! How are you? How’s Remus? How are things?"

"Fine. Where’s James?"

"Oh, I’m sorry, he’s gone pub crawling with some mates from work."

"Shit."

"What’s happened?"

"Remember how Remus would take off and wander around the city when he was upset?"

"Oh, God, Sirius, what have you done?"

"I’ve turned one of my best friends into a paranoid homophobe."

*******

When Sirius heard the noise on the front porch, he wasn’t sure whether he should panic or not. It could have been Remus—but it could have been a bear, for all he knew. When whatever it was scratched on the door, it solidified two things in Sirius’ head: firstly, it wasn’t Remus, because he’d have just come in; and secondly, that it wasn’t a bear, because the scratch wouldn’t have been nearly that gentle.

Heart in his mouth, and feeling more than a tad foolish that he was so frightened—Stop acting like a bloody five-year-old girl, Black!—he went to the door and opened it a crack.

A black snout pushed itself in through the gap with a soft "Woof."

"Padfoot!" Sirius gasped, feeling his heart return to its proper place in his chest. He opened the door all the way to allow the dog entrance, peering out into the encroaching darkness. "Didn’t see Moony out there, did you?"

The dog wagged its tail, but didn’t seem bothered to tell Sirius any details.

Sirius stood by the door, debating his next course of action. The empty feeling in his stomach made up his mind. "How about some dinner, Padfoot?"

*

Remus came into the house an hour later to find Sirius on the couch with a big black dog lying beside him.

"I made dinner," Sirius said, keeping his eyes on the television. His fingers didn’t stop stroking the furry head that was resting on his leg.

Remus felt the other man’s tension, knew that Sirius was teetering between concern and anger.

Like when we were younger. He never could understand that sometimes I just can’t deal with things by facing them.

Still, the man had come from London to see him. He wanted Remus’ friendship. He didn’t deserve Remus’ cowardice.

Stupid git. He should have stayed with James and Peter. They’re so much better for him. What can I offer him? I’m too damaged. I’m too much of everything that he doesn’t deserve.

And that was the problem. So much had happened, so many things touched off by one simple declaration seven years ago—and Remus didn’t know how to deal with the confusion and the guilt that he carried within him.

It was so much easier when he didn’t know where I was.

Without a word—because he didn’t know what to say—he walked into the kitchen. Sirius had always been a better cook than Remus, to the point that they’d finally agreed that Sirius would cook and Remus would clean up. Remus couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips when he realised that the dishes were stacked up neatly by the sink for him to wash.

And we fall right back to where and what we were.

He turned the water on to fill the sink and began to roll up his sleeves.

"Remus."

He hadn’t heard Sirius come into the room. Padfoot, indeed. "What, Sirius?"

"If I’d known coming here would hurt you so badly, I wouldn’t have come."

He glanced behind him and saw sincerity and apprehension written in every line of Sirius’ face.

He’s always been so easy to read. How did I not see the obvious?

"It’s all right. It’s not your fault, Sirius. It’s—me."

Sirius laughed, but it was bitter. "Well, yes, it is you. It’s not me who hid for five years. It’s not me who took an innocent remark and made it into an insult. It’s not me who then ran away from you to avoid talking about it. God, Remus, you never had a problem with my sexual orientation before, and we lived together for years."

He fell silent, looking shocked that he’d blurted out so much. A hurt expression suddenly appeared in his grey eyes. "Is this—what I am—going to ruin our friendship? Or did I ruin it when I told you I loved you?"

Regret and sadness flooded through Remus. He had never wanted to hurt Sirius. Granted, he’d realised that Sirius would be upset and sorry when Remus had left, but he’d known that Sirius would soon be too busy with his editing work—and boyfriends—to notice Remus’ absence.

Here he was, though, pleading for explanations, and there was a look in his eye that reminded Remus of the night that Sirius had turned his life upside down with one slightly tipsy, yet still entirely too sober, declaration.

He deserves an explanation. If anyone does, it’s Sirius.

They’d been friends for years. No one else had so equally shared the joys and sorrows in Remus’ life as Sirius.

Sirius had been one of the few who’d offered a comforting, solid presence when Remus had been bounced from one foster family to another. He’d been the one to realise that Remus was being physically abused by his fourth foster father—and had consistently provided lies and alibis, and then brought Remus to sanctuary at the Potters’ when things went wrong and blood had flowed. While Remus’ friends had visited him in hospital, it had been mainly Sirius who’d cheered him through rehabilitation sessions, seeing the tears and frustration and anger.

Sirius had spent as many hours over Remus’ first book as Remus himself had. Sirius had pushed him to write and rewrite until nearly every word was perfect. Sirius had commiserated with him over every rejection letter. Sirius had been the one to buy the bottle of champagne—and it wasn’t the cheap stuff—when Old Moon was accepted by the publisher.

He’s seen me at my absolute worst and he’s never given up on me. He’s always allowed me my triumphs without begrudging me any of them. I’ve tried to push him away. I’ve tried to forget about him—but he’s here.

There was nothing for it. They were going to have the conversation that Remus had pushed away for years. Sirius would now know the main reason why Remus had left England.

Am I ready for this? Is he?

*

Sirius saw Remus’ shoulders slump in resignation. "Can we—go sit down?"

The defeated look in the blue eyes stabbed into Sirius’ heart with the efficiency of a stiletto. "Should we have a bottle of wine for this?" he asked, referring to a habit they’d had when they were younger of only allowing a serious discussion or argument to last until the last sip of wine had been taken.

Remus gave a lopsided smile. "Might need two for this one." He moved toward a cabinet while motioning for Sirius to return to the living room.

Padfoot, the dog, had taken over the entire couch, but reluctantly shifted to one end when Sirius poked him.

"He’s not always so compliant," Remus commented, emerging from the kitchen with a bottle of wine and two glasses in his hands.

"He and I have an understanding," Sirius said. "I give him hamburger, he gives me part of the couch."

"Sounds reasonable, I suppose." Remus poured the wine and placed the bottle on the coffee table.

"We’re reasonable blokes," Sirius maintained, sipping at the wine.

Remus gave him a sceptical glance, but said nothing in response. Instead, he asked, "Do you remember about two months after Dora and I got married, that she suddenly—changed?"

"She couldn’t stand to look at me," Sirius said flatly. "I never could figure out what made her angry. You told me you didn’t know either."

Remus inhaled deeply. "I lied."

"Well, what bug crawled up her arse, then?"

Remus took a gulp of wine and, determinedly not looking at Sirius, replied, "I told her about what happened—about what you said the week before the wedding."

"Fuck, Remus!" Sirius groaned, slapping his free hand over his eyes in dismay.

"I wasn’t going to, but, there were... extenuating circumstances."

"‘Extenuating...’ You’re fucking kidding me. What kind of ‘extenuating circumstances’ would entail you having to tell your wife that a man—your best friend, no less—had come on to you a week before your wedding?"

Remus leaned forward so his forearms rested on his thighs. "She was jealous of our friendship. I didn’t realise how much until one night after we’d been to a party—some banquet thrown by Snell’s. She’d worn a gown that left nothing to the imagination and, well, the car ride home had been very interesting. But, I had thought of something I wanted to tell you, and when we got home, instead of heading upstairs with her, I told her I was going to call you." He glanced over at Sirius and smiled lopsidedly. "I’d been drinking and knew I’d forget to tell you whatever it was—God, I don’t remember what it was, now."

Sirius laughed. "I remember. You wanted to tell me that the bastard that they’d hired instead of me was leaving to go to America."

Remus shook his head. "How you remember that... Anyhow, I called you, and went upstairs to find that she’d locked me out of the bedroom. We had a fight and she claimed I loved you more than her." He took a drink of wine as if he were fortifying himself for the next bit. "I told her that you’d been with me for years, that you’d been there for me through good times and bad times—and that you weren’t jealous of her."

Sirius reached over to scratch Padfoot behind the ears. "I’m going to guess that didn’t go over well."

"No. And one thing led to another, and she accused us of being lovers. I told her we weren’t, but you’d offered and—" he took a deep breath before continuing, "—maybe I should have accepted because you kissed a whole hell of a lot better."

Sirius’ eyes bugged out of their sockets. "Holy shit! You said that to your wife?"

"And got hell for it, too."

"Well, no shit!"

"It took me a lot of grovelling and apologies before she started to talk to me again. That’s when we went off to Paris."

"I wondered why she seemed so smug about that trip," Sirius reflected. "She seemed so full of herself that you were taking her—and made a point of telling me not to call."

"I’m sorry, Sirius. I know I shouldn’t have told her. I know things were awful."

"They did get better when she found out she was pregnant with Teddy," Sirius pointed out.

"You started dating Alice then, and that helped, too," Remus said. "Dora didn’t feel so threatened, I guess."

"Well, hell, what did she think I was going to do? Steal her husband away?"

"I think that’s exactly what she thought."

Sirius grunted. "She was an idiot."

"No, she wasn’t. She was..." Remus shrugged. "She just wanted someone to love her completely and totally. You and I have always been close, and we’ve always had the kind of friendship that people envy. She was afraid I’d choose you over her."

"But, the fact that you married her should have showed her that you’d chosen her over me."

"It should have, but she was angry and upset. She was frightened. Then, when Alice left you..."

Sirius winced. "Dora and Alice were close. Did Alice tell Dora why she left me? That I’d admitted I didn’t love her because I still cared about you?"

Remus drained the glass of wine. "Yes."

"Oh, fuck."

"Dora told me that if I even thought about spending any more time with you than I already did, she’d divorce me and tell every newspaper that would listen that I was having it on with you. She told me there’d be no way any court would allow me to have Teddy when I was guilty of having a homosexual affair with my best friend."

"But you weren’t."

"No, but one doesn’t need to be guilty to be crucified in the press."

Sirius had to acknowledge the truthfulness of that. Still... "You didn’t tell me you knew why Alice had left me."

