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Chapter Text

Remus Lupin wakes up, and immediately wishes he hadn’t.  The first thing he sees is grey–not the beautiful, grey eyes that sometimes wink at him in his sleep, but the dank, concrete walls, condensation pooling from the bitter wind blowing from the sea.  And he hurts –not like he did before, when his bones creaked and pulled in time with the moon, but he could be distracted from it, when he had love and light and friendship in his life that eased the constant pain.  Now, he feels it the moment he wakes.  Sharp, shooting pains–in his left hip, in his ribs, in his skull, in his heart.  

The moons are worse now, in every way.  He is stuck in his cell, and the wolf is angry.  The wolf misses his pack; he grieves his pack, and he throws himself against the concrete walls despite the soft crunch of bones on impact.  He gnaws at his paws and scratches his face and tries his very best to kill his pathetic human host that lost everything he’d ever held dear.  

A Healer usually comes, after the moons.  He is short, and bald, and thin, and he says nothing to the half dozen werewolves housed in the Dark Creatures Ward of Azkaban when he seals their bleeding wounds and heals the most gruesome fractures (without pain potions, of course, only enough healing to keep them alive).  He leaves the non-life-threatening wounds to fester, which Remus isn’t used to–or at least not before the seven moons that he has spent in this place.  He used to wake after the moon to healing spells whispered in the dark, an ebony wand lovingly tracing scratches the wolf had left behind.  He used to wake to mugs of extra sweet tea under a stasis charm, or freshly wrapped bandages, or soft kisses in the mid-morning light.  

So Remus’s body quickly deteriorates.  Not as quickly as he wishes, as he yearns every day, every hour, for his body to finally fail him.  But it is more noticeable.  His breaths come heavier, wheezing through some sort of infection deep in his lungs.  He finds it harder to stand, to pace the seven steps down and four steps across his dank cell.  He feels dizzy, constantly, probably a side-effect of the silver-plated bars holding him inside.  Or maybe it is the starvation—he can feel each of the ridges of his ribs on his front and his back, and his hip bones jut out to an alarming degree.  He is fed once daily, in the afternoons, a slop of ground mystery meat and potatoes, shoved through the bars in a shallow bowl with no utensils, requiring him to eat either with his hands or like a dog.  He still eats, dutifully, because it takes a very long time to kill a werewolf by starvation, so he doesn’t feel that he is meaningfully delaying the inevitable by trying to ease the aching hunger.  

Now, he is two days past the moon.  He lays on a threadbare mattress, directly on the ground, that has gruesome chunks bitten out from the wolf.  And he assesses, as he does every morning, how much longer he thinks his body can hold out before it finally succumbs to the stresses of the wolf.  He clocks the infection—not worse than yesterday, seemingly, but still causing hacking, painful coughs every few minutes, though no blood has come up yet.  His ribs are probably cracked, but are not broken, and he doesn’t seem to have any open wounds that could become infected.  Remus sighs, disappointed.  When they sent him to Azkaban, in lieu of a quick and painless death by silver bullet, an Auror had given him a wicked grin and informed him, delightedly, that he had never known a werewolf to survive in Azkaban more than six months.  He’s seen it firsthand—the inmate across the hall from him, who had only been in Azkaban for one month—had died the moon before last, had clawed through the artery in his neck during the initial transformation and bled out in his wolf form.  

(Remus, of course, envies the man, and his relatively quick demise, though if he could choose—and he knows he can’t, because when has he ever had a choice—he wouldn’t want to die in his wolf form.  He wants to die—and be buried—as a man, and he worries that if he dies as a wolf, his soul may not find the souls that he so desperately wants to be reunited with.)  

But somehow, again, Remus has defied all expectations associated with werewolves.  He has survived seven months, with nothing but his thoughts and his regrets to keep him company.  The dementors don’t come to the Dark Creatures Ward as often as they patrol the others—werewolves have higher resistance to dementors, for some reason, so dementors can’t feast as openly on their despair.  But Remus’s worst memories still play on a loop, he still feels a constant, aching grief in his chest, and maybe it’s the residual magic of the dementors or maybe it’s just that every good thing in his life has been subsumed by what has happened.  He only sees the good memories in his dreams, and only snippets:  a bark of genuine laughter, a black dog weaving between his legs, tail wagging, a little boy with wild black hair thrown in the air, shrieking “PAFU,” emerald eyes crinkling with a smile.  He used to try to cling to the memories when he woke up, but now he doesn’t, because it hurts too much.  

When it all threatens to overwhelm him, he begins listing dark creatures that he studied in school, remembering their attributes, their habitats, their powers.  It is a neutral memory—simple recitation, distraction, and it helps the time pass.  Sometimes he will remember historical events.   He used to recite spells, but his fingers twitched with repressed magic and he felt the loss of his wand like a missing limb, so now he has stopped.  

This morning, after cataloging his health (he thinks that, by the next moon, his lungs will be weakened to the point that he could fail to resume breathing when he transforms back into a human, which leaves him with a vague sense of optimism), he tries to remember details from the Third Goblin Rebellion, and pushes away a memory of a beautiful boy turning to him in History of Magic, a blinding smile on his face, whispering “you little swot.”  

By early afternoon, Remus has recalled all the details he can remember, has pushed himself to his feet and paced the cell until he felt too dizzy to stand, and has lain back down on his mattress.  A productive day , he thinks wryly, as he counts the scratches on the wall facing him. 

His ears pick at the sound of a guard stomping down the hallway—a wizard, not a dementor—which is a relatively rare occurrence in the Dark Creatures Ward unless a new inmate has been sentenced.  Between the silver bars and the various runes carved into the walls to contain the creatures within, the ward requires little supervision.  Unlike the general population of Azkaban, the prisoners here are never permitted to leave their cells to go outside, they are served one meal a day, and they are, almost exclusively, slated to die in Azkaban.  

Remus jolts a bit in surprise when the guard stops at his cell.  “Lupin,” he barks, and Remus slowly pushes himself upright, into a sitting position.  He recognizes this guard—Marks, he thinks is his name—but he’s never spoken to Remus.  He is a large man, nearly as tall as Remus and twice as broad, with a thick mustache and a surly expression.  He looks repulsed by Remus, which Remus supposes is fair, given the way he must look.  

“Yes?”   Remus tries to say, but his voice is wrecked from disuse and the strain of the moons, so it comes out more as a wordless rasp.  

“You need to come with me,” the guard says.  

“What?”  Remus croaks, confused.  He has not left his cell since he was locked in seven months ago, hasn’t even spoken to another person, even the other inmates in his ward, none of whom are the same men that were here when he arrived.  

“Get up,” Marks demands.  “I won’t ask you twice, you mangy werewolf.” 

Remus rolls his eyes, wondering if this petty man thinks that Remus is insulted.  Remus has lost his entire life, has lost everything he ever loved, has been beaten and tortured, has killed people —he’s hardly phased by a schoolboy taunt.  He hauls himself upright, idly wondering whether they’ve finally decided to execute him since he hasn’t died yet.  

“Stand at the back of the cell, with your legs spread and your hands against the wall,” Marks orders, drawing his wand and training it between Remus’s eyes.  He obeys.  A docile, trained, werewolf , he thinks.  He hears the cell door open for the first time in seven months and doesn’t even contemplate trying to escape. “I am going to put restraints on you, now.”  

He hooks heavy iron shackles around Remus’s ankles, bound together with a silver chain.  Remus immediately feels some of the strength drain from him at the presence of silver, though he supposes he should be grateful that the shackles themselves aren’t silver like they were when he was first arrested—the burns had been so deep that they had almost exposed his wrist bones.  After his ankles are secure, the guard roughly shoves him around, and pulls his wrists down in front of him, binding them with iron cuffs that link to the chain between his legs.  Finally, the guard pulls out an iron mask—which, Remus realizes with a sinking feeling, is a crude image of a wolf.  It is a muzzle, in effect, that fits over his nose and mouth, and buckles behind his head and neck, allowing him to talk but not bite. The mask has a hook at the front of his neck, where the guard has hooked another chain to pull him along.  A leash.  He sighs at the irony.  He has tried his whole life to be more human than wolf, but of course they won’t give him that dignity in what he assumes will be his last moments.  

The man yanks at the chain around Remus’s neck, and he stumbles forward, caught off-balance and falling hard onto his knees.  “GET UP,” the guard shouts, and Remus stands shakily again.  He begins to walk behind the guard, focusing all of his energy on staying upright.  He realizes, idly, that he should be scared, or anxious, or curious, at the very least, but he is not.  He doesn’t care where he is going.  He has absolutely nothing left to lose. 

He is taken down the hall, down a dank, spiral staircase, down a second hall, where he feels the familiar chill of dementors, and then through a large, iron door with a barred window.  As he walks into the room, his hand instinctively fly to his face at the bright, artificial light, his pupils restricting painfully and eyes squeezing shut.  As his eyes struggle to adjust, he is thrown into a metal chair, his ankles chained to the ground and his wrists chained to a table in front of him.  

“You have an hour,” Marks says gruffly, but Remus does not think it is addressed to him.  “If he gives you any trouble, or if you finish early, ring that bell in front of you.”  The person doesn’t respond, but must give some indication of understanding, because Remus hears the heavy door close behind him.  

He cautiously squints his eyes, letting the world slowly come into focus.  He takes a deep breath, trying to center himself, and then…and then.  And then—his senses are completely overcome by his scent.  The scent he knew better than his own.  Leather, and lemongrass, and a spicy, indefinable magic.  The smell assaults him, shocks him, and his eyes fly open and find a dead man sitting across from him.  

“Hullo, Moony,” says Sirius Black.

Chapter Text

Eight Months Earlier

Remus runs through the halls of St. Mungo’s at a full sprint.  He tries to swallow the panic that builds at every step, every second since he had received the owl from Dumbledore only ten minutes ago.  “ Mr. Black has been located,” the terse note said in Dumbledore’s looping handwriting. “His injuries are severe, and he is being taken to St. Mungo’s for treatment.”  