"I figured you’d tell me if you needed to. Besides, I thought you were embarrassed about it, or you were afraid it might drive a wedge in our friendship."

It was Sirius’ turn to empty his glass. "It didn’t, though. I didn’t know you knew the truth of it all."

Remus shrugged.

"So, knowing that I still cared about you—three years after I’d confessed as much to you—how could you leave without a word after Dora and Teddy died? Considering our friendship, I deserved an answer to why you wouldn’t talk to me."

Remus poured another glass of wine for himself and then filled Sirius’ as well. "I’d hoped you wouldn’t ask me that."

"Well, I have, and you have to answer the question."

"I told you that we’d argued before Dora took off that night."

"Yes."

Remus laced his fingers tightly together around his glass and, looking into its contents, whispered, "We’d argued about you again."

Sirius opened his mouth to speak and then shut it again, not knowing what to say.

"My publisher called and said that a movie studio had contacted them about the rights to Old Moon."

"You never—"

"I know. I told Dora, and then I made the biggest mistake I could have made." Remus swallowed hard and placed his glass on the coffee table. His hand was shaking. "I told Dora I was going to call you, and she started screaming at me."

"Didn’t she want me to know at all?"

"She wanted me to celebrate with her, to go out and have dinner and champagne... I told her we would, as soon as I told you."

"That story was as much mine as yours," Sirius protested. "She knew that."

"I thought she did. God, Sirius; the things we said to one another. I called her a manipulative bitch who couldn’t stand to see me happy. She called me an unsatisfied queer who was incapable of satisfying her in any way, shape, or form. We threw more insults back and forth until she finally told me she was taking Teddy and going to her mother’s. She said I could decide if I wanted my family back or if I wanted—you."

There was enough of a hesitation that Sirius knew that Remus had edited what Dora had really said. He ignored it, though, to make the obvious conclusion so that Remus wouldn’t have to. "And that’s when she left—and then crashed."

Remus nodded, covering his face with his hands.

"Bloody hell, Moony," Sirius breathed. "No wonder you got upset about Bob’s assumption."

"I don’t suppose it really matters," Remus said, his hands muffling his voice. "It’s not like I’m married now. I am—able to choose to be in whatever kind of relationship I want to be, whether it’s with a woman or a man—or Padfoot."

The dog raised his head and cocked it to the side, staring at the man who lowered his hands to smile weakly at the animal.

"Whenever I would see you, Sirius, it would bring her words right back to me," Remus went on. "I know it wasn’t fair to you, but I couldn’t help but think that, if you’d just stopped—caring about me, or had fought for Alice a little harder, maybe..."

"Maybe there’d have been no reason for Dora to be jealous," Sirius finished. "And maybe she wouldn’t have crashed."

"And I’d still have Teddy," Remus whispered, tears welling in his eyes.

Sirius couldn’t have stopped himself if he’d wanted to. He lurched out of his seat and onto the couch that Remus was sitting on, throwing his arms around his friend’s neck. "I’m sorry, Moony. I’m so sorry," he whimpered.

His touch shattered the last bit of Remus’ restraint. The grieving man began to sob loudly, his body shaking almost violently. Sirius said nothing, if only because he knew nothing he could say would help. After a moment, he felt Remus’ arms tentatively encircle him and he shifted slightly closer. It was, in some ways, what he’d been wanting for years. His hope had been that Remus would be in his arms for a more selfish—and romantic—reason. If Remus could find solace in Sirius’ tight embrace, though, that was enough.

After a few minutes, the big black dog on the couch jumped down and came over to them, whining. His nose swiped across Sirius’ cheek, making the dark-haired man yelp at the suddenness and wetness of it. "Gah, Padfoot!"

The dog, sensing a slight weakness, shoved his head beneath Sirius’ arms and pushed himself further into their embrace until his nose hit Remus’ chin.

Sobs turned to chuckles as the dog lapped at Remus’ damp and salty cheek. "Padfoot!" Remus’ arms shifted to wrap around the dog, and Sirius felt cold at the loss of the other man’s arms around him.

"What about me?" Sirius whined. "Would it help if I licked you, too?"

Remus wiped his red, splotchy eyes with his sleeve and chuckled. "No, I can’t say it would."

"Well, there’s gratitude for you," Sirius muttered.

Remus unexpectedly hooked one hand behind Sirius’ head and pulled him close. For just a split second, Sirius thought Remus intended to kiss him. Instead, the writer pressed his forehead to Sirius’. "You’ve already done more for me than I ever thought you could," he said softly. "You didn’t give up on me, even when that’s what I wanted."

"I won’t ever give up on you," Sirius promised.

The corner of Remus’ lips rose slightly, the beginning of a lopsided smile. "Persistent bugger, aren’t you?"

"You know I am, and you love me for it."

Sirius felt a jolt go through Remus’ body at his casual comment. Before the dark-haired man could apologise for his offhanded remark, though, Remus smiled and let his hand slip down to Sirius’ shoulder. "It’s only one of many reasons why I do. Did you eat already?" And with that, Remus was pushing himself away and getting to his feet.

"There are hamburgers in the fridge. I already ate, but I could eat again," Sirius said absently, watching the other man head into the kitchen, Padfoot at his heels. He could hear Remus saying something about the hamburgers, but his mind was replaying Remus’ response to his comment.

‘One of many reasons why I do.’ What did he mean by that? What the hell, Remus?

*******

The next morning, Sirius stumbled bleary-eyed into the kitchen to find Remus at the table, typing furiously on his laptop, his notebook open on the table beside him. "Hey."

Remus grunted something in reply, his eyes not leaving the screen.

Sirius grinned at the man’s concentration. This brings back memories.

As he made himself a cup of instant coffee, he glanced over at the table. The omnipresent cup for tea was within Remus’ reach, but there was no sign he’d eaten anything. Shaking his head, Sirius set to work.

Twenty minutes later, a plate of bacon and eggs appeared as if by magic beneath Remus’ nose, and he reared back, startled.

"Now, you can’t tell me you didn’t know I was cooking breakfast," Sirius admonished him, catching the look of surprise on his friend’s face.

"I was concentrating," Remus said in his defence, taking the plate in his hands.

Sirius laughed softly and sat down with his own plate of food. "This instant coffee is shite," he announced. "You need to buy a coffee maker."

Remus tilted his head to one side. "I don’t drink coffee, though."

"I do."

The brown-haired man took a bite from a piece of bacon while regarding Sirius thoughtfully. "Are you planning on coming here more often to make it worth my while buying such a thing?"

"If you buy a coffee maker, I just might."

Grey and blue eyes met, but didn’t shy away from one another. "It’s a long way to come for a cup of coffee."

"True," Sirius conceded. "Maybe I’ll have to get myself transferred to the Philadelphia office."

"You just got an incredible promotion. I doubt your bosses—however wonderful they are—would allow it."

"I only got the position for two reasons."

"Your charm and your looks, yes, I know," Remus said, rolling his eyes.

"No, no, really. There were reasons. The first was because they wanted someone to kick Malfoy in the balls."

Remus’ eyebrows rose. "Oh, really? You didn’t tell me you were so violent in ousting him."

"Tempted to, yes, but I refrained."

"Noble of you."

"Yes, well. The other reason, though, we still have to discuss."

"Oh? Careless of you to just agree to something without discussing it fully."

"No, no. You and I have to discuss the other reason."

Remus picked up another piece of bacon and shoved it into his mouth. "Sounds ominous."

"Jules and Di want to publish your books."

"I’m under contract with Snell’s."

"I know that, but contracts can be broken or bought out."

"I haven’t written anything in five years. There’s no guarantee I’m going to write anything in the next five." The answer was very casually given, which meant Remus was hiding something.

Sirius pointed to the laptop with his fork. "Liar."

"Writing for the newspaper doesn’t count."

"Do you mean to tell me that if I searched the files on that computer that there would be nothing there but newspaper articles?" Sirius kept his eyes on Remus as he asked. He was satisfied to see Remus stop chewing for just the tiniest of moments. "Come on, Remus. You might have temporarily lain the series aside, but I know you. I know you have other ideas. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that you have another novel already typed up, ready to go."

Remus pushed some eggs around his plate with his fork, deliberately not looking at Sirius. "Even if I did have something—and I’m not saying I do," he added firmly, "it wouldn’t be ready."

"Let me read it, then," Sirius offered.

Remus raised his head quickly. "I said I don’t—"

"You can’t give me that shit. I know you."

Remus sighed and returned his attention to his food. "God, you’re a stubborn, hard-headed bastard."

"I prefer persistent bugger," Sirius countered with a smile.

The blue eyes met his again. "I’ll just bet you do. Here, then." Remus turned the laptop around so that Sirius could see the screen. "Tell me what you think of this."

"Don’t they have an editor at that paper of yours?" Sirius asked, nevertheless punching the keys necessary to bring the beginning of the article into view.

"They do. But it would be a good thing to see if we still work well together, don’t you think? Before I even think about ringing Snell’s and give them a chance of relieving themselves of my non-productive self."

Sirius shot a grin at his friend and then began to read.

*

"If we play our cards right," Remus said sotto voce, "we could get a fabulous meal tonight."

Sirius allowed his friend to hold the door to the newspaper office for him. "Lay on, Macduff."

"God, that would make you Macbeth," Remus muttered, letting the door close. "Shall I expect a dagger in my ribs?"

A slight man with thinning red hair looked up from his desk as Remus led the way across the reception area. "Remus!"

"Hello, Arthur. I’ve got that thing written about the new bed-and-breakfast."

Relief spread across the man’s features. "Thank God! I was just now trying to find something online worth filling up a page. Percy!"

Almost immediately, a younger version of the man emerged from the back room. Sirius was surprised to see a wary expression in Percy’s eyes when he saw Remus standing there.

"Arthur, this is a friend of mine, Sirius Black. He’s an editor at Vernon-Gray Publishing. He’s already gone over the article, and trust me when I say there won’t be anything else you can do to my piece to make it any better."

Sirius and Arthur exchanged a handshake and some pleasantries.

"This is my son, Percy," Arthur said, motioning to the young man. "He’s majoring in journalism at the local university. He helps me out during the summer and on his breaks."

"Percy’s the third of Arthur’s children," Remus added. "He’s got seven children altogether."

"Seven!" Sirius yelped. "Good God, man!"

"Only four live at home full time, now," the man said. "Bill, my eldest, works for a museum—the Acquisitions Department. Charlie is a cowboy in South Dakota—"

"A cowboy?" Sirius repeated.

"An honest-to-God cowboy," Remus said.

"Then there’s Percy, and then the twins, Fred and George. Then there’s Ron, and last is our only girl, Ginny." Arthur paused to hand the envelope with Remus’ story in it to his son. "That will go on the front page of that last section. Set it up, won’t you?"

"You’re a reality show waiting to happen," Sirius commented.

Arthur laughed. "My wife loves watching those shows. I’ve told her not to get any ideas for any more, though. Seven is all I can handle." He glanced from Sirius to Remus, then back again. "Are you here for business or pleasure, Mr Black?"

"Call me Sirius, please." Sirius smiled. "I had some business with our office in Philadelphia, but Remus and I have been friends for years. I thought I’d visit him and see what’s keeping him here."

Remus interrupted whatever Arthur was going to say. "I was thinking about taking him to Hazlett’s Inn tonight for a home-cooked meal."

"Hazlett’s?" Arthur started to shake his head despairingly. "Remus, have I taught you nothing? The only good home-cooked meal is one cooked at home."

"Well, I doubt Sirius would like the consistency of my mashed potatoes," Remus said with a grin.

"Wait," Arthur said. "Just wait right there." He picked up the phone and, after some fumbling with the buttons and a long pause, said, "Molly? Do you have enough for two more tonight?"

"Arthur, we couldn’t—" Remus began.

The newspaperman waved him off. "Remus is here, and he has a visitor from England. He says he wants his friend to have a home-cooked meal before he leaves. Just a minute." Arthur started rooting around on his desk for a piece of paper and a pen. "Okay, potatoes. Yes, milk, and... Got it. Around six, would you say?"

A few minutes later, Sirius climbed into the Jeep and looked at the slyly grinning Remus. "You are a piece of work, you know that? A more manipulative bastard does not exist."

"You can thank me later," Remus said.

*******

"That was incredible," Sirius said, placing his fork carefully down on the now-empty plate.

Molly Weasley smiled, her round cheeks pinking at the praise. "Oh, Mr Black, it was nothing."

"I told you to call me Sirius; and trust me, this was the best meal I’ve had in months."

"Considering how he cooks, Molly, he’s telling the truth," Remus remarked.

"Would you like another piece of pie, dear?" Molly asked, seeing Remus’ empty plate.

"No, I’ve had plenty, thank you."

"Remus—"

"No, Molly, really. And no lectures about how I need fattening up."

The woman might have intended to do that very thing, but was distracted by Ron’s sudden exclamation at the theft of his piece of pie by one of the twins.

"Did Percy tell you his good news, Remus?" Arthur asked, speaking loudly to be heard over the sound of his wife scolding the errant son. "He won a competition for a piece he wrote. All the journalism students in their sophomore and junior years were encouraged to compete, and his story was chosen as the winner."

"Well done!" Remus’ smile was warm as he looked across the table at Percy. "What was the topic of your winning story?"

Sirius wondered if he was the only one who could see that Percy looked decidedly uncomfortable as Remus addressed him. "It wasn’t much, really. I didn’t think it had much of a chance."

"He wrote about how the budget in the English Department had been cut back in favour of funding for athletics," Arthur answered. "I was thinking about putting it in the paper, but I was afraid it might be seen as favouritism."

"Dad, you can’t publish it," Percy protested. "It was nothing."

"It’s impressive," Remus commented. "And it’s not favouritism if it’s good writing. What kind of prize did you get?"

"He got one thousand dollars," Molly replied in awe. "I can scarcely believe that one little story of his would be worth so much."

Percy fidgeted in his seat. "Dad, Mom, really, it’s not a big deal."

The twin that hadn’t stolen the pie said scornfully, "Everything is a big deal to you, Percy. I don’t know why you don’t want Dad to splatter it all over the front page."

"Stop harassing your brother," Molly chastised the twin. "He’s just being humble."

"It’s really not that good," Percy mumbled, his face nearly as red as his hair.

"It must be good, if you won," Remus insisted. "You’ve earned it."

"A thousand dollars is nothing to sneeze at," Arthur chimed in.

Sirius sat back, letting his hand rest on the back of Remus’ chair. "Honestly, mate, be proud of what you’ve done."

Percy swallowed hard, and looked down at his plate. "Yes, I should be proud of what I’ve done."

"Then it’s settled," Molly said, standing and starting to reach for empty plates. "Ginny, help me clear..."

In the ensuing ruckus—the twins and Ron trying to vanish upstairs to keep from getting recruited into doing dishes and Arthur inviting Remus and Sirius out onto the patio for a longer conversation—Sirius was the only one who caught Percy’s glance at Remus. It was filled with regret and Sirius couldn’t help but wonder what it could mean.

It wasn’t until they were preparing to leave when someone said something, causing Remus to turn his head quickly to look over his shoulder at something. There was something in the angle that made Sirius remember the photo in the magazine and he frowned. He wouldn’t be here right now with a plate of leftover roast in his hands, arguing with the twins over the meaning of the word ‘football’ if it hadn’t been for the article. Still, he wondered again who it was who’d photographed Remus for the magazine against his friend’s knowledge.

I suppose I have to thank them for helping me find Remus, though I’m sure that wasn’t their intention. They probably got a few dollars for letting the author or the editors of that article know where Remus was. I hope it was worth it to them. In this town, a couple of hundred dollars would be much appreciated.

Sudden realisation flooded through Sirius’ mind.

Of course, they might have got as much as a thousand dollars...

"Where’s Percy?" he asked the twins. "I’d like to say good-bye to him."

"Percy? Why waste your time on him?" Fred scoffed.

"He’s probably practicing his acceptance speech for his Pulitzer Prize," George joked.

There was chaos for a while as the twins and Ron called for Percy’s presence as loudly as possible. It wasn’t until Molly got involved, yelling, "Go see what your brothers want before I toss you out the window to them!" that Percy finally emerged, shamefacedly, from the house.

"I wanted to congratulate you again on winning that competition," Sirius said.

"Thanks," Percy muttered, taking Sirius’ outstretched hand and shaking it half-heartedly.

"It really is a wonderful thing." Remus was smiling at the boy, but his forehead was slightly creased with concern over Percy’s lack of enthusiasm. "I look forward to reading it."

"It’s too bad your father didn’t run your story instead of Remus’," Sirius said. "Remus wouldn’t have minded waiting a week or two for his story to be printed. Not if it was in the interest of a young, up-and-coming journalist like yourself."

Percy swallowed hard. "I’m sure my dad made the right decision. Mr Lupin’s story is incredible, really."

"Well, of course, it is," Sirius snarled. "But you’d know why it’s so good, wouldn’t you?"

Percy’s face blanched and his eyes widened behind the lenses of his glasses.

"Remus writes as well as a New York Times best-selling author, doesn’t he?" Beside him, Sirius felt Remus’ sudden tension, but he didn’t dare look at his friend. "Maybe you should have written something fictional; something about a writer who has disappeared from the literary world and just shows up in a small town one day."

"Sirius—" Remus hissed in warning.

Sirius waved him off. "I’m just taking the piss, Moony. I’m sure Percy’s article is wonderfully written. After all, he won a competition with it, right?" His voice continued to get harsher, angrier. "It’s not like he got paid a thousand dollars for revealing the whereabouts of a person trying desperately to live a life of privacy and peace."

"How did you—?" Percy’s voice shook.

"I’ve got a reasonable amount of intelligence and a suspicious nature, you lying little shit" Sirius snapped. "There are very few journalists out there that wouldn’t give their left nut for a story. And then you realised the answer to the ‘Great Disappearance of R. J. Wolfe’ was right under your nose..."

"Christ!" Remus spat.

"What are you accusing my son of doing?" Arthur demanded.

"...Large family, eager to be respected and noticed, all you needed was one photo to one magazine."Sirius stepped closer to Percy, who fell back another step to keep his distance from the man. "To hell with his right to privacy. So fucking what if other journalists came out of the woodwork to question him or hound him to death with what he’s been doing or what he’s writing? You’re a fucking Judas Iscariot—for one thousand American dollars."

"What did you do, Percy?" Arthur asked quietly, sounding like he dreaded the answer.

"He sold Remus out," Sirius answered curtly. "And I’ll tell you one thing, little man—" His finger tapped Percy’s chest. "If that photo hadn’t helped me to find Remus, I’d have put my fist in your face repeatedly by now for what you’ve done."

"Sirius, don’t."

The dark-haired man turned toward his friend. "This is the bastard who either took the picture or told them where to find you, Remus."

"I understand that, but—don’t." Remus put his hand on Sirius’ shoulder and squeezed it tightly, almost painfully. "Arthur, I—I just don’t know what to say. This is—"

"We’ll talk tomorrow," Arthur said, his eyes focussed on Percy’s bowed head. "I’m so sorry, Remus. I didn’t know."

"Yes, well..." Remus let the sentence trail off. "Thank Molly for the dinner. Come on, Sirius."

The ride home was quiet. Sirius tried once to talk about what had happened ("He had no right—") but Remus interrupted him in a strangely gentle tone. "It’s over, Sirius. Let it go."

The editor’s calm could only be maintained for so long, however. As Remus fumbled with the key to the front door, Sirius burst out with, "How can you be so calm about this?"

"Because I’m not so sure I’m angry about it."