Sirius has been missing for nearly a month—three weeks, six days, and eighteen hours, to be precise, because the time ticks constantly in Remus’s head, each passing minute seeming to chip away at the possibility of finding him alive and well, or even alive and injured.  Remus, of course, had not been there when he went missing.  He had been with Greyback’s pack in the North, cozying up to some of the most brutal werewolves he had ever met to try to gather snippets of information about the Death Eaters that he could report to the Order.  The irony—the horrible, agonizing irony—is that he had learned of a Death Eater ambush for the Order, from a low-level supporter of Voldemort who was visiting the packs and bragging about his conquests.  And Remus had done what he was supposed to do, and sent a coded message through a magical cipher that Dumbledore had made special for him.  He, of course, had not known that the love of his life would be the subject of the ambush, he had not known that the critical information would arrive a half hour too late, after Sirius and Caradoc Dearborn had already departed for the scouting mission, making it impossible for anyone in the Order to warn them in time.  

Remus has been beside himself with worry, and anger, and guilt, his last words with Sirius playing on a loop in his head.  Sirius had been angry (Sirius was always angry, these days), because Remus was leaving again, and wouldn’t tell Sirius where he was going.  Remus had rolled his eyes, dismissed Sirius’s concerns.  “You know we’re in a war, Sirius,” he snapped.  “ Grow up , and stop acting like a spoiled little boy who needs to know every little thing.”  

Sirius had scoffed.  “I’m not asking you for details , Remus,” he had retorted.  “I want to know where my boyfriend is going every month when he comes back bloody and beaten and fucking traumatized , but you refuse to tell me!  You just leave me here, again and again, and keep pushing me away .”

“I’m not pushing you away,” Remus had lied, “Dumbledore told me I couldn’t tell anyone about the missions.  You know there is a spy!” 

“I AM NOT ANYONE,” Sirius had yelled.  “What, do you think I’m the spy?”  

“You told Snape I was a werewolf,” Remus had said, coldly, and then immediately regretted it.  The color drained from Sirius’s face, and he didn’t look angry anymore.  He looked pained, he looked betrayed. Remus had sworn, a few years ago, that he forgave Sirius, wholly, and would not hold it against him ever again. Another lie.  

“Oh, fuck you,” he had hissed.  “Fuck you for using that against me, you absolute fucking prick.”  

“I didn’t mean…” Remus began.  And he didn’t mean it.  He didn’t think Sirius was the spy, and he wasn’t keeping the details of his missions from him because he was worried about a leak.  He was keeping the details of his missions from Sirius because they were awful , and dehumanizing , and made Remus feel dirty and used.  And he was ashamed, and he knew that Sirius would react with horror, and pity, and anger, and demand that he stopped.  Remus couldn’t handle that, because he knew that Sirius’s concern, his love, would crumble Remus’s flagging resolve.  

“I know exactly what you meant.”  Sirius had been standing in front of the door, trying to block Remus from leaving for the mission until he talked to him.  But then he stood aside, and walked past Remus, back into the warmth of their flat.  

“You know,” Sirius said casually, in a tone that set off warnings in Remus’s mind, “Everyone thinks you’re the spy.  You’re always gone, and when you’re back, you’re irritable and evasive.  I heard Moody asking Dumbledore whether he thought you were more wolf than man these days.”  His voice had lowered to a hiss.  “Everyone knows you’re doing something with the werewolves, even though you won’t tell anyone what.  And they’re questioning your loyalty.” 

Remus had felt his heart sink at that.  Of course it looked suspicious, and of course no one would trust the werewolf.  Everyone else went on missions with a partner, worked with other members of the Order for stakeouts, or raids, or patrols.  Not Remus, though.  He was sent, alone, to the most dangerous parts of the country.  He reported only to Dumbledore.  And maybe he was more wolf than man, right now.  He certainly felt less human when he was home, felt like he was playing house instead of living with Sirius.  He felt raw and brittle all the time. 

“I think they may be right,” Sirius had continued.  “I don’t trust you, Remus.  You clearly don’t trust me.  I have no idea why the fuck we’re even doing this anymore.”  

Remus had felt hurt, and anger, and sadness.  But he had a mission—he had to meet with his contact in less than an hour, and then leave until the end of the moon.  

“I have to go, Sirius,” he said cooly, pushing his roiling emotions aside.  He hadn’t even turned around to look at Sirius again, to see his beautiful, grey eyes, always filled with concern, these days, or his silky black hair, uncharacteristically messy from running his fingers through it, or his soft, pink lips drawn together in an inevitable frown.  He hadn’t thought he would be able to walk away from Sirius, if he looked at him, because every instinct in his body wanted to rush to him and take him in his arms, to remind Sirius that he is Remus’s.  So he didn’t.  He had walked out the door, joined the pack, and hadn’t seen Sirius since.  

He has been out of his mind.  He went to James’s house, the first night after he found out Sirius was gone, and got belligerently drunk on a full bottle of firewhiskey.  He tried to tell James everything—well, almost everything—about their fight, about their problems, about whether he wasn’t sure that Sirius knew how much he loved him.  But James was devastated, nearly catatonic with worry, and Lily kept glancing over at him as he looked blankly ahead.  So Remus had vented to Peter, who also was over that night.  “He’ll come back,” Peter had assured Remus, “You’ll be able to tell him everything.”  Remus had sobbed—deep, heaving sobs like he hadn’t since his mother had died—and Peter had rubbed his back until he’d fallen into a fitful sleep.

Since then, Remus has thrown himself into work, desperately trying to get some intel about where Sirius could be.  He has flitted from pack to pack, questioned anyone who has been known to associate with Death Eaters or other Voldemort supporters.  He knows that Greyback and others are getting suspicious.  He had, before, kept his questions subtle, had mostly observed and listened.  But now, in his desperation, he tries to pull information from anyone he comes across.  Once, he hears that Voldemort has kept some high-value prisoners alive and is torturing them for information.  But the young Snatcher who he heard this from doesn’t know where, and doesn’t know any more information, and Remus ends up Obliviating him so he won’t remember the questioning, or the furious hexes that Remus had used when he didn't give him any useful answers. 

It is, fortunately, on one of his few days in the flat that Dumbledore’s note arrives, so he is able to quickly arrive at the hospital.  In the lobby of the Spell Damage ward, he sees James—James, who has been in hiding for the last four months, James, who has not left his house for anything.  And his stomach sinks with dread, because Sirius must be in bad shape if Dumbledore thought it necessary for James to come as well. 

When Remus skids to a halt before James, he tries to catch his breath.  “Where is he,” he gasps.  

“Mr. Lupin,” Dumbledore says from behind him.  He whirls around to face the man, whose lined face is grave.  His expression is incongruous with the baby pink robes with silver stars that he is wearing.  “Mr. Potter received a call on his mirror this morning, which he shares with Mr. Black.”  Remus, of course, knows of the mirrors that the two have shared since Fifth Year to communicate with each other.  At one point, he was horribly jealous that Sirius would spend hours chatting with James about inane things on that stupid mirror.  The jealousy had faded once he and Sirius had gotten together, once Sirius began sharing the most intimate details of his life with Remus, but Sirius still used the mirror all the time.  Even more once James went into hiding. 

“I couldn’t see him,” James choked, “and his voice was really hoarse.  But he told me he was at a safehouse, and gave me the location.  I thought it might be a trap, so I told Albus.”  James, with the easy confidence of a well-loved pureblood, fell naturally into calling his professors by their first names after they had left Hogwarts.  

“He was there,” Albus continued, “but he was unconscious, and has suffered serious spell damage.  Cruciatus, at minimum, and invasive Legilimacy to try to break into his mind.”  Remus falls into a chair, gripping the armrest tightly.  James walks over to him, and rests his hand on his shoulder.  “He also is malnourished, and has several healed wounds that suggest he lost a lot of blood.”  

“But…” Remus’s voice catches, and he clears his throat.  “But he is alive?”  

“The Healers have stabilized him,” Dumbledore says quietly.  “But his magical core is drained, and his body has undergone so much stress that his organs have begun to fail.  They do not know yet whether he will survive until the morning.”

Remus clasps a hand over his mouth, and stifles a sob.  James’s grip on his shoulder turns painful, and Remus leans into the pain, trying to let it ground him.  “Can…can I see him?”  

“Yes,” Dumbledore says.  “He is permitted one visitor at a time.”  

After a few minutes, a Mediwitch leads Remus behind the swinging door into the ward, leading him to the end of the hall.  His stomach churns with anxiety.  They approach a door at the end of the hall, when the Mediwitch turns to Remus.  “I will warn you, son, that he does not look good,” she says kindly.  She is a middle-aged woman, short and stout, with kind, blue eyes brimming with sympathy.  “And he is unconscious, but you should talk to him anyway.  Patients always do better when their loved ones talk to them.”  

Remus nods, unable to say anything in return.  The Mediwitch opens the door, and he immediately sees Sirius’s prone form.  He gasps, first, because they—either the Healers or whoever had him before—have shaved his head, and his black hair lays patchy on his head.  He has a breathing charm hovering over his mouth and nose, his chest rising and falling in time with the pulsing blue orb.  Sirius is always pale, but his skin is usually ivory, smooth as porcelain, easy to blush.  Now it is sallow, nearly translucent, his blue veins apparent even from where Remus stands at the door.  He cautiously approaches, and sees Sirius’s hands trembling slightly, tremors from the Cruciatus curse.  A swoop of anger, and then horror, overtakes him as he imagines the pain that Sirius must have felt, the amount of time he must have been under the curse for the tremors to continue while he is completely unconscious.  He sits beside Sirius, and cautiously, so gently, takes his trembling hand between both of his own—his hand is frigid, and Remus rubs his hands together softly to try and warm it.  Remus is six inches taller than Sirius, and his hands are significantly larger—his paws, Sirius sometimes calls them, affectionately. 

“Oh, Pads,” he whispers, softly.  “Oh darling.”  His eyes fill with tears, and he stifles a sob.  “You’re beautiful, you know?  I’ve missed you, so much.”  He removes one hand, and places it over Sirius’s head, using his thumb to gently caress at the furrow between Sirius’s brow.  

“I’m so sorry,” he says, letting a tear drop onto the white sheets.  He isn’t willing to remove either of his hands to wipe his tears now that he is finally touching Sirius.  “For what happened to you, of course, but also for how we left things.  I was with the werewolves, like you said—with Greyback.  It’s been awful, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you.  I was…well, I’ll tell you all about it when you’re awake, but I promise I won’t keep anything else from you.  And I’m sorry I left you alone—I trust you, more than anything.  More than anyone.  I love you, Gods, Sirius, I love you so much.”  

He sobs again, and lowers his face onto Sirius’s shoulder, which is clad in a scratchy hospital gown.  He would hate the fabric, if he were awake, so Remus releases Sirius’s hand, pulls out his wand, and casts a gentle softening charm at the fabric—one that Sirius has used countless times on the mornings after full moons, when scratchy blankets or sweaters irritate the raw, sensitive skin that has stretched and reformed itself into a human form.  “Is that better?”  He asks, just like Sirius does after the moons, and just like Sirius does, he doesn’t wait for an answer, but gently kisses the side of his head.  He inhales the familiar, leathery, lemony scent of Sirius, still there, beneath the antiseptic hospital smell, and lets it wash over him and smooth his jagged edges. 

“When you wake up,” he says, “We’re taking a break.  From all of this.  We’ll go to Australia, or America, or maybe to the Caribbean.  You’ve always said you can tan, but I’ve never seen it.”  He traces his thumb over Sirius’s eyebrow, his cheekbone, the curve of his ear.  He wants, so desperately, to see those grey eyes crinkle in recognition.  “I’ll even wear a swimsuit,” he whispers.  “I know you’ve always wanted to see me in a swimsuit.”  He feels desperate, making fantastical promises to Sirius, but he means them.  He wants to take Sirius away, hide him far from the fighting, keep him safe until the war is over.  He wants to be done —they are twenty-one years old, and they are exhausted, and he never, ever wants to see Sirius hurt like this again.  

He doesn’t know how long it lasts, sitting with Sirius, detailing the grand vacation that they will take when Sirius wakes up.  But, eventually, the Mediwitch interrupts him with a gentle knock on the door.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Lupin,” she says, “but Mr. Potter was hoping he could have a chance to visit before he has to return home.”  

Remus jolts.  He had forgotten about James, forgotten that he is supposed to be in hiding.  He is struck, for the first time, how much danger they are in, exposed at St. Mungo’s.  “Of course,” he says, wiping his eyes.  The Mediwitch politely steps outside, giving Remus another moment.   “I love you, Sirius,” he says.  “I’ll be right outside, all night.  Nothing else will happen to you while I’m here, I promise.  I love you,” he says again, so that it will be the last thing Sirius hears before he leaves.  He kisses Sirius’s forehead again, stands, and leaves. 

James spends a half hour with Sirius, and reappears in the waiting room with red-rimmed eyes.  He embraces Remus, and Remus sags into his strong arms.  “He’ll be okay, Moons,” James whispers.  Remus just nods. 

Everyone but Remus leaves for the night.  Dumbledore tries to convince him to go home, since no more visitors will be allowed until morning, and they have stationed an auror at Sirius’s door for protection, but Remus flatly refuses.  Instead, he sits in the hard, uncomfortable chair of the waiting room, staring into a styrofoam cup of lukewarm tea, for hours.  He finally dozes off at around three o’clock in the morning, until he jerks awake, startled, two hours later.  

The Mediwitch had said that he could visit again in the morning, and he supposes that it is morning, technically, so he goes to the overnight receptionist to ask to go back.  His eyes are a bit glassy, likely exhausted, like Remus, but he looks confused when Remus asks to see Sirius.  “Can I go back there?”  Remus asks again, and the receptionist just shrugs, which Remus finds odd.  He pushes through the swinging door, and feels unsettled by the silence of the ward.  As he nears Sirius’s door, he listens for movement, or breathing, or beeping, but hears nothing.  Heart racing, he pushes through the door, and feels a wave of nausea overtake him as he stares at the empty bed.  He can’t breathe, or think, and he grips the doorway to keep himself upright.  “Where—” he starts, whirling around to find someone, anyone.  He sees a Mediwizard down the hall, near the door to reception.  “Hey!” he screams, startling the wizard so badly that he drops his wand, which clatters to the floor with a spray of gold sparks.  “Where is he?”

“Wh-where is who?”  The wizard stammers, eyes wide.

“Sirius Black - he was in this room.”  

“Oh,” the wizard says, comprehension dawning on his face.  “Oh, someone should have told you.”  Remus breathes for a moment, trying to calm himself.  They just moved him in the night, to a new room, maybe.  Somewhere more secure.  Or maybe he is getting tests done, elsewhere in the hospital.  

“He died a few hours ago.”

Remus is falling, falling, falling, and his head cracks on the floor.  Everything goes dark.

Chapter Text

Present Day 

A dead man sits in front of Remus.  The love of Remus’s life sits in front of Remus.  And Remus...Remus can’t speak.  His mind is racing, but can’t land on any one thought, can’t tether his brain to a reality in which it makes sense that Sirius Black is sitting in front of him.  His eyes flit around Sirius’s face, taking it in, drinking in his silver gaze, and snag on the person standing behind Sirius, just for a moment, but he ignores him and turns back to Sirius.  

Sirius’s hair is short—not shorn, like the last time Remus saw him, but shorter than Remus had seen it before. Remus isn’t sure why this is the first place his mind settles.  It looks good, cut shorter on the sides and longer on the top, messy and effortlessly cool, but more reminiscent of Sirius’s brother than Sirius himself.  And…oh.  He has a jolt of realization, because the person standing behind Sirius is Regulus —hair combed to perfection, a fine black robe over a crisp white shirt and charcoal waistcoat.  His black shoes shine against the drab concrete floor, and Remus wonders if they are the most expensive shoes to ever stand where he is standing.  

Okay.  Sirius is dead, Remus knows, but Regulus is also dead.  Regulus died a year before Sirius, surrounded rumors of him fleeing the Death Eaters, and Sirius had vacillated between unbearable, painful grief and guilt, with gasping, heaving sobs that hurt Remus’s chest as he held Sirius close, and anger—in which he’d drink a bottle of firewhiskey and scream at Remus for any number of perceived slights, or curse Regulus to the wind for his poor choices.  

Remus’s mind finally begins to settle, and as he understands what is happening, peace washes over him and a smile—the first time he’s smiled since before Sirius went missing, he thinks—begins to form on his face.  

“Oh, love,” he rasps, and Sirius flinches.  Remus isn’t surprised—he knows how his voice sounds, how the wolf has destroyed his vocal cords.  He wonders if that will improve, now that he is dead.  “I can’t tell you how long I’ve waited to join you.”  

Sirius’s gaze has been stony, impassive, which Remus has not fully registered in the seconds since he’s seen him, but now his brow furrows slightly.  Remus has an urge to smooth the wrinkle away, but he forgets his shackles, which clang loudly.  Sirius flinches again, more violently this time.  He glances behind him, at Regulus, who seems to read something in Sirius’s expression, and takes a step forward.  

“What the fuck does that mean, Lupin?” He says, voice low and dangerous.

Remus is startled by the vitriol, and looks to Sirius again.  Sirius crosses his arms, and smooths his expression again.  

“I…well,” he clears his throat, wincing.  “I’m dead, right?  Or maybe dying?”

“What makes you think that?”  Regulus asks.  Remus wants Sirius to say something, anything, but his face remains stony.  He’s not even sure why Regulus is here.  He would have thought, if Sirius was going to bring a companion to take Remus to the afterlife, he would have brought James.  Assuming he is with James…Remus hopes he is.

“I knew I was close,” Remus says, wondering if this is some sort of test before he can go with them.  “But I thought I would have to wait at least until the next moon.  I—gods, Sirius.  You have no idea how much I fell apart without you.”  

Finally, finally , Sirius speaks.  “I think I know quite well how much you fell apart without me, Lupin.”  His voice is low, silky.  Like Remus remembers, mostly, but he couldn’t ever remember this much venom in his voice.  “Lupin,” he called him.  

“I guess you could see it,” Remus says cautiously, unsure where this is going.  “Are you…are you angry with me?  I understand if you are.”  And he does.  He had pushed Sirius away, he had failed to protect him, he had failed to protect James and Lily—he was an utter failure, and he couldn’t expect Sirius to ignore that, even if he did wish they could discuss those things later, after Remus had a bit longer to drink in Sirius’s appearance.  

Sirius’s expression is first incredulous, and then furious.  Regulus scoffs from behind him, and Remus looks up sharply, annoyed at the intrusion.  

“Am I angry ?”  Sirius hisses, and Remus snaps his gaze back.  “Am I angry that you sold out my best friend to Voldemort, that he and Lily died because of you?”  For the first time, Remus notices his hands, clasped tightly on top of the table, trembling slightly. 

“I…,” Remus is confused and off-balance.  “Are…is James there?  Didn’t he tell you what happened?”  

Sirius’s jaw drops.  “Have you gone fucking insane?”  

Remus finally snaps, too confused to remain polite.  “You’re dead—you and Regulus,” he gestures with his shackled hands, “and I just would have thought you’d be with James and Lily, wherever you are.  And I thought you’d take me with you, because I’m either dead or dying, right?  But if you need me to atone, first, or beg, or explain myself…Sirius I will.  I’ll do anything.  You have no idea…,” his voice breaks, and he suddenly feels buried by the overwhelming, omnipresent grief of the last eight months.  “Just tell me what is going on, please,” he finally whispers, suddenly horrified by the possibility that this is a dream , and Sirius isn’t sitting in front of him, and he is actually curled on the mattress in his cell, living to see another day.  

Sirius looks stricken, but Regulus steps in.  “You’re not dead, Lupin.  You might be close, and Salazer knows you deserve it.”

“But,” Remus begins. 

“We’re not dead either,” Regulus interrupts.  “I rescued Sirius from St. Mungo’s that night.  I had gotten him out of that hell hole, and contacted your Order to save him, and those absolute naive idiots took him to St. Mungo’s where literally any Death Eater could waltz in and finish the job.  So I got him out of there too, and like I should have done in the first place, took care of him myself.  Which was a good fucking thing, since the werewolf who sold my brother out in the first place was napping out in the waiting room.”

Remus freezes, his mind blank.  He hears his traitorously beating heart, pounding in his ears, the steady pump of life-giving blood to the rest of his body.  If he’s dead, he doesn’t need a heartbeat, probably, so that should be a strong indication that he is still alive.  But if he’s not dead, like Regulus says…and should he believe Regulus?  Why is he even here?  If he were hallucinating, which seems like the most logical explanation, why on earth would he be hallucinating Sirius’s younger brother, who he had spoken to maybe a half dozen times total before his death?  He focuses on these, frankly, peripherally important questions, because if Regulus is right that Remus is not dead, then he must face the terrifying possibility that Sirius is alive .  That he’s been alive this whole time .  