"Remus, they took your picture without your knowledge and published it. You could have had all kinds of media whores around here—"

"But I don’t," Remus said firmly, pushing the door open.

"But—"

"Sirius, you’re here. You wouldn’t be if not for that horrible photo."

"I know, but—"

Remus wheeled around and Sirius suddenly realised how close they were, and he felt himself breathless at the proximity of the bright blue eyes. "I didn’t know how much I missed you until this happened. If the price I had to pay for that knowledge is one God-awful photo in a magazine..." Remus paused, and then, to Sirius’ wonder and amazement, he placed his hand on Sirius’ shoulder and softly stroked the side of Sirius’ neck with his thumb. "It seems a small price to pay."

For one of the few times in his life, Sirius was speechless. His jaw opened to say something, but when no words were forthcoming, he clamped it shut again.

A smile tugged at Remus’ lips. "The sight of seeing you like this, with nothing to say seems to be a bonus in all this." He abruptly turned and, grabbing the plate of leftover roast from Sirius’ hand, retreated into the kitchen.

***

"What in the hell is he playing at?"

There was a sigh. "I’m sure I don’t know, Sirius."

"He’s throwing out these signals—does he even know what he’s doing to me? I ended up wanking—"

"Oh, I do not want to hear any more of that!" James groaned.

"What am I supposed to think, though, Prongs?"

"Why don’t you just ask him?"

"And have him kick me out of the house and shut himself off from us again? Oh, yeah, that’s a brilliant idea."

"Could you sound any more sarcastic? Wait until you’re ready to get on the plane, then."

"I’ll end up causing a scene at the airport."

"I’m sure people who work at the airport will have seen stranger things."

***

Lily was staring at James with such disbelief that he found himself fidgeting. "What?"

"Your best friend asks you for your opinion and your advice and the only thing you can tell him is to ask Remus about it at the airport?"

"What else was I supposed to say? I don’t know what’s going on in Remus’ head any more than Sirius does."

Lily rolled her eyes and turned her attention back to the carrots she’d been slivering for the salad.

"You don’t know either," James said accusingly. "So don’t pretend that you do."

His wife sighed and laid the knife down with such deliberation that he found himself wondering if she’d been thinking of throwing it at him. "James. When Sirius was having his Great Sexual Identity Crisis of 1985, who was the first person to accept Sirius immediately without reservations?"

"Remus, but he said it was only because he figured Sirius’ clothes sense might come in handy."

"When Sirius broke up with Awful Andrew, who sat with him for two nights running while he cried his eyes out?"

"Remus, but that was only because Sirius kept him awake. He didn’t have much choice."

"When Sirius went to gay clubs, who went with him the most often?"

"Well, now you’re just starting to make Remus sound like a door mat, because Sirius dragged him along unwillingly."

"When Alice handed her engagement ring back to Sirius, where did Sirius go?"

"He went to Remus and Dora’s. Lily—"

"And when Dora said she was tossing Sirius out after one day, what happened?"

James sighed. "She and Remus got into that bloody awful row and Remus threatened to move back in with Sirius. Are you certain you’re not the attorney in this family?"

"What happened when Sirius told Remus he loved him?" Lily pressed.

"According to Sirius, Remus said that it was piss-poor timing, considering it was a week before Remus and Dora’s wedding."

"Wait. Sirius told him that a week before the wedding?"

"He was drunk—"

"Could his timing have been any worse?"

"It could have been the night before the wedding." James stopped to wait for the eye roll that Lily obligingly gave. "He said he was desperate."

"He was an arse. Still, Remus didn’t punch him in the mouth for saying it, did he?"

"Nooo..."

"There you have it, then."

"There I have what, exactly?"

"James, the man not only didn’t blacken Sirius’ eye for coming on to him, he said Sirius had piss-poor timing. He’s supported and encouraged Sirius to the point that he was willing to risk his own marriage for the dolt, and Sirius doesn’t know how Remus feels? And you don’t see it either?" Lily stared at James expectantly. "Are you two really that stupid?"

James blinked. "You’re not saying—"

"Do you mean to tell me that you’d never noticed how Remus looked at him?" Lily asked softly. "Good Lord, James!"

"Lily, Remus isn’t gay!"

"No, I’d call it bisexual."

"He’s never dated another man in his life!"

"As far as you know, he hasn’t," Lily said snidely.

"I would’ve known—Sirius would’ve known if he had."

Lily put her hands on her hips. "Is it possible Remus never dated another man because he was waiting for one particular man to notice him?"

"You mean—" James’ mouth worked silently for a moment, trying to find the words to complete the sentence. "Are you saying—?"

"I’m saying what I’m saying. It’s up to Sirius to get his head out of his arse before it’s too late."

***

Sirius tapped at the door. "Come on, Remus! I still need to get a shower, and we’re going to be late to the airport!"

"One more minute," came the voice from behind the door. "No, wait!"

The door was suddenly jerked open and Sirius took an involuntarily step backward in surprise. He took a step forward again in wonderment, his body responding almost immediately to what his eyes were taking in. "You shaved."

Oh, fuck, he looks good. And no shirt. Does he know what he’s doing to me? Does he care? Oh, God. Don’t touch, Black. Don’t embarrass yourself—

Remus self-consciously rubbed at the side of his jaw. "I thought it might be time. Here." He held out a pair of scissors, and reached back to the tail of wet hair that was gathered at the nape of his neck. "You can make sure it’s straight." He stepped back into the bathroom, not waiting to see if Sirius was following.

Sirius, however, had no intention of not following. "Remus, I’m not a barber."

"You used to trim my hair all the time. Before." The last word was added belatedly, implying many things that neither of them wanted to talk about.

"But that was just a quick trim. This is something else entirely," Sirius protested.

"How difficult can it be? Cut it off here then neaten up the ends."

The dark-haired man raised his hand to touch the back of his own hair, which was almost to his own shoulders.

Remus saw the motion and smirked, though he said nothing. He lowered the seat on the toilet and sat down, turning slightly. "Do it quickly and it won’t hurt as badly, right?"

"Are you sure?" Sirius asked, opening and closing the scissors with a snap.

Remus had a faraway look in his eye as he replied, "It’s time."

Sirius reached forward and gently stroked the sandy brown tail once, then again. "But are you sure?"

The blue eyes cleared and danced with laughter. "Padfoot, would I have handed you something sharp and potentially dangerous if I weren’t?"

"Point taken." Sirius eyed up the hair, trying to judge where best to make the cut.

This is so terribly wrong, asking me to do this. ‘How do I make myself look better for you, Sirius?’ God, Remus, do you know what I want to do to you right now?

It took only one sharp, decisive cut, and Sirius carefully placed the length of hair in Remus’ hands, along with the elastic band that had held it together.

"It’s longer than I thought."

Sirius bit his tongue to keep from making a rather inappropriate sexual innuendo. Instead, he let his fingers slide through the shortened strands, finger-combing them into place. The hours of watching Remus bent over a tablet, scribbling furiously, made it possible to remember exactly how the light brown hair had curled ever so slightly at the nape of his neck, how it had been angled over and around his ears. Relieved of weight and length, the damp locks were already trying to twist into gentle waves.


Taking a deep breath, Sirius tried a bit of humour to steady himself. "If I fuck this up, I want your promise that you won’t hack me to pieces with these scissors and bury all the parts out in the woods somewhere."

"No, not a chance of that," Remus said with a crooked smile. "Padfoot the dog would dig you up and bring you back, piece by piece. I was barely ready to see you whole. To see you in bloody, chewed bits might be too much for me to deal with."

They chuckled, and Sirius thought it had calmed his nerves. It was very quickly obvious, though, that he’d made a dreadful mistake. His fingertips were constantly brushing the soft skin of Remus’ neck and shoulders. His nose was filled with the smell of Remus’ aftershave lotion—something spicy and musky that heightened Sirius’ awareness of the other man. Then there was just the sheer proximity of the rangy body, lightly muscled and beaded with water droplets...

Does he see my hand shaking? Can he hear my heart pounding inside my chest? Can’t he smell how aroused I am?

When he attempted to trim the hair coming down over the other man’s forehead into a manageable fringe, the sight of the bright blue eyes gazing trustingly up at him made things twist painfully inside Sirius. "I’m afraid I’ll mess up the rest," he said hoarsely, holding the scissors by the blades so that Remus could grasp the handles. "I’ve made you look like a hedgehog with alopecia."

Remus smiled. "You wouldn’t do that." His voice was soft and full of confidence.

His assurance shot through every nerve in Sirius’ body, making him tingle as if he’d been shocked.

He knows. He knows I still want him. Do I acknowledge it? Should I let him speak first? What in the hell do I do?

Before Sirius could decide what he should say, Remus stood up, pressing himself against Sirius ever-so-slightly. The dark-haired man barely contained a whimper at the slide of Remus’ denim jeans over his thickening erection, which was just barely covered by cotton pyjamas and a silk dressing gown.

"Remus—" He swallowed hard, unable to interpret the expression on Remus’ newly shaven face. If he didn’t know any better, he’d swear—

"You’d best get your shower," Remus interrupted, brushing pieces of hair from his shoulders and arms, and pushing past Sirius. "Do you want me to clean this up now or later?"

Sirius must have said ‘Later’, because Remus nodded and left. The moment the door closed, though, Sirius began smacking himself repeatedly in the forehead with heel of his hand, muttering, "Idiot!" with every hit.

*

"Have you got your tickets? What about your passport?"

"Yes, Mum, I’ve got it all right here." Sirius patted his briefcase and grinned impudently at Remus.

"We had to turn around and go back for your tickets. I think I’m entitled to ask these questions as often as I deem necessary."

They both chuckled then Sirius asked, "What will I do in New York without you to nursemaid me?"

"You’ll end up in a bar at the airport, drinking copious amounts of alcohol, and miss your flight altogether."

"Aren’t you sorry you aren’t going with me?"

Remus just shook his head in amusement. "You’d best get moving. They’re going to call your flight fairly soon, and you still have to get over to the terminal and try to convince them you’re not a terrorist."

"Moony! I’m hurt to the quick."

Their smiles slowly faded as they stood there staring at one another.

"Come home, Remus," Sirius said impulsively. "We miss you."

Remus looked down at his boots. "I’m not done here, yet."

"Come for a visit, then. You haven’t seen Katie since she was three. Harry would like to get to know you again."

"I don’t—not yet. Soon, though. That’s the best I can do."

"You’ll have to come over anyhow, so that you can get out of that contract with Snell’s," Sirius said, only half-jokingly.

"There are lawyers and agents to do that sort of thing. What with email and faxes and all, I could be in the Australian outback and get everything accomplished."

"Di and Jules want to meet you, though."

"Maybe. Let me think about it. I don’t even know if I’m going to finish that bloody series."

"Why wouldn’t you?" Sirius demanded, bewildered. "You’ve had the thing written in your head for years. It’s just a matter of getting the thing down on paper."

"It’s—changed. I’ve changed," Remus said with a shrug. "We’re none of us the same."

"Don’t tell me that Jasper’s new love interest has the whole series in that much of an uproar," Sirius joked.

Remus stiffened. "What makes you say that?"

Sensing he’d said something wrong, Sirius tried to sound as unconcerned as possible. "It was just a comment. You’d told me that Jasper and Sara weren’t going to get together after all, and it would change the entire fifth book. That was the only change you’d mentioned, but it seems like a big one."

Remus drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Sorry. I just don’t know what I’m doing with it. It might be a shit idea. Give me some time. It’ll take me a while to recover from your visit anyhow."

"You’re a git." Sirius stepped forward and threw his arm around Remus’ neck, bringing him into a tight embrace. "Take care of yourself, Moony." It took a moment, but his friend finally put his arms around Sirius just as firmly.

"Don’t give the flight attendants a difficult time."

Sirius felt goose bumps form from the soft, warm breath on the back of his neck. "Me?" He reluctantly disentangled himself. "I’m the epitome of the perfect traveller."

"I scoff," Remus said with a lopsided smile.

"I am offended."

"Get out of here, you dog." And shocking Sirius to the core, Remus tugged him back into a one-armed embrace and kissed him quickly on the top of his head. "Email me when you get home so I know they didn’t toss you out over the Atlantic." And with that, Remus pulled away and shoved Sirius in the direction the editor needed to go.

Sirius turned to say something—he still wasn’t quite sure what—but it was too late. Remus was already walking away, his hands jammed in his jeans pockets.

Oh, no. No confusion about any of this.

***

Re: Tossing out over the Atlantic
From: Sirius Black
To: R. J. Lupin

Didn’t happen, though I did think of tossing one off.
Thanks for everything. I had a great time.
Sirius

*

Re: Re: Tossing out over the Atlantic
From: R. J. Lupin
To: Sirius Black

It’s amazing they didn’t toss you out—but even more of a miracle that you didn’t indulge yourself. Does the ‘Mile High Club’ not mean anything to you?
Padfoot the dog misses you. He’s looking for more hamburger.
It was good to see you.
Remus

*

Re: Mile High Club
From: Sirius Black
To: R. J. Lupin

The Mile High Club is over-rated. Those tiny lavatories are bad enough, but you know they’re not soundproofed?
S.

*

Re: Soundproofing in airplane restrooms
From: R. J. Lupin
To: Sirius Black

Or should the topic line be ‘Lack of soundproofing?’
At any rate, I do not want to know how you know that.
R.

***

"And you didn’t call me to tell me what Lily said?" Sirius exploded, his disbelief making his tone raise an octave and then some.

James shrugged. "I thought you’d be able to read him well enough to know if he was still interested or not."

"James," Sirius said firmly, "did you or did you not get a phone call from me asking you if you had any idea of what Remus Lupin’s behaviour meant?"

"Sirius," James shot back in the same manner, "you’ve never had a problem determining if a bloke is interested in you. It should be rather more obvious because it’s Remus."

"But it’s not!" Sirius exclaimed. "Damn it, Prongs, if I never noticed he was interested before, how in the hell would I know he is now?"

James sank back in his chair. "I don’t know. I wanted to call you. I had the bloody phone in my hand. But then I started to worry that I might make things even more awkward if I told you what Lily said— and Remus really didn’t feel that way."

Sirius considered his best friend’s words carefully. "You’re right," he finally said with a sigh. "It might have made things worse if I started looking for signs that weren’t there. But it still would have been good to know, because then maybe I could have asked him."

James expression was clearly sceptical. "Would you really have asked?"

"Probably not," Sirius admitted. "It makes me feel better to think that I might have, though."

"So, what’s your next move?"

Sirius ran his fingers through his hair and then folded his hands together on the table. "I have absolutely no idea."

***

Re: Pie
From: Sirius Black
To: R. J. Lupin

Moony,
I’m starved and I keep thinking about Molly Weasley’s apple pie. How does one ship an apple pie from the States to the UK?
Me

*
Re: Pie
From: R. J. Lupin
To: Sirius Black

Padfoot
How does one ship an apple pie across the Atlantic Ocean? One doesn’t. You’ll just have to beg Molly to make one the next time you visit.
I bought a coffee maker, by the way.
Me also

***

Re: Re: Bored
From: Sirius Black
To: R. J. Lupin

I’m bored, Moony. If you were here, I’d drag you out pub-crawling. Or just for fun, we could go hit one of those gay clubs like we used to. Remember that one we went to that had the fabulous DJ who thought we really were a couple? It was closed after a series of health and fire code violations a year after you left. As if we didn’t realise there were problems after one visit. Wires really shouldn’t be sticking out of the walls, and I still shudder to think of what that was in my drink that made it look like that. Thanks for stopping me from drinking it.
I’d kiss you for it, but seeing as you aren’t here...
Padfoot

*

Re: Re: Re: Bored
From: R. J. Lupin
To: Sirius Black

We’re too old for pub crawls and clubbing. We’re at the point where we should have found one pub where we have ‘our’ table, and the bartender knows ‘our’ drinks, and the waitress knows ‘our’ favourite food.
For the record, you kissed me that night for stopping you from drinking that... concoction. On the lips with tongue.
Moony

*

Re: Re: Re: Re: Bored
From: Sirius Black
To: R. J. Lupin

And you liked it, too.

*

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Bored
From: R. J. Lupin
To: Sirius Black

You didn’t hear me complain, did you? Wish you’d used a breath mint first, though.

***

Re: Business Proposition
From: Sirius Black
To: R. J. Lupin

Dear Mr Lupin,
By now, you should have received the packet which was sent to you from yours truly. To verify, it was a packet containing the terms concerning our interest in publishing your next novel. I understand that you have a long and successful relationship with Snell’s Publishing, but I would like to reiterate that Vernon-Gray Publishing employs one of the best, if not the best editor in the UK. Certainly, he is one of the best looking and most charming.
Feel free to contact us with any questions you might have.
Sincerely,
Sirius Black

P.S. How’s that for formality? Come on, Moony. You’ve been sitting on the damn contracts for a month now. Have you even contacted your agent? Or Snell’s? You’ve got to give me a bone here, otherwise, the girls are going to put me on a plane and send me back to you. And honestly, you don’t want to know what they want me to do to you to convince you to sign with them—I mean us.
Of course, I’d get to try that coffee maker. And maybe Molly would make that pie again. That does it. I’m calling the airline this afternoon.
Me

*

Re: Re: Business Proposition
From: R. J. Lupin
To: Sirius Black

Dear Mr Black,
Remember that patience is a virtue.
Yours truly,
R. J. Lupin

Padfoot,
I can only type so quickly, you stupid bugger. How long do you think it takes to type an entire book?
You’re one of the best looking and charming editors? Where is ‘self-important’ or ‘arrogant’ or ‘conceited’ in that list of attributes?
Those threats from the ladies about what you’re going to do to me: do they involve violence or sex?
Me back

*

Re: Re: Re: Business Proposition
From: Sirius Black
To: R. J. Lupin

You had half of that book written already, and I know it.
You’re hoping it’s sex, aren’t you?

*

Re: Re: Re: Re: Business Proposition
From: R. J. Lupin
To: Sirius Black

Egotistical arse.
You just think you know it.
Violence, sex... There’s pain both ways, and who knows? I might be able to get off on the violence just as well as the sex.

*

Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Business Propostion
From: Sirius Black
To: R. J. Lupin

I think you scare me.

*

Re: Scaring you
From: R. J. Lupin
To: Sirius Black

Such was my intention. Now leave me alone so I can get some bloody work done. If you want the fucking book, you have to let me finish the damn thing!

***

Re: Book Proposal
From: R. J. Lupin
To: Sirius Black

Mr Black,
Three weeks ago, you expressed an interest in publishing my next book. I have recently submitted an outline and sample chapters of my latest work to my current publisher, but it was not found to be of interest to them. I have fulfilled my contractual obligations to them by offering it to them first. Now that they have rejected it outright, I wondered if you’d be interested in it. It is the fourth in a series that I started several years ago. The first three books were well-received, but the direction of the fourth book might be considered a bit controversial. If you are still interested, I can send you a general outline, the first two chapters, and the most controversial chapter. I look forward to your response.

Sincerely,
R. J. Lupin

P.S. Remember I told you about the change in Jasper’s love life? The people at Snell’s are completely pissed off at me for it. They’re more than happy to part with me for a fee, and I’m more than happy to pay. I wonder if ‘your’ Di and Julia will be interested in this. I think it might bother a lot of people—especially those who thought Jasper and Sara were right for one another. I think Jasper is happier now, not having to deny things he’s been feeling all along.