He thinks back to the worst day of his life—which, incidentally, is a fairly high bar, given that he has been bitten by a werewolf, betrayed by his friends, thrown in prison for a crime he did not commit, and has seen every person he loves die before him.  He remembers the glassy eyes of the receptionist, the confused Mediwizard, the fact no one had woken him up when it happened.  He hadn’t dwelled on these things, before—because he had woken from unconsciousness screaming and thrashing, and wouldn’t stop until a sobbing James had arrived, wrapping his arms around Remus and forcing Remus’s head into his shoulder, until Remus too had dissolved into sobs so violent that he threw up on a Mediwitch who was trying to give him a calming draught.  It was the last time he had cried.  He hadn’t even cried when he found James and Lily dead at their cottage on Halloween night, so numb with grief and rage that he couldn’t summon tears.  

He realizes this train of thought isn’t helpful at the same time he notices that he has not breathed in…a while.  He tries, but it catches in his throat, a half gasp that burns his lungs.  He’s hyperventilating, which he supposes makes sense, but his head feels light and he can’t seem to force a full breath.  His chest hurts badly, his heartbeat feels erratic, and suddenly he’s gripped with fear that he is having a heart attack, that he is about to die , just as he’s found out that Sirius is alive.  And he can’t appreciate the grim irony of this turn of events because this whole time he has needed to be where Sirius is—so if Sirius lives then Remus must live too, even if it is in Azkaban, even if it is in this horrifying future where so many people he loves have died.  He can’t die now, his body can’t betray him now.  

His eyes search for Sirius’s, because if he is going to die then at least Sirius’s grey eyes will be the last thing he sees.  Sirius looks worried, and pained, and seems to be saying something that Remus can’t hear, but he wishes he could, he really does.  

Suddenly, Remus feels a light squeeze, and realizes that Sirius has reached out, has gently taken his hands.  They’re cold, colder than he remembers, and both are trembling slightly.  But he still has a firm grip, and is squeezing them slowly, then releasing.  A pattern—for breathing.  They had done this for each other a few times over the years, as both of them were prone to panic attacks.  He finally catches a full breath, and tries to exhale, slowly.  

“...out like that, yeah Remus, that’s good,” he hears Sirius saying softly.  “Okay, in again, for four seconds—one, two, three, four—now exhale.”  

“Sirius,” he hears Regulus say, sharply.  “What…”

“Shut up , Reg,” Sirius growls.  “Just don’t.”  

“I told you this wasn’t a good idea…he’s still manipulating you!”  Regulus cries, and Remus finally tears his gaze away from Sirius’s.  Regulus looks furious, and has taken a few steps closer, seemingly ready to tear the two of them apart.  He looks at their clasped hands, and squeezes back, gently.  

“I’m okay,” he whispers, and Sirius jerks his hands back.  “I’m sorry.”

Sirius crosses his arms again, and the soft expression he’d had before hardens into the impassive expression he’d worn before.  Remus hates it. 

“You’re really alive?”  Remus says, voice still a whisper.  His voice sounds less strained, like this.  

“Yes,” Sirius says simply.  “I was unconscious for…a while.  Regulus took care of me.”

“When did you wake up?”

“Around Christmas of last year.” 

And Remus understands, now.  Sirius had awoken to a world without James and Lily, a world where his boyfriend had been thrown in prison for murdering them and their other best friend.  He had replayed their last conversation in his head a million times, the insinuation that Remus could be the spy, and that would have been Sirius’s last memory of Remus.  Not the hospital, not the apology.  Of course he thought that he’d betrayed them all.  

“Oh, Sirius,” he breathes, “I’m so sorry.”  His heart hurts, thinking about how confused, and heartbroken, and angry Sirius must have been when he woke up.  He’d lost everyone (but Regulus, apparently), and he thought that Remus was the cause.  

“So you did do it,” Sirius says flatly.  “You admit it.” 

Remus shakes his head, remembering, with a jolt of shame, the wolf mask still affixed to his face.  “I didn’t.  It was Peter.”

A dozen emotions flicker over Sirius's face--confusion, anger, disbelief, hope.  He waits a few moments, breathing heavily.  Remus suspects that he is trying to make sure his voice doesn't shake when he speaks, which happens when Sirius is particularly emotional.  It always embarrassed him, before.  Finally, he speaks.  "Tell me."

Chapter Text

Eight Months Ago 

One night, a week after Sirius dies, Remus is drunk at a Muggle pub, and high on some Muggle pain pills that he had bought from a bloke in the bathroom, and a man with long, dark hair and pale skin comes up to him, and kisses him on the neck.  For a moment—a genuine, heartstopping moment—he knows it is Sirius, he knows he is back, somehow.  But then the man pulls back, grins at Remus with a crooked smile that Sirius never had, gazes at him with dark eyes, so unlike Sirius’s.  And Remus rears back and punches him in the face, feeling the crunch of his jaw.  He stumbles out of the bar followed by indignant yells and threats to call the police.  He wishes the man had hit him back. 

It is raining, and cold, and Remus does not care.  One of his boots has a hole in the sole, his sock is soaked through, and squelches with every step, and Remus does not care.  Remus has two galleons, eleven sickles, and fourteen knuts to his name, and he does not care.  He stumbles across the street, ignoring the crosswalk down the block, and the driver of a truck must see him at the last minute in the streetlight because he slams on brakes, coming to a screeching halt mere inches from Remus’s chest.  The driver screams at Remus, calling him a “fucking drunk” and a “suicidal maniac.”  And Remus does not care.  

But it does, for a moment, allow him to think (relatively) clearly.  He can die—he is not afraid of it, of the pain, or the permanency.  He is, frankly, more afraid of living, without Sirius, forever.  He’s not sure what he believes about the afterlife.  His mam was a Protestant, and nominally believed in heaven and hell, but most wizards also believe in some sort of afterlife, another world for the souls that have passed on from this one.  Maybe that is where Sirius is—and he hopes he is at peace, and not in pain.  He imagines it’s a damn sight easier than being alive, for whatever that’s worth.  And in this moment of clarity, he is struck with an idea.  

He stumbles into James and Lily’s ten minutes later, apparating from an alley in London to their back stoop at Godric’s Hollow.  They have forced him to stay with them since Sirius died, even though he wants nothing more than to be alone, telling him they need each other’s support during this time of grieving, but he really thinks it’s to keep an eye on him.  Lily gives him furtive looks when she thinks he’s not looking, and he’s heard she and James whispering worriedly about him while he lay on the couch, gazing listlessly into the fireplace.  He can hear them, of course.  He’s a werewolf.  They always fucking forget. 

He casts a half-hearted drying charm, which takes him from sopping to merely dripping, so he counts it as a success, and shakes some water out of his hair.  He freezes, for a minute, at the memory of Sirius entering the flat one day, shortly after they moved in.  He had been caught in an unexpected summer thunderstorm, and ran through the door, breathless and laughing.  He tried to jump on Remus, who shrieked and leapt up from the couch, holding the book he’d been reading away from the line of water.  And then, Sirius had put his hands on his knees, and shaken his hair out in such a close approximation of Padfoot that Remus had wheezed with laughter.  

“We need to give you a bath,” Remus had finally gotten out. 

“Only if you join me,” he’d replied cheekily. 

Remus can’t breathe for a moment, because he misses Sirius so much .  

Remus’s mother died five years ago, while they were still at Hogwarts, and his father followed three years later.  He misses them both, his mother especially (he had a more complicated relationship with his father, because of his lycanthropy).  But it is a dull, melancholy ache, which flares when he’s reminded of them—at holidays, or when he sees a book his mother would have loved, or when he remembers a story his father told him about studying creatures.  It hasn’t prepared him, not in the slightest, for how much he misses Sirius.  It is a constant, stabbing pain, like a broken bone or open wound, that only gets worse when a memory comes unbidden.  And it’s so completely overwhelming, like he has space for nothing else in his life—no other emotions, no other cares, no other responsibilities—except for missing Sirius, for grieving Sirius.  

It’s one of the reasons he cannot wait to leave James and Lily’s.  He doesn’t have space for James’s grief.  And he knows, he knows that makes him an awful friend.  He knows Sirius was James’s best friend, his platonic soulmate, his brother.  But he has had no words of comfort when James has broken down.  He tried, that first day, and he had a burst of accidental magic for the first time since he was ten, which left one of Lily’s prized tea sets shattered.  (She said she didn’t mind, but Remus has a feeling she was only placating him.)  So now he leaves the room whenever James starts to crumble, leaving him to Lily, and ignores the hurt in James’s eyes behind the haze of sadness. 

As he walks into the kitchen, he sees James and Lily sitting at the table, and realizes that they had abruptly stopped talking when he walked through the door.  He doesn’t care, of course, that they were talking about him, but he does stop when he sees James’s expression, and the silver mirror that he is holding.  

“Why do you have that?”  Remus says, sharper than he intended.

“Oh, um…,” James says sheepishly.  “I just—I missed him, you know.  I just got it out to hold it.” 

It is pathetic, of course, but Remus can’t judge, given that he’s been sleeping with one of Sirius’s favorite David Bowie tees like it was a children’s blankie.  

Still, though—James has tear tracks down his face, but his eyes are clearer than they’ve been in days.  He looks almost…hopeful.  Remus furrows his brow, confused by the change. 

But Lily interrupts.  “You’re soaked through,” she says, coming up to take his threadbare coat.  “Let me dry you off.”  He lets her finish the job, letting the warmth soak into his skin.  

“Thanks,” he mutters, and walks into the kitchen to fill a glass with water.  He stumbles a bit on the way, though he tries to hide it from Lily.  

“Did you apparate?”  Lily asks casually.  Remus sees right through it, though.  She is horrified that he apparated while intoxicated.  He did—he has at least half a dozen times in the last week—but she doesn’t need to know that.  

“Walked,” he grunts, though they both know it’s a lie. 

As he downs the glass of water, he turns to them, ignoring the meaningful glance that they were sharing behind his back.  “I had an idea, about the Secret Keeper.” 

James and Lily have been in hiding for months, their home warded to the hilt, only leaving the house in emergencies.  But Dumbledore has heard that Voldemort is honing in on the two of them, making the situation even more dire.  A few days ago, he proposed that James and Lily put their house under the Fidelius Charm, with Dumbledore as Secret Keeper, which would act as a near-foolproof, according to him, way to keep the home hidden from enemies.  James and Lily had agreed, though they nominally fought for Remus to be able to stay with them.  But Remus had said that he would need to return to the packs, and Dumbledore, of course, had agreed.  Dumbledore doesn’t care if Remus is safe, he just cares if Remus is useful, and Remus is immensely grateful for this. 

“I think it should be Peter,” Remus continues.

James furrows his brow.  “Dumbledore said he would do it,” he said. 

“Yes, but Dumbledore is the top target for You-Know-Who—higher than Harry,” Remus says.  Both James and Lily wince at the casual mention of Harry as one of Voldemort’s targets.  He ignores them.  “And he’s ancient—powerful, of course, but still old.  It’s not guaranteed he’ll survive this war.”

“It’s not guaranteed any of us will survive this war,” Lily says gently.  Too gently, too understanding.  

“Yes, but if he dies, then there’s no more secret,” Remus explains.  “It leaves you exposed.  So don’t you think it’s risky, leaving it with him?  Since every single Death Eater and You-Know-Who is actively trying to kill him?”

“I had thought the same thing, to be honest” James says, glancing at Lily.  

“But why not you?”  Lily says. 

“Because I’d be the decoy,” Remus says, a touch of pride in his voice. 

James looks horrified.  “No, Remus—that is too dangerous.”

“Think about it, James,” Remus says.  “This gives you both—and Harry—two levels of protection.  We’ll leak that I’m the Secret Keeper, and then I’ll go on the run.  You know I’m good at hiding…I’ve been doing it since the war started, and I can fade into the wilderness without a trace.  We’ll draw the Death Eaters away to look for me.” 

“Remus…” Lily starts.

“Wait, just let me finish,” Remus continues, talking fast.  “No one will suspect Peter.  We know he’s clever, but he was never good in school, and none of the Death Eaters would view him as a threat.  So we set him up in a safe house, somewhere far away—maybe on the Continent?  And he stays safe for the rest of the war, too.” 

Comprehension dawns on Lily’s face.  “We want you to be safe too, Remus.  You shouldn’t be the only one of us fighting in this war.” 

James looks at Remus, eyes filled with pity.  “Mate, no.  I’m not losing you too, certainly not to protect us.” 

“Take me out of it for a second, please.  Pretend I’m not me,” Remus begs.  “Then what do you think of the plan?”

Both of them consider.  “It’s not a bad plan, having a decoy,” says James, slowly.  

“And a decoy who knows how to hide,” Remus emphasizes again.  He knows this is a lie—well, not that he can hide, but the implication that he will.  Instead, he plans to take down every Death Eater he can, lure them into traps and kill them—maybe torture them, first, if he thinks they had anything to do with Sirius.  He will be captured, at some point, though he has pledged to himself to hold out as long as he can, but he will Obliviate himself beforehand so that he doesn’t know that Peter is the Secret Keeper, and even if he somehow remembers...he knows that he can withstand pain.  He won’t reveal anything.  Not if it is a choice between his pain and the safety of James, Lily, Harry, and Peter.  

Then they will kill him, when he doesn’t talk.  It’s a critical part of the plan, which he of course does not mention to James and Lily.  

It takes over two hours, during which Lily cries once, and James cries twice (Remus, of course, doesn’t cry at all), but the Potters agree.  They call Peter over the next day to explain the plan.  He is willing, even eager, to do it, and Remus suspects it’s because Peter has been so terrified during the entire war, and is relieved to be asked to hide until it is over.  Remus has worried about Peter too—he’s clever, and is able to get himself out of tight situations with his rat animagus.  But he’s not quick with a wand, and really only has ever excelled at blasting curses, which only are useful when the enemy is gathered in a single place, because of the risk of taking down your own fighters or other bystanders.  This way, he will be out of the line of fire, yet still heroic.  Remus exhales a deep, relieved breath.  Because now they will all be safe.  Everyone else who he loves will survive the war, and he will be able to die knowing that he could protect them, even if he couldn’t protect Sirius. 

***

Three days later, Remus stands in the rubble of Godric’s Hollow, James’s vacant hazel eyes staring up at him.  He stares numbly at his face, frozen in shock and terror, and he hates himself more than he ever thought possible.  He gently closes James’s eyes, and straightens his glasses on his face.  

He walks as quickly as he can up the stairs, feeling like he has a cinder block on his chest, and tied to each foot, and sees Lily’s barefoot feet through the entrance of Harry’s room before he even reaches the top.  He trips over a slipper, and realizes that Lily must have run so fast that she lost her shoes.  The thought hits him with a wave of nausea, and he dry heaves over the banister.  

She is also dead, which he knew already, because there are only two heartbeats in this house.  The loud, pounding heart of a monster, pulsing in his ears, and the fast–yet gentle—thump of a toddler’s heart.  Harry is whimpering in his crib, his emerald eyes wide and glassy.  Remus smells blood, first, then sees a gruesome gash, which spiders out from Harry’s forehead over his eye like lightning.  Lily is on the floor, her red hair spread around her like a halo, and her eyes wide with fear.  He closes her eyes too, and then kisses her forehead.  She was his first friend at Hogwarts, really, the Muggleborn he had sat beside on the Hogwarts Express that became his study buddy, then his friend, then his confidant.  

He stands, and goes to Harry, passively wondering whether it makes him more of a monster that he didn’t pick up Harry first, before he went to James and Lily.  He bounces him on his hip, cooing at him gently, and eventually the shock seems to wear off because Harry starts to wail.  “I know, sweet boy,” Remus whispers.  “I am so sorry.  Your Uncle Moony is so sorry.” 

When Hagrid arrives twenty minutes later, Remus is waiting on the porch.  He has tried to heal Harry’s head, without success, but has at least calmed him down.  He has him wrapped in two blankets against the chilly October night, and he kisses him gently before handing him off to Hagrid.  

He won’t see either of them again.  He has to go track down a rat, and kill him.  After that, he will kill himself.  He hopes James and Lily will forgive him.  He hopes he will see Sirius soon.

Chapter Text

Regulus Black has a headache, and he has a feeling it will not go away anytime soon. 

“When I tracked down Peter, he was waiting for me.  He’d lured me there.”  Lupin is finishing his tale, and Sirius sits in front of him, attention rapt, eyes welling with tears.  He is buying it, completely, and Regulus sees how the tension in Sirius’s shoulders has eased with every minute that Lupin speaks.  His voice keeps failing, and he coughs—a hacking, painful thing—to clear his throat.  Sirius winces every time, and Regulus wishes he had his wand just so he could heal the werewolf’s throat, because the constant coughing is driving him up a wall. 

“His hand was bleeding, and I wasn’t sure why at the time,” Lupin croaks.  His voice sounds almost mechanical, like he’s reciting from memory.  “But he’d cut off his finger before I got there, and he tossed it on the ground.  Then he started screaming, about how I’d betrayed James and Lily, asking how I could have done it—saying I’d betrayed you, too, which confused me, at first.  But before I could say anything, he’d pulled out his wand, turned around, and sent a blasting curse in the opposite direction.  It took me a second to realize what had happened, because my ears were ringing, but he had transformed into Wormtail by that point, and scampered away like the rat he is.”  

Regulus interrupts, putting something together for the first time.  “Pettigrew was a rat animagus?”

“He is a rat animagus,” Lupin corrects, and Regulus rolls his eyes.  

Sirius has turned to look at him.  His face is distraught, and Regulus feels a pang of worry.  He notices that Lupin looks worried too.  Sirius is fragile on his best days, and today has been grueling, both physically and emotionally.  Regulus had tried to put off this visit for as long as possible, but Sirius has been begging him for months to come.  At first, Regulus had thought it was the grief talking, stirring up rage in Sirius that he didn’t know what to do with.  But he kept insisting, saying that he had to understand why Remus had done it.  He hadn’t realized that Sirius had been in love with the bastard until later.  

“Why do you ask, Reg?”  Sirius says.  

He really, really wishes that Sirius would stop calling him Reg, especially in mixed company.

“I’ll tell you later,” he mutters.

“Tell me now,” Sirius retorts. 

“Fine,” Regulus huffs.  He should wait to share this until they are out of the werewolf’s earshot.  He doesn’t want the man to think that Regulus is on his side, because he decidedly is not —not after everything his brother has been through, not if there’s still a possibility that he had been the one who leaked the details of that cursed Order patrol to the Death Eaters. 

“Voldemort used to refer to his “rat” in the Order,” Regulus says, “Before I…left.”  Sirius huffs at the characterization.  “I think everyone assumed he just meant ‘spy,’ but, you know…” he shrugs, noncommittally.  

They all sit in silence for a few minutes, Lupin staring intently at Sirius, amber eyes glinting, and Sirius staring at his hands.  He can’t read Lupin’s expression, given that most of his face is covered by the crude wolf mask (which, Regulus has to admit, seems unnecessarily cruel).  They all jump at a loud knock on the iron door.  “Time’s up,” the guard barks.  

“A five-minute warning would have been nice,” Regulus begins to grumble, but then he stops at the sheer panic in Sirius’s face.  He has started trembling, all over, which sometimes can trigger a seizure, and Regulus fundamentally does not want his brother seizing in Azkaban, so he needs to intervene.  Immediately.  

“N-n-n-no,” Sirius stammers.  Lupin looks at him, alarmed, and tries to reach for Sirius, but the chains stop him short.  

Regulus approaches Sirius, and crouches beside him, placing his hands on either shoulder.  “Look at me, Sirius,” he says sternly.  Sirius does, his eyes terrified.  

“What’s happening?”  Lupin whispers.  

Regulus ignores him.  “You have to calm down.  Put up your shields.”  They’ve been practicing Occlumency over the last few months, after Regulus read an article talking about how it could help wall off some of the injured parts of curse-damaged brains.  It helps at times like these, when Sirius becomes overwhelmed.  

The guard flings open the door, and marches toward Lupin.  “Sir,” Regulus says, politely.  “Can we have just five more minutes?” 

“No,” the guard says, roughly.  “Dark creatures aren’t supposed to have any visitors at all.”  Regulus scowls, but doesn’t think he’ll budge.  The guard leans forward, and unhooks the chains from the table, and Lupin hisses as one of them grazes his forearm.  Silver , he realizes, and he feels another uninvited wave of revulsion at their treatment of this man.   He turns back to Sirius, and his heart breaks.  His brother’s face is twisted, his eyes are glazed, and his hands are trembling so violently that he couldn’t grip anything even if he tried.  He can tell his brother is trying, so hard , to wall off his emotions, just for a few minutes.  