*

Re: Re: Book Proposal
From: Sirius Black
To: R. J. Lupin

Mr Lupin,
We are very much interested in your book. Please send whatever you have prepared and we will look it over. Vernon-Gray Publishing is no stranger to publishing books with controversial content. Perhaps you’ll remember the firestorm over the book, My Stepdaughter’s Boyfriend?
Knowing the content and quality of your work as I do, I feel confident that whatever controversial content you refer to is not of a gratuitous nature, but is truly what is demanded of it by the characters in the book.
I look forward to reading it.
Yours,
Sirius Black

P.S. What in the hell have you done to Jasper? Would you just bloody tell me who he falls in love with? Come on, Moony! Tell me what I need to prepare the girls for!

*

Re: Re: Re: Book Proposal
From: R. J. Lupin
To: Sirius Black

I’ve attached the outline and the chapters. You can print them off instead of me mailing the lot to you. It’ll save me from being aggravated by you during that time in which they’re in the postal service’s hands.

I hope you like it, Padfoot.

***

Sirius downloaded the attachments and stared at the general outline for a moment. Remus had been overcautious—Or he’s being sneakily evasive!—in choosing wording that didn’t link Jasper with any particular name in a romantic way.

Bloody Jasper seems to be hanging out with his best mate, Terry, more than with any birds that I can see... Why are there four chapters in which Terry is trying to come to grips with Jasper’s new crush? It’s not Terry’s sister, what’s-her-name, is it? I thought Jasper thought of her as a sister, too...

For a moment, Sirius debated printing everything out before reading it, but the black words across the screen were too enticing.

He skimmed through the first two chapters, realising they were a summary of things that had happened in the first three books. The third chapter Remus sent, however, was actually the tenth chapter of the book. Sirius glanced at the outline.

"Chapter Ten: Jasper reconciles himself to his past and decides where his affections lie."

"I know he’s sitting at his laptop laughing his arse off at me at this very minute," Sirius mumbled, clicking on the file.

Jasper and Sara’s breakup was as messy and emotional as any that Sirius had ever read—and had experienced. He winced as he recognised words that Remus had said that Dora had thrown at him.

This had to hurt to write. It hurts to read it. Why would he do this to himself?

Sara’s accusations that Jasper had another lover surprised Sirius a bit, until he realised that it was the same thing both Andrew and Alice had said to Sirius when they broke up with him. Andrew’s exact wording was echoed by Sara: "Even when you’re with me, you’re not really here! Who is she?"

He had known the answer to Andrew’s question, though at that point, he’d preferred to ignore what his heart had been telling him. He didn’t want to admit he’d been missing and craving the time spent with Remus. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge that Remus had been the one his heart had been aching for. He had confessed it to Alice, who said it was obvious to anyone who knew the two.

So, who does Jasper want? Who has his heart been aching for? With his heart pounding, Sirius went on.

"I’m not all too sure you’ll understand," Jasper said, deliberately looking away from her, letting his eyes take note of the wallpaper peeling away from the wall between the two windows. "It’s not another woman, Sara."
"Oh, don’t give me that shite! There’s no doubt there’s someone else, and I deserve to know who the bitch is!"
There was no way to soften the blow.
"It’s Terry."
She stared at him disbelievingly. "What do you mean, ‘It’s Terry’? Is he making you break up with me?"
"No, Sara." Jasper laughed bitterly. "He doesn’t even know I was going to have this discussion with you. It’s Terry that I love."
"Jasper—"
He couldn’t stop now if he wanted to. "It’s Terry. It’s always been Terry, but I’ve been trying to deny it for years. You loved me, though, and I thought maybe you could help me forget about him."

"It’s Terry? Jasper’s in love with Terry?"

Sirius shot to his feet, pushing his chair away from the desk. His mind was racing, his thoughts filled with voices from his past.

James: "It’s always been Remus, Sirius. It’s always been about him."

Alice: "I can’t compete with Remus. The two of you are too close and have shared too much..."

Lily: "The man looked at you like you were ice cream on a hot day, and you never noticed?"

The conversation he’d had with Remus a week before Remus’ wedding:

"I love you, Remus."

"You’re drunk."

"No, I’m not. Well, maybe a little. But it’s true. I love you."

"God, Sirius!"

"Don’t be mad—"

"I’m not, but—I’m getting married in a week! What in the hell makes you think I want to hear this now? Fuck, you’ve got piss-poor timing!"

Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. It wasn’t, "You’re out of your mind." Lily was right. He should have hit me for coming on to him. Instead, he growled at me for bringing it up a week before the wedding.

He could hear himself telling Julia that Jasper was Remus, and somewhere from deep in his mind, he recalled a comment of Peter’s: "You know, Sirius, Terry is an awful lot like you..."

And only two months ago: "...You love me for it."

"It’s only one of many reasons why I do."

He sighed and turned slightly so he could see the laptop’s screen. The question is, do I take this chapter as a sign that Remus is interested in me? Or is he only being faithful to the character? Do I accept all the teasing, all the comments as flirting? Do I dare? Do I dare to think and to dream that Remus loves me?

There were still more words that Sirius hadn’t yet read. He forced himself to sit down and quell his inner turmoil enough to finish the chapter.

When he finished, he continued to idly scroll down the page, not really expecting to see anything, but hoping that maybe there’d be some note from Remus. He was surprised but encouraged to see three lines of dark blue lettering at the bottom of the page.

Sirius, Art sometimes imitates life. I daresay Jasper is a happier man by following his heart. I hope that I might say the same about myself. Yours, as always, Remus.

Sirius cupped one hand over his mouth. His breath was hot and harsh on his skin.

I can have this. He wants this. I want this.

A smile slowly began to spread across his face. We can have this together.

With one hand, he flipped back to the book’s outline; with the other, he picked up the phone and punched some numbers.

"Hey, Di? I have three chapters of Remus’ book. Do you want me to just email them to you? Or do want actual papers in your hand?"

*

An hour later, Julia slowly flipped the last page over and looked up at Diana. "Are you thinking what I’m thinking?"

Di smiled. "The people at Snell’s are idiots for not publishing this book?"

"Well, that is true, but that’s not the obvious thing."

"Jasper is Remus, right?"

"That’s what Sirius said."

"It’s pretty obvious that Terry is Sirius."

"Right down to the—" Julia quickly leafed through the chapters in front of her, "—need to eat candy bars for breakfast."

Di laughed. "And let’s not forget the ‘bark-like laugh’."

"Could the man be any more obvious?"

"The question is: has Sirius recognised it?"

The phone buzzed and Julia nodded toward it. "My guess is that our Executive Editor wants to return to America."

"If he doesn’t, he’s an idiot," stated Diana.

*

James’ voice on the answering machine was irritated, almost angry. "Remus, I just got a phone call from Sirius. He’s getting ready to board a bloody jet in New York! He wanted to surprise you, the git. He said the plane should be arriving in Pittsburgh sometime after nine. Here’s the flight number—" He rattled off a series of numbers. "I told him there was no guarantee you’d get there in time to meet his flight. He said he’d wait..."

There was a little more to the rambling message about how Sirius hadn’t told anyone where he was going, and how James was convinced he was no better than a fifteen-year-old child, and God help Remus. "He’s your problem now," James concluded. "I leave him in your hands. Oh, and Lily sends her love."

Remus glanced up at the clock and nodded to himself. He had plenty of time to get to the airport. And then the realisation sank in: Sirius was coming.

But to tell me he knows what I was really saying? Or just to finalise the details of a book contract?

Remus replayed the message to get the flight number and then sprinted to take a shower.

*

"Do you have business in Pittsburgh?" Sirius asked the woman next to him.

"I do. I’m a professor of medieval studies at Yale University. I’m going to meet with some colleagues at the University of Pittsburgh. What about yourself?"

Sirius grinned. "I’ve been given a second chance at something I didn’t think was possible."

*

"Fucking road construction," Remus muttered, slapping the steering wheel in frustration.

He glanced down at the clock and groaned. He’d moved only half a mile in ten minutes.

"Come on!"

Apparently, the rainclouds thought he was talking to them because it was then that lightning flashed across the sky and the first drops of rain began to fall.

*

The flight attendants were smiling as they advised everyone to buckle their seatbelts. By the bucking of the airplane, Sirius wasn’t that surprised.

"Do you think we’re close to the airport?" the woman next to him asked.

Sirius glanced at his watch and made a quick calculation. "Only half an hour to go, I’d think."

"Oh, good," she replied. "I hate flying in weather like this."

*

Remus parked as quickly as he could and, heart thumping madly, made his way through the building to the Baggage Claim. The weather had slowed the delayed the flight’s arrival by about fifteen minutes, so Remus decided to grab a cup of tea while he waited.

*

The new expected time of arrival came and went, and there was no change in the status of the flight. Five minutes late turned to ten, and then to fifteen. Remus was watching another fifteen minutes later when the arrival time suddenly vanished and the word ‘Delayed’ appeared.

A frisson of terror went through Remus, and he shuddered.

With a sick feeling in his stomach, Remus made his way to the counter. He tried not to notice that the people working there looked worried.

"Excuse me, could you tell me what’s going on?" he asked a woman quietly.

She gave him a false smile. "The flight has been delayed, sir."

"I can see that," he said, trying not to snarl at her. "Is there a problem?"

Another man shouldered his way past Remus. "My daughter’s on that plane, and I want some answers. What’s happening?"

Within minutes, nearly everyone who’d been waiting for the flight was clustered around the desk, angrily demanding details. A man in an airline blazer emerged from a door to the left. "Folks, if you could come this way—"

Remus suddenly felt light-headed and closed his eyes. The man had the same expression that was on the face of the police officer who’d come to tell of the crash—and Dora and Teddy’s deaths.

A gentle hand on his arm made him open his eyes to see a blonde woman who’d also been waiting for the flight from New York.

"Are you all right?" she asked softly.

"Deja vu," he whispered. "It’s happening all over again."

*

James fumbled for the phone next to the bed, cursing as he knocked his glasses on the floor.

"Potter," he grumbled into the receiver.