The man is yanking Lupin up by the chain on his neck, when Regulus sees in Sirius’s eyes that he’s erected a (shaky) shield.  Lupin stumbles, and falls to his knees, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off of Sirius.  “Sirius,” he says, almost a whimper.  “I-, I-, I love you, Sirius…if, if we don’t see each other again…please.  I need it to be the last thing I say to you…I love you.”  

“You disgusting poof,” the guard snarls at Lupin, as he pulls the chain up, hard , forcing him to his feet, and pulling him toward the door.  

“W-w-wait,” Sirius gasps, pushing himself up.  “Remus…”

The door shuts behind them, and they are gone.  

***

Sirius is silent as they walk out of Azkaban, to the waiting boat.  He sits quietly through the rocky sea, not acknowledging—not even with an exasperated sigh—the constant warming spells that Regulus is muttering at Sirius under his breath to stave off the cold wind.  His arms are crossed tightly across his waist, and he is hunched over, eyes glazed.  Regulus wants to shake him.  (Regulus wants to hug him.)  He says nothing as they walk to the Apparition point near the dock, and doesn’t try to object when Regulus holds out his arm for him to side-along, even though he’s recently re-learned Apparition and usually gets annoyed when Regulus doesn’t allow him to practice.  

Regulus tastes blood in his mouth, and realizes that he has gnawed through his lip with stress. Today has been, frankly, awful, and he doesn’t want it to set his brother’s recovery spiraling backward.  Lupin’s already caused that once , he thinks, resentfully.  When Sirius started waking up, he would usually moan for Lupin and Potter.  Regulus couldn’t bear lying to Sirius, not after all the ways that Sirius had been betrayed, so he settled on a half truth.  “They’re gone, Siri—I’m so sorry.  But they’re gone.”  It meant that, when Sirius finally became mostly lucid, he knew, from Regulus’s constant refrain, that Lupin and Potter would not be there.  And the sheer heartbreak in every line on his face made Regulus ache with guilt.  

Sirius spent a full month working on his speech and attention span before he gained the ability—or the courage—to ask how they died.  Regulus told him the full truth, then, and Sirius went silent for an entire month.  He sat in a plush leather recliner by the window, staring listlessly at the back garden with tears occasionally streaming down his face.  He refused to try to stand, much less walk, and Regulus had to resort to feeding and bathing him the same way he did when he was unconscious.  

He finally snapped out of it—mostly, because Regulus, the absolute masochistic idiot, accidentally brought an abused, orphaned toddler into their already immensely complicated lives at around the same time, forcing Sirius to care about his recovery for something other than his own well-being.  Fortunately, it turned out that bringing Harry Potter into his brother’s life was the best possible thing for him, even if Regulus knows that it tortures him sometimes, watching the little boy who looks more and more like his murdered best friend every day.  

Sirius talks, sometimes, about James and Lily.  On occasion, Regulus has overheard him murmuring stories to Harry, or he will casually reference them when remembering something that happened in school, or when telling Regulus about Harry as a baby.  But he never talks of Remus—or at least, not before today.  He would sometimes abruptly stop in the middle of talking, when the memory of Lupin threatened to encroach into the discussion, and go silent.  

Lupin still has that power to devastate Sirius, apparently. 

When they finally enter their cozy townhome, Sirius walks straight through the living room, into the kitchen, and out into the back garden, Regulus following a few steps behind.  It is both of the Black brothers’ favorite place—probably because they spent so much time as children cooped up in their dark and suffocating ancestral home, and the sunny, overgrown garden is the exact opposite.  Wisteria grows on one of the walls, the bright purple blooms lush and fragrant.  (Regulus spent nearly a full day perfecting a charm that keeps them in bloom for the entirety of the spring and summer, which brings him immeasurable joy).  There is a small plot in the back corner, which Regulus planted for his potions ingredients, but which Sirius quickly took over with herbs and vegetables that he lovingly tends to every day.  

Sirius drops to his knees in a sunny patch of grass, and buries his head in his hands.  Cautiously, Regulus approaches him, and places a hand on his shoulder.  

“I don’t think he did it, Reg,” Sirius finally says miserably, choking on a sob.  . 

“I know,” Regulus replies.  He does know.  He knew the second that Lupin began his story that Sirius would never be able to believe the worst in him again.  

“Do you think he’s going to die there?”  Sirius’s voice breaks, and he turns his head to look at Regulus.  His eyes, so similar to Regulus’s own, are brimming with tears, and he looks both too old and too young.  “I didn’t say anything…I didn’t even tell him I believed him.  And if he dies…”

Regulus sinks to the ground beside Sirius, and puts his arm around him.  Sirius leans into the comfort.  It’s new, this kind of physical touch.  For a while, the last time that Regulus remembered hugging his brother was when Sirius left for Hogwarts when he was eleven.  But then, Sirius had thought he lost Regulus, and Regulus had thought he lost Sirius, and when they both found each other again, neither had the strength to maintain the icy facades they had built over the last decade.  

“He looked so sick,” Sirius whispers.  “I’ve never seen him look like that.”  He pauses for a moment.  “What should I do?”  His voice is pleading.  

Regulus shuffles on his knees (not as gracefully as he would like) until he faces Sirius.  He places one hand on either side of his neck, looking into his eyes.  Sirius needs a plan, and Regulus is great at plans.  He didn’t find and destroy one of the Dark Lord’s horcruxes, fake his own death, and rescue his brother from sadistic monsters without some truly impressive organization.  

“First, you need to eat some chocolate, because that will make you feel a bit better after being around the dementors.”  

Sirius gives Regulus an unimpressed look.  “You know that’s not what I meant.”  

“I’m not done,” Regulus says lightly.  “Then, you’re going to get in a hot bath, and pour in a nerve soothing potion to help with those tremors.  I’ll make some dinner while you do that—don’t look at me like that, there are leftovers in the fridge that I can heat up.  

“Harry is with Andromeda for the night.  I asked her this morning, and she was delighted, and we have to go pick him up early tomorrow because I’m genuinely afraid that she’s going to kidnap him.”  

“But…”

“Gods, Sirius, just let me finish.”  

Sirius huffs, but nods.  

“And then we will pen a letter to the Minister of Magic formally requesting that the Ministry reopen Lupin’s case.”

Sirius’s eyes go wide, and his mouth parts in surprise.  “You think he’s innocent too?” 

“I think his story is plausible,” Regulus says, which is all he is willing to concede.  But he has a feeling that he is about to call in every favor that his position as Head of the House of Black affords him.  He rolls his eyes again, gives an exasperated sigh, and begins to plan.

Chapter Text

Remus has officially gone mad.  He had hoped that he wouldn’t survive long enough to succumb to the notorious Azkaban madness, but here he is, muttering anxiously to himself, pulling out his hair, questioning reality.  He truly does not know whether he lives in a world where Sirius Black is alive, and he doesn’t know whether believing the visit happened makes him more or less insane.  He still thinks certain details are too odd to have conjured in his imagination—Regulus’s appearance, for one, or Sirius’s short hair.  He still feels Sirius’s hands clasping his own, their familiar weight, their unfamiliar tremors.  But then again, his mind could have conjured Sirius as a last-ditch effort to keep him alive, to revive his long-dormant will to live.  

Is it worse, knowing Sirius is alive, but never being able to see him again, or him being dead?  In the selfish parts of Remus’s mind, he hopes it was a hallucination, because he suddenly cannot bear the thought of when he dies, as soon as the upcoming moon, and going into the afterlife, only for Sirius not to be there.  

And, if Sirius is alive, he hates Remus.  It’s a fact that Remus cannot shake:  if his memories are real, then Sirius has spent eight months thinking that Remus betrayed James and Lily and murdered Peter.  He won’t believe Remus’s story, of course.  He had already thought that Remus was the traitor before he was captured, so everything he would have learned when he awoke would have simply confirmed his suspicions.  And even if he does believe Remus, how do you overcome eight months of hatred, eight months of believing the worst in someone?  

Remus is a fool, truly.  After he found James and Lily, he could have taken a breath, he could have thought things through—but no, he knew they were dead, he thought Sirius was dead, and all Remus wanted was to get revenge and then join his best friends and lover in death.  If he had only waited…he could have sat by Sirius’s bedside while he healed, held him when he awoke, avoided some of this hurt.  

And what Sirius must have suffered .  Nearly a month captured and tortured, then several more months in a coma, only to wake up a world where James is no longer alive, where he’s lost everyone.  But Regulus, of course, which Remus still doesn’t fully understand, because Regulus was dead —murdered by Voldemort (or, probably not directly by Voldemort) for cowardice, or betrayal.  Is it even plausible that Regulus faked his own death, then faked Sirius’s, and then the two previously dead brothers somehow crossed the North Sea to visit a near-dead werewolf in Azkaban?  

The scenarios bend and whir through his mind, constantly, weave into his dreams, torment him when he wakes, and the absolute shit of it all is that it doesn’t matter .  If it was real, then Sirius won’t come back—the guard told him that visitors were a one-time thing, and Sirius never indicated he’d return, in any event.  He came for closure, and presumably got it.  And if it was all in his imagination…well, maybe Sirius could come back in his dreams, but Remus imagines he’ll just remain stuck in his cell until he dies.  

His manic, frustrated speculation has no purpose, but he has literally nothing else to do but think.  He tries to fall back on his usual distraction methods—listing dark creature characteristics, reciting historical events, cataloging his injuries—but it is a fruitless effort:  all he can think of is Sirius, and the war, and his guilt, and his regrets.  He had a plan , before.  Well, not a plan, exactly.  But he had made peace with what would happen next—he craved it, really, and had for a long time.  Now, though…he doesn’t know.  His carefully crafted numbness has disappeared, and he feels —he feels everything.    

***

A few days later, Remus finally gets a reprieve in the form of a raging fever that makes it impossible to focus on a single thought, which bends and warps the world around him, and makes him unsure about where he is in time and space.  For long swaths of time, all he can think about is the chills and coughs wracking his body, the burning in his lungs and chest, and the splitting headache that blurs his vision.  

Sometimes, his lucidity slips away.  One time, he spends hours listening to Sirius talking to him, his smooth voice curving around soft words, but it is like it is in a different language—he can’t actually understand what he is saying.  But the other hallucinations are not as pleasant.  James, Lily, and Sirius sit across from him, their brows drawn in anger and disappointment.  They tell him how much they hate him, how he disgusts them, how he’s caused all of their pain—and of course, he understands every word of these hallucinations.  A blood-soaked Harry sobs in the corner of his cell, and he cannot reach him.  He sees his mother, and his father, and they cry together over their failure of a son.  He sees Greyback, who tells Remus that he’s proud of him , that Remus has become everything he ever dreamed of him being .  

So it’s not surprising, really, that he thinks he is hallucinating when the guard opens his cell door and walks inside.  He cannot stand, obviously, so when the guard tries to force him onto his feet, Remus collapses in a dead weight.  The guard shoves him off him, grunting in disgust, and Remus’s frail body smacks against the ground.  The jolt sends him into another coughing fit, and he curls his body into the fetal position as he tries to catch his breath.  When he pulls his fist away from his hand, there is a glob of viscous blood, which he absently clocks as a very bad sign.  The guard is gone now, or was never here, and he is alone. 

But only for a short time.  What seems like only minutes later, he hears two sets of footsteps, and a haughty, posh voice, an echo of Sirius (but not Sirius).  

“How long has he been like this?”   

“Hell if I know,” Marks grunts in return.

“Hmm,” comes the plaintive voice of Regulus Black.  “Well, Lupin, you’ve looked better.”

Remus can’t lift his head, but he lets out a small cough of acknowledgement.  

“Let me in,” Regulus commands imperiously. 

Marks scoffs.  “You know I can’t do that.”

“I know no such thing,” Regulus replies.  “I have direct orders from the Minister of Magic herself to visit this prisoner to inform him of the legal proceedings to reexamine the evidence upon which he was convicted, proceedings that you were made aware of last week.  His survival is critical for me to fulfill this duty, yet it seems that, in your negligence, you have failed to notice that your prisoner is hours from death.  That, sir, is unacceptable, and if you would like to keep your miserable little job once I leave today, then I would strongly recommend that you let me into that cell to administer medical assistance to the werewolf.”  

Marks is quiet for a few moments, presumably absorbing the implications of being threatened by a twenty year old.  

“I can make your life very, very unpleasant, Marks,” Regulus says, voice low and dangerous.  “You know the power I wield.  Let me into that cell, now .”  

Marks must capitulate, because Remus hears the jangle of keys, and the click of a lock.  “If he tries to kill you, I promise you, Black, I will not intervene.” 

“I hardly think you’d be any actual assistance in that situation, so I find your pledge reassuring.”  Regulus says haughtily.  He enters Remus’s tiny cell, and crouches beside him.  Remus feels a cool hand brush against his forehead, and cracks open his eyes.  Regulus’s gray eyes stare back at him, his expression impassive.  

Through the fog, Remus feels a jolt of anxiety at the absence of Sirius.  “Sirius,” Remus croaks, voice raw and painful.  

“Not Sirius,” Regulus says briskly.  As if Remus doesn’t know that—he could be blind and deaf and still would not confuse Regulus for Sirius.  He smells different—sage and lavender, in contrast to Sirius’s leather and lemon.  And their magic feels different as well.  Regulus’s doesn’t feel bad, per se; it’s sharp and precise, and feels trustworthy, which Remus wouldn’t have expected.  But it’s not Sirius’s, which weaves seamlessly with Remus’s, which used to reach out and intertwine with his, a mirror of their own physical embraces, especially when the full moon was near.  He hadn’t felt it last week because of the silver, and he aches with the absence. 

Regulus continues.  “I would expect you to know that, after your appalling public love confession a few weeks ago.”  

“No…,” Remus gasps as a wave of pain crests over him, and takes a moment to compose himself.  “Sirius…where?” 

“Where is Sirius?”  Regulus confirms, and Remus nods.  “Don’t worry about Sirius.  He’s fine.”  

Remus does worry about Sirius though.  “He’s alive?”  Remus knows he sounds pathetic, and desperate, but he cannot help himself.  He doesn’t fully understand what is happening, why Regulus Black is in his cell in Azkaban, bullying the prison guard and healing him.    

Regulus’s expression softens, turning into something almost…sympathetic.  It looks odd on his face. 

“You really have it bad, don’t you?”  Regulus reaches into the inside of his pocket, and pulls out a vial filled with a light green potion.  He rolls Remus onto his back, then eases him into a sitting position, bracing Remus’s back against his shoulder for support.   

““Worry more about your own health than my dear brother,” Regulus says, his tone gentler than his words.  “And stop looking like a kicked crup.  That charming prison guard would only let one of us come to confirm you were alive, and I’m the better healer, so Sirius wanted me to come in case you were injured.”  

Remus doesn’t know whether to believe him, and his head swims. He closes his eyes and leans his head back, jolting when he hits a warm body instead of the concrete wall.  In the haze, he’d forgotten that he was propped against Regulus.   

“Drink,” Regulus orders Remus, handing him the vial.  “It’s a fever reducer—that seems like the most imminent issue.”  

Remus gulps the potion, which tastes faintly of spearmint, and sputters a bit.  After only a few moments, his chills subside, leaving behind a dull, full-body ache.  

Regulus clicks his tongue, and reaches into his pocket again.  “Here is an antibiotic potion, which hopefully will help tackle that nasty infection in your lungs.”  As if on cue, Remus begins coughing violently, folding forward to rest his head on his knees.  

To his surprise, Regulus places a tentative hand on his back, rubbing gently between his shoulder blades to soothe the coughing.  For several long minutes, they sit there, letting the coughing subside. He feels more coherent now, as his fever mellows into something manageable.  Finally, Remus sits up again, Regulus bracing him, and he drinks the potion.

He glances at Regulus, who is staring at Remus contemplatively.  “Sirius is okay,” Regulus finally says, voice unnervingly gentle.  “He is still recovering from everything, but is improving more every day.”  

“Is–,” Remus croaks, then clears his throat.  “Is he happy?” 

Regulus gives him a sad smile.  “He lost almost everyone, Lupin.”  

Remus’s heart breaks.  He hates the image of Sirius mourning alone.  Sirius is so unlike Remus in his anger, his grief, his happiness.  He lets himself feel it—he cries, and he laughs, and he screams, and it has always made him seem so alive to Remus.  He has never made himself smaller, not like Remus, who has always pushed every emotion (good and bad) down, trying his best to maintain a neutral, passive exterior.  He hates the idea of Sirius, alone with his overwhelming feelings, confused and devastated, without Remus there to tuck him into his arms, to offer his chest to cry on.  

 “He didn’t lose you,” Remus says, almost a question.   

“I suppose.”  Regulus does not meet his eyes.

“He mourned you.”  He doesn’t mean for it to sound accusatory, but Regulus narrows his eyes. 

“He mourned you, too.”  Regulus gets to his feet, brushing dust from his neat trousers.  “I don’t have my wand, so can’t cast any diagnostics.  Does anything else hurt?”  

Everything seems like a melodramatic answer, so Remus assesses.  He does feel a bit better, Remus realizes as he gingerly flexes his hands and bare feet.  The pain has faded to a dull, manageable pain, and he no longer feels the acute burn in his chest.  “No,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”  He still does not know why Sirius’s brother is here, treating him with something like care , but he does appreciate the reprieve.  

“Okay, then let’s go,” Regulus says, reaching his arm to Remus to help him upward.  He stumbles, hip giving out, but Regulus keeps his firm grip, and keeps him from falling. 

“We’re leaving?”  Remus hadn’t expected Regulus to take him with him.  

“Yes,” Regulus says simply, and Remus rolls his eyes.  

“You can’t give me any more information than that?”  

“You’ll be told everything once we get there,” Regulus says briskly, and knocks on the cell bars loudly.  “Marks!”  

“So he didn’t eat ya, huh?”  Marks pulls out a massive keyring, and flips through until he finds an old, iron key, which he inserts into the lock.  He’s carrying the silver chains, and Remus fights a wave of nausea.  

Regulus notices them too.  “Those will not be necessary.” 

“They will, if you expect me to escort a rabid werewolf outside of its cell,” Marks scoffs.  

Regulus stiffens under Remus’s grip.  “Excuse me…”

“Leave it,” Remus croaks.  “It’s fine - I’ll wear them.”  He is embarrassed for the first time in recent memory, standing there with Sirius’s brother—dressed in fine clothes next to Remus’s rags.  And he is humiliated by the guard’s cruel and flippant dehumanization of him, even though it’s happened countless times before.  Marks isn’t wrong, really—Remus hasn’t felt like a human in a long time.  Particularly when he’s standing beside a wizard prince like Regulus Black.  Maybe that is why it stings worse now.  

Glaring at Marks, Regulus steps away from Remus, and lets him clasp the shackles over his wrists and around his feet.  Marks reaches for the wolf mask, and Remus looks at it with cold dread.  

“Absolutely not,” hisses Regulus.  

“It is protocol.” 

“Unless you can, at this very moment, point me to the rule or regulation that requires muzzling the prisoner outside of the full moon, then I am afraid I will be unable to accept this so-called ‘protocol.’”  Regulus crosses his arms across his chest, and his face looks neutral—but Remus can smell his annoyance.

“I don’t have the rules memorized ,” says Marks, exasperated. 

“What a surprise,” Regulus says dryly.  

“Ugh, fine!”  Marks tosses the wolf mask to the side, and it hits the concrete floor with a clang so loud that Remus flinches pathetically.  Regulus glances at him, and Remus thinks he sees a flash of pity in his grey eyes.  “I swear, Black, if I never see you again then it will be too soon.”  

“Oh, the feeling is entirely mutual.”  Regulus sounds almost cheerful at his victory.  “Shall we?”  He gestures down the hall.  

Marks stalks in front of them, apparently giving up any pretenses of guarding Remus.  Regulus grips Remus by the elbow, and Remus is grateful for the steadying presence, and is still so utterly confused.  

When they step inside the familiar iron door, Remus is again blinded by the artificial light.  But unlike last time, when he was completely overwhelmed and unprepared, he immediately reaches out with his smell, and nearly sobs when he smells Sirius.  His eyes fly open to find him, and he winces as his eyes adjust to the light, but there he is—wearing a leather jacket, Remus notices with a pang of joy and sadness.  His eyes have widened at the sight of Remus, and he lets out a loud, steadying exhale.  He looks exhausted , with dark smudges under his eyes, but he sits more upright than last time, and his face has more color.  