"James."

The tone brought him to immediate awareness. "Remus?"

"James—" The writer sounded stunned.

"What’s happened, Moony?"

"James—" There was a gasping sound as if Remus was trying to catch his breath—or as if he were crying.

"What’s wrong?" Lily asked quietly, rolling over to look at her husband.

He shook his head. "Remus, are you okay? Is Sirius with you?"

"Oh, fuck, James!"

Lily pressed her ear close to her husband’s.

"Remus, say it quickly. Get it out. What’s happened?"

"Sirius—" Remus took a deep breath and then, very calmly, almost frighteningly so, said, "The plane went down. They said there are survivors, but they don’t have a list yet."

Lily pulled away quickly, her hands covering her mouth in shock and dismay.

James looked at the clock next to the phone base and made a quick calculation. "It’s midnight there, yes?"

There was a pause and then a sigh. "Yeah."

James covered the receiver with his hand. "Sirius’ plane was supposed to be there a little after nine."

Lily looked at the clock. "It’s been three hours and Remus still doesn’t know anything?"

"Remus, what have they said?"

"Not much. Something happened to the electrical systems, they think. They went down in a field—" Remus stopped and James could hear him breathing rapidly.

"Mate, take a deep breath for me, will you?"

"What?"

"Take a deep breath."

"If I do, it hurts."

James pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes. He could hear Remus’ panic in the nearly childish tone. "Listen, Moony. I’m coming. All right? I’ll be on the first flight I can catch."

Lily waved her hands rapidly. "The Grant trial starts today!" she mouthed.

Before he could say anything, Remus said hesitantly, "No. Not yet." James could almost feel the sluggishness of Remus’ thoughts. "There’s no point. Wait until I hear something."

"Are you sure?" James asked gently, thinking of colleagues who could take over for him if he did take off for America.

"I might not hear anything until you’re in the air, and," Remus laughed curtly, bitterly, "you know Sirius. He could damn well turn out to be perfectly fine. There wouldn’t be any reason for you to come." He took another gasping breath. "I just had to—tell you."

"If you need me, call," James insisted. "We’ll be waiting."

Lily grabbed the phone. "Remus, listen, sweetheart. Whatever happens, do not give up. Hear me? Sirius will be fine. You have to believe that. Go get a drink—a shot of whiskey might be a good idea. If not, get some tea and concentrate on breathing deeply and staying calm. Do you understand?"

"Yeah."

"Now, do as I tell you. All right?"

"Okay, Lily."

James snatched the phone back. "Call us the minute you hear anything—or when you just need us. We’re here for you, Remus."

"Thanks, Prongs." He sounded vague, but at least he didn’t sound quite as panicked as he had earlier.

James could hear someone talking loudly in the background.

"Gotta go," Remus said suddenly—and he disconnected.

James placed the phone gently back into its base.

Lily threw herself at him, "Oh, James! This can’t possibly be happening to him again! And he’s all alone—"

"I could get Gideon Prewett to take the trial for me. He’s put as much work into it as I have. I could probably be there by noon his time—"

"You can’t miss that trial," Lily asserted. "Your partnership rides on that trial, and you know it."

"Then, we just sit and wait," James sighed. He pounded the mattress with his fist. "I hate waiting!"

"I do have an idea," she said thoughtfully.

*

Remus stepped up to the table. "Sirius Black," he said hoarsely.

The man sitting at the table flipped back to the first page and ran his finger down the list of names.

"Black. Black, Norma. Black, Sirius. Here we go—"

Remus heard the man’s words, but it was as if he were underwater. They didn’t seem to make sense at first. "Could you repeat that?"

The blonde woman from before suddenly appeared at his elbow. "He made it, honey. He’s in the hospital, but he’s made it."

*

"Remus?" He could have slept through the whisper, but he couldn’t ignore the light shaking of his shoulder. He could also no longer ignore the fact that the plastic of the couch in the hospital waiting room was undeniably hard and uncomfortable. Reluctantly, he opened his eyes.

The red hair and green eyes of Lily Potter were unmistakeable.

"Lily?" With a stifled groan at the stiffness in his muscles, he sat up. "What are you doing here?"

"I’m here for you and Sirius," she said, still in a whisper.

Without a word, he threw his arms around her neck, pulling her down on the couch beside him.

"James had that all-important trial starting today or he would be here," Lily said, stroking the back of his head. "I thought you wouldn’t mind some company though."

"You have no idea how wonderful it is that you’re here," he breathed in her ear.

She just held him for a few minutes, feeling his tension ease. "How is he?"

Remus shook his head. "He has some broken bones. They’ll have to operate soon and pin his leg back together. He banged his head, though, and that’s preventing them from doing the operation now. They haven’t said as much, but I can tell they’re worried about his head injury."

"Can we see him?"

Remus glanced at the clock. "They told me to come back at six o’clock. They were going to make him a bit more presentable, and there’s a chance they’ll be moving him into another room."

"You look knackered. Have you gotten any sleep at all?"

"A little, now and again. All rather involuntary," he admitted.

"Have you eaten anything today?" Lily quickly and accurately interpreted the sheepish expression on the man’s face. "Let’s go, then. I know I could do with a bite."

A short time later, they found themselves at a small table in the corner of the cafeteria.

Lily took a bite of mashed potatoes and grimaced. "Have you talked to him?" she asked, reaching for the salt.

"What with his head injury and the drugs, he’s only been awake once or twice. The couple of things he did say didn’t make much sense," Remus said. He paused to take a bite of chicken. "He looked at me and seemed to know who I was."

Lily smiled and reached out to touch his arm. "I think Sirius would know you before anybody else."

Remus froze, mid-chew, feeling a flutter of nervousness. He wasn’t sure what James and Lily knew, but Sirius had never been able to keep his mouth shut about anything. There was a good chance he’d told them about the new chapter—and there was an even better chance that the Potters knew why Sirius had been coming to see him. "Why do you say that?" he asked cautiously.

"Remus, don’t be absurd," Lily chided him. "Are you really so daft that you think we don’t know how you two feel about each other?"

The writer ducked his head, lowering his eyes to his plate. "I really don’t know how he feels."

Lily rolled her eyes. "Don’t be ridiculous."

Remus took a sip of his soft drink and regarded her with wary blue eyes. He could see warmth and acceptance in Lily’s expression, but he didn’t know if James or Peter felt the same. If he asked, then there would be no going back. He’d be acknowledging his feelings, and to do that would be to concede a thousand mistakes. It was one of the most difficult things he could do, and his heart was pounding loudly as he drew in a breath to speak. "Lily—"

She smiled at him invitingly.

"Lily—" He couldn’t seem to say the words that his heart was forming.

"Tell me, Remus."

He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, Lily was still smiling at him. "I’ve wanted him for a very long time," he finally admitted softly, his voice cracking the tiniest bit. With his confession, his heart seemed to swell in his chest, preventing him from breathing properly. I’ve done it. I’ve said it, and I can’t take it back. He forced himself to inhale, and felt his heart return to normal.

"Why didn’t you ever tell him?" Lily asked.

He shook his head and picked up his fork to absently push the kernels of corn around his plate. "He didn’t seem interested in me, and I wasn’t going to destroy the friendship we had by bringing it up."

"He did," Lily pointed out.

"It was too late by then," Remus said with a sigh. "I couldn’t leave Dora practically standing at the altar. She didn’t deserve that." Again, his heart filled his chest, leaving him short of breath. "I did a horrible thing, Lily. I treated her so badly."

"No, you didn’t," Lily contradicted him firmly. "You were very good to her. You loved her."

"Not enough, though," he said, tossing down the fork. "I thought that by marrying her, by focussing on her, I could forget about Sirius. I was too cowardly to try to start something with him, and too cowardly to end things with her. Then when Teddy was born—" Pain stabbed through him, as it always did when he thought of his son. "I thought it would be all right, you know? It was the perfect life—writing books that were making money, a beautiful wife, an adorable child, a new house—and I thought it would make me happy."

Lily reached out and squeezed his arm reassuringly.

"She knew where my heart was, though," he continued. "Things started to fall apart—hell, they started falling apart within the first six months that we were married. She realised how I felt about him, and nothing I did could change how I felt—or that she knew."

Lily moaned in sympathy and reached for him, wrapping her arms around him so that his head rested on her shoulder. "You didn’t give up on her and your relationship, Remus. You did the best you could."

"If I’d have just tried harder—" He broke off, unwilling to say the rest.

She pulled away from him, but her hands tightened on his shoulders. "What if you had tried harder? Dora wouldn’t have tried to leave you? She wouldn’t have died? You were fighting a losing battle." She stroked the hair above his left ear lightly. "Sweetheart, there was nothing you could have done. She could have sat down and talked things out with you, logically and calmly. She chose to leave while she was angry."

Remus sucked in a sharp breath. "How—?"

"You know that Sirius can’t keep a secret to save his life," Lily said with a small smile. "When he came home from America, he sat down and told us everything."

"Shit," Remus muttered, thinking back to the things he’d told Sirius during his visit.

"It’s a good thing, Remus. We finally understood why you left. It all made sense. You were an idiot, but it all made sense." She leaned forward to kiss him on the cheek to take the sting out of her words. "You’ve got a second chance at love, now, Remus."

Remus shuddered and gently pulled away from her, seeing confusion cross her face. "But, Lily, do I deserve it?"

Her jaw dropped, and she stared at him disbelievingly. "How can you possibly say that?"

He struggled to find words, and the thought, You’re a bloody author; you should be able to speak somewhat intelligently, went through his head. "I had Dora, and that ended so badly—"

"That was not your fault."

"I should have—"

"And maybe I should have had oatmeal for breakfast instead of eggs and bacon," Lily snapped. "Remus, what’s in the past is in the past. You can’t change it. You can only go forward."

He blinked at her, and started to massage his temple with two fingers.

"Stop over-thinking it and just accept it," Lily said firmly. "For Sirius’ sake, if not for your own. Sirius deserves a chance at love and a relationship that can last. God knows enough people have walked out on him because of his feelings for you. He deserves to have you and love you and have that love in return."

"You make it sound so easy," Remus mumbled, feeling slightly numb.

"It’s as easy as you want to make it." Lily sat back and picked her fork back up. "And don’t you dare fuck it up because you feel guilty. If you weren’t supposed to have this chance, would Sirius have lived through a plane crash that’s going to keep him in the States for a few weeks until he recovers enough to travel?"

Remus stared at her wide-eyed for a moment before chuckling. "So, the crash was God’s way of saying, ‘Here you go, Lupin. Have at him’?"

Lily grinned. "Why not? At any rate, I’m glad you have to deal with him and not us. He’s likely to drive you crazy. Don’t you remember what he’s like when he’s sick?"

Remus frowned. "I’m flying back to England with you, I think."

They laughed and returned to their meals for a few minutes. A persistent thought circling Remus’ brain made him clear his throat to catch Lily’s attention. "Is James—okay—with this? And Peter?"

Lily rolled her eyes. "They’re sick of dealing with him, too. They’re tired of hearing all about his unrequited love. So, requite it, already."

"There’s no such word as ‘requite’."

"Then why does ‘unrequited’ exist?"

Remus chuckled. "God, you sound like James. Now I see what fifteen years of being with someone will do to you."

Lily slapped him on the arm. "In fifteen years, it’ll be you saying idiotic things that we would normally expect from Sirius."

"You think we’ll—?"

"I know," she said resolutely.

***

The machines beeped and hissed as they constantly monitored Sirius’ vital signs and helped his broken body maintain a state of equilibrium.

The dark-haired man had occasionally awakened in the past day and a half, but never for long and never with any kind of comprehension. Lily could tell by the dark circles beneath Remus’ eyes and the tightness of the skin over his cheekbones that the waiting was starting to wear him down. All the same, he refused to leave the room for any extended period of time. He’d even slept in the chair beside Sirius’ bed at night, instead of doing as Lily did: staying at the hotel one block away.

Lily checked her watch and added five hours to account for the time difference to London. "Remus? Would you like something to drink?" she asked, opening her wallet and pulling out some dollar bills. "I thought I’d go call the kids and stop at the vending machines."

The author barely glanced away from the unconscious man. "That would be nice," he said softly.

She stood up and edged around the bottom of the bed toward the door. "I’ll be right—"

"Lily, he’s waking up again."

Remus’ harsh whisper made her stop in her tracks, but as much as Lily wanted to go to Sirius’ side, she didn’t. Her eyes went to Remus, and her breath caught in her throat. The man’s face was taut with concern, but there was so much love in the blue eyes...

Sirius’ eyelashes fluttered open, and he slowly turned his head toward the man anxiously leaning toward him. There was immediate recognition once Sirius’ gaze sharpened.

"Remus." The whisper was barely heard.

"Sirius." Remus’ voice broke on the last syllable.

The injured man’s lips curved into a gentle smile. "You’re here."

"Where else would I be?"

Lily swallowed hard, feeling tears rise in her eyes. Remus’ tone was tender, every word a caress.

"Was comin’... to see you."

"About my book?"

Sirius laboriously raised his hand to touch Remus’ cheek with his fingertips. "No. Wanted t’ say... love you."

Remus took Sirius’ hand between both of his.

Lily covered her mouth with her hands, ignoring the fact that one hand still clutched the dollar bills. Say it, Remus. Say it!

And then he did: "I love you, too, Sirius."

She watched as Remus leaned over and pressed his lips to Sirius’ forehead.

They were oblivious to her departure.

********

Sirius carefully eased his way through the throng of shoppers, occasionally glancing down at the pastries that were precariously balanced on the tops of the two Styrofoam cups. He got more than one angry glance and heard more than one person mutter, "He doesn’t think he’s getting to the front before us, does he?"

I’m already ahead of you all, so whinge all you’d like. He couldn’t help the smirk that spread itself across his face.

"Excuse us, love," Sirius said to another woman who was clutching a book so tightly it seemed her fingernails were making dents in the cover.

She gave him the once-over then curled her lip in disdain. "Who are you? I’ve been waiting in line for an hour, and—"

"I’m Jasper’s Terry," Sirius said with a grin and a wink. While she stood there debating exactly what he meant, he slipped past her.

Fortunately, the book shop owner had been watching for him and managed to convince the people at the front of the queue to let him pass without incident. Sirius slid the pastry onto the table next to Remus’ left elbow and placed one of the cups next to it.

"Tea, three sugars, a bit of cream," he announced, "and something unbelievably sweet and sticky."

Remus glanced up from the book he’d been signing and gave Sirius a quick smile. "You have no idea how much I love you right now."

Sirius waited until the woman in front of them was gone and the next person was shuffling forward before bending down and whispering, "Maybe you can prove it to me later. I can think of something sweet and sticky..."

The left side of Remus’ lips started to rise, but he merely reached for the book that the next person was handing to him, asking, "What name would you like on here?"

"Michael. And can I say, Mr Wolfe, that Bright Moon was very inspirational to me."

Sirius hid a smile by taking a sip of his coffee. Whenever a man claimed Remus’ fourth book had been ‘very inspirational’, it typically meant it had convinced him to come out of the closet. Remus hadn’t intended for his book to become such a catalyst, but it had, especially when he finally made his relationship with Sirius known in an article for Writer’s Point of View a year ago. The irony that it was the magazine that had led Sirius to find Remus again was not lost on either of the two men.

"I hope you found someone special," Remus commented, finishing his signature with a flourish.

"I did," the young man on the other side of the table replied, almost shyly.

Remus handed the book back to him with a smile. "Good luck, then."

Sirius settled back in the folding chair next to Remus. "Good news: you’ve only got fifty more books to sign."

"Then we can go home."

Sirius heard the longing tone. It had been a long three months, making appearances at bookstores, libraries, and universities throughout the UK, promoting the seventh book of the ‘Moon’ series. "Two months of peace and quiet before we’re off again," Sirius reminded him.

"Why did I agree to let them make movies out of these books?" Remus grumbled, reaching for the next book.

"To get more money to keep me in the style to which I’ve become accustomed," Sirius teased.

The author said nothing, though the corner of his mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile, but wasn’t going to give Sirius the satisfaction. Sirius sat back and watched his lover interacting with his adoring readers. He was unfailingly patient—more than Sirius was. By the time the line had dwindled to eight people (by Sirius’ count), Sirius was fidgeting and making no attempt to hide the fact that he was ready to leave.

He sighed mightily, and Remus cast a stern look his way.

The girl who was in front of Remus bit her lip with uncertainty at the dark-haired man’s sign of impatience, but then recognition lit up her eyes. "You’re Sirius."

Both Remus and Sirius looked up in surprise.

"Do we know each other?" Sirius asked cautiously.

The girl blushed. "I read the article in Writer’s Point of View. I thought you two looked—cute—together."

Sirius leaned over and draped his arm over Remus’ shoulder. "Cute? We’re bloody adorable." He grinned at the sudden profusion of cameras and camera phones, knowing that Remus’ grin would be forced.

"Would you mind signing my book, too?" the girl asked, pushing it in Sirius’ direction.

The two men looked at each other. Sirius could see the gleam of amusement in Remus’ blue eyes and knew that the only thing that could be seen on his face was confusion.

He turned his eyes back to the girl. "Me?"

"If you don’t mind, Mr Wolfe..." she said hurriedly.

"I don’t mind at all," Remus said, holding the pen out to Sirius.

"I think you’re one of the most romantic couples I’ve ever read about," the girl opined.

"Only because you don’t have to deal with his snoring," Remus muttered.

"Or his cooking," Sirius shot back, grinning. Their eyes met and under the table, Remus’ hand fell on Sirius’ knee, squeezing lightly. Trying to disregard the sudden rush of lust through his veins, the editor signed his name, not caring if some of his letters intertwined with those in Remus’ name. After all, the two of them were quite often intertwined themselves...

He closed the book, his eyes rising to meet Remus’. "You realise we have to stay together now. Otherwise, she’ll have to tear my name out of here, and it would be a shame to do that to a defenceless book."

Remus chuckled. "Together for life, if only for the book’s sake, then."

They grinned at each other, knowing they probably looked like fools, but not caring.

"Mr Wolfe, is it true you won’t be writing another ’Moon’ book?" the girl asked, interrupting their moment.

Remus straightened and handed the book back to her. "No. Seven of them are enough. It’s time to move in another direction, I think."

Sirius smiled, thinking of the eleven files on Remus’ laptop filled with the chapters of his next book.

"But what about Terry and Jasper? Will they be all right?"

Remus’ eyebrows rose slightly, and he turned his head to look at Sirius. "I think Terry’s the best thing that ever happened to Jasper. He helps Jasper to not take things too seriously. They laugh and find joy in one another. Terry’s the light that Jasper needs when life is dark. I don’t think Jasper’s going to allow Terry to go any time soon. What did you think, Sirius?"

Sirius rested his forearm on Remus’ shoulder, leaning in closer so that their noses were almost touching, and Remus couldn’t help but see how confident he was in his reply. "I know that Jasper is Terry’s rock. He’s dependable and strong but above all, he reminds Terry that life has to have substance, or it’s nothing more than smoke and mirrors. There will be tears and sorrow in life, and Terry knows he would never want to go through those dark times without the solidity that Jasper brings to him. No, I don’t think Terry and Jasper could do without each other."

"You know that’s how Terry feels, do you?" Remus whispered.

Sirius nodded once. "Absolutely."

Unexpectedly, Remus leaned in closer to brush a light kiss on Sirius’ lips, something he rarely did in public. Then he looked back up at the girl, who was watching them with an awestruck expression. "I think Terry and Jasper will be fine," he said, his blue eyes dancing with joy.