Remus doesn’t tear his eyes from Sirius until he hears a polite cough from the corner.  Standing there, in ridiculous periwinkle robes, is Albus Dumbledore.  Remus feels an unexpected swoop of anger at the sight of his old headmaster in his half moon glasses and placid smile.  He blames himself, of course, for everything that happened before —for Sirius’s death, for James and Lily’s—but he also blames Dumbledore, when he allows himself to think about it.  Dumbledore sent them to war as teenagers, just out of school.  He sent Remus to the werewolf packs, alone, and forbade him to speak of it with anyone, and then used his ties to the werewolves against him when he’d been accused of murdering Peter and the muggles, and of betraying James and Lily.  He had not spent much time dwelling on Dumbledore’s lack of trust in him while he was in prison, but now looking into his twinkling blue eyes, he feels a mix of rage and despair.  

“Remus, my boy,” Dumbledore says pleasantly, as if he is meeting Remus for tea, rather than visiting him at a high-security prison, while he is clad in silver chains.  “How good to see you.”  Regulus looks at Dumbledore with thinly veiled contempt, and Sirius’s eyebrows furrow at the incongruous greeting. 

Remus feels the wolf clawing its way to the surface, ready to fight and maim.  “I’m not your boy,” he growls.  He hasn’t been Dumbledore’s boy for a long time, maybe ever.  He was only Dumbledore’s pet wolf, the spy Dumbledore had been grooming since he arrived unannounced to the Lupin’s cottage in Wales and told a flabbergasted eleven year old that he could come to Hogwarts, even though he was a werewolf.  

“Well of course, you’re a young man now,” Dumbledore says, deliberately ignoring Remus’s anger.  “I know these have been a trying few months.” 

Remus can’t help but scoff.  Eight months alone, in a tiny cell, starving, tearing himself apart.  “Trying,” he repeats.  “You could say that.”  

“Remus, sit down,” Sirius says.  It is the first time he’s spoken, and he looks worried.  Remus realizes he is swaying slightly on his feet—it’s the longest he’s stood in a very long time, and he cannot do it for much longer.  Of course Sirius is the one who notices—he was always more in tune to the needs of Remus’s body than even Remus was, particularly around the moons.  Remus had often thought, when Sirius lovingly traced his wand over wounds from the full moons, placed warm compresses on his sore muscles and ice packs on his bruises, or rubbed his back exactly where a knot had formed, that Sirius would have made an excellent healer, in another life where he wasn’t sent to war right out of school.  

Remus collapses into the chair across from Sirius and Dumbledore, at the same time Regulus gracefully slides beside Sirius.  He nudges Sirius on the shoulder, and gives him a wordless look that seems to convey Are you okay ?  Sirius gives a small nod in return, and the corner of Regulus’s mouth lifts infinitesimally, his expression softer than Remus has ever seen.  He had been so shocked and confused the last time they had come to visit that he hadn’t paid attention to their dynamic.  But it is so different than Remus has ever seen—they seem to trust each other, and Regulus, even as the younger brother, is viciously protective. 

“I’m sure you’re wondering why we are here, Remus,” Dumbledore says.  

“I…,” Remus stutters, suddenly feeling very exposed by the three sets of eyes boring into him.  “Yes, I am.”   

“We have Peter Pettigrew in custody.” 

Chapter Text

Remus stares blankly at the three men in front of him.  Regulus and Dumbledore have done most of the talking, with Sirius only chiming in every now and then to provide additional context for their story.  When he’s not speaking, Sirius sits slightly hunched, his arms wrapped around his middle like he’s trying to hold himself together.  Maybe he is—if so, he’s doing a better job of it than Remus, who is shaking so hard that Regulus finally interrupted Dumbledore to ask if he needs a calming draught.  He does, obviously, but he also cannot take anything that makes it more difficult to concentrate, more difficult to distinguish reality from fantasy.  Because he still is not convinced this isn’t some fucked up dream, his subconscious finding him a way out of Azkaban before he inevitably dies on the hard, concrete floor. 

But it feels real—he has a splitting headache, and his body aches, and he keeps biting back a hysterical need to laugh that bubbles up in his chest and makes him feel quite insane.  

The whole story is ridiculous, frankly.  Regulus and Sirius had gone to Dumbledore to tell him their suspicions about Pettigrew, and Dumbledore had put out a message to the members of the Order in case they knew anything useful that could help uncover what actually happened.  No one expected a grim-faced Arthur Weasley to turn up at Hogwarts two days later with a magically-enforced shoe box holding a chubby, four-fingered rat that had wandered into the Weasley’s house six months before and had been sleeping in their son’s bed ever since.  Dumbledore had forced Peter into his human form, at which point he had attempted some convoluted story about fearing Remus and retribution from Greyback (which Remus couldn’t quite follow through the pounding in his head).  Finally, they had performed Priori Incantum on his wand—10 ½ inches, dragon heartstring, which always had seemed uncharacteristic for Peter, until Remus learned how bold he actually could be—and it clearly showed the Fidelius charm cast with James, and the blasting curse that tore apart a street of Muggles.  

“What did my wand show, Albus?”  Remus suddenly asks.  The aurors had snapped it in front of him, with a crack so painful he felt it in his magical core.  He still aches for his wand, constantly.  

Dumbledore’s eyes flash with something like annoyance for just a moment, before he smooths his expression.  “I don’t believe they ever checked your wand.”

Sirius whips his head to Dumbledore, eyes blazing, and even Regulus looks affronted.

“Funny, that,” Remus murmurs dryly.  No one speaks for several agonizing moments. 

“So what now?”  Remus finally says.  “Do I actually get a trial?” 

“It actually is a bit more straightforward for you,” Dumbledore pauses for a moment, choosing his words.  “It isn’t required for you to have a trial to be imprisoned, and the same is true when you are released.” 

Remus scoffs to cover the aching, painful hopelessness that overcomes him at those worlds.  He had always known he was cursed, knew that his lycanthropy would ruin his chance at a life—but as a young, naive teenager who had friends for the first time, who was accepted for the first time, he could never have fathomed how wholly and completely the wolf would destroy him.  He should feel happy, or relieved, he supposes, that his name will be cleared.  But he feels too damaged for something as simple as relief.  He hardly had the will to care when he was chucked in Azkaban in the first place, so devastated by all he had lost, so drained of his desire to live.  And this…it’s too little, too late.

“It’s barbaric,” Sirius says softly.  

He has missed Sirius so much that he has never taken the time to be furious, and suddenly white-hot rage courses through him, directed at the beautiful man that he thought he would never see again.  It always had annoyed him when Sirius, ever a naive idealist, underestimated society’s hatred of werewolves.  

“Don’t act indignant on my behalf,” he says sharply.  “So the wizarding world views me as more wolf than man.”  He repeats some of Sirius’s last words to him, and he sees the recognition in Sirius’s eyes.  He has wondered, when contemplating whether this was real, if Sirius remembered the way they left things.  But of course he did, if he had believed that Remus had betrayed the Potters, had sold them out to Voldemort.  If he had waited months to see Remus.   

“Doesn’t make them any different than you,” he continued, sounding defeated even to his own ears.  “Different than any of you.”  He looks at Dumbledore pointedly, who averts his gaze.  “I-,” he takes a steadying breath, and buries his head in his hands, before yanking his head back at the swirl of nausea from the silver chains.  He feels cornered, and restless—he feels like the wolf will snarl at anyone who comes too close.  Or maybe it’s not the wolf, maybe it’s him.  

“That’s not…,” Sirius begins, eyes wide and guilty.  Remus feels like screaming. 

“Maybe this is not the proper setting for this conversation,” Regulus says diplomatically, glancing at Dumbledore.  

“Remus, I understand how difficult this must be for you.”  Dumbledore gives him a pitying look, and Remus wants to rip his throat out.  “All we need is for you to provide your memories of the month before the Potters’ deaths, to corroborate Pettigrew’s confession.  And once he’s been convicted, they will sign a release order.  Mr. Black has negotiated the details himself,” he inclines his head toward Regulus, “And I have worked with the Wizengamot to approve.”   

“I’ll give you the memories,” Remus says, voice impassive.  “I want to make sure that rat bastard spends the rest of his life in prison.” 

“And you can stay with us, once you’re out,” Sirius says, voice tentative and hopeful. 

He feels a swell of love and longing for Sirius, and a resurgence of the ever-present, gnawing guilt and grief.  His previous annoyance has disappeared, and he suddenly feels overwhelming fondness toward Sirius’s naivety.  It has always been this way—Sirius’s same traits that frustrate and annoy Remus are the same that make him love him more than life itself.  

“Oh, Sirius,” he breathes.  “I’m not surviving long enough for this to work.  The moon is in, what, two days?”  He realizes he doesn’t know, exactly, how much time he lost in the haze of the fever.  

“It’s tomorrow night,” Sirius says, almost a whisper, and Remus remembers, with a pang, the phases of the moon tattoo that Sirius has beneath his rib.  

“Well then,” Remus says with a resigned shrug.  

Sirius looks stricken, and Remus realizes that he will have to say goodbye to Sirius for the final time today.  He does not think it is something that will get easier with repetition.  They have lost so much time.  He should have waited longer to come, Remus thinks bitterly.  Or the wolf should have killed me sooner.  It would have been easier than this almost second chance.  

“Remus, my boy,” Dumbledore says.  “You must have hope.” 

My boy , again—the man clearly does not take a hint.  “The wolf does not understand hope,” Remus snarls.  “I can barely stand, can barely breathe —my body is not going to survive being torn apart and put back together.  Not in that cage. I wish it would…I wish…”  

To his utter mortification, his voice catches in his throat, and he has to swallow down an unexpected sob.  He looks at Sirius, who has tears streaming down his face, his hand clasped over his mouth.  He looks devastated , and Remus hates himself all over again for putting that expression on his face.  

***

Regulus Black has a headache, again , caused by Remus Lupin, again , and his brother is crying, again , because of the same godforsaken werewolf.  If Regulus had known how much trouble Lupin would cause him, he would have snuck into Azkaban a long time ago and murdered him in his sleep.  It was so much easier when Sirius had hated the man.  

That’s not true, of course, and Regulus knows it.  Sirius has been a new man, these last weeks.  Similar to when Harry came to live with them, the prospect of Remus Lupin returning to Sirius’s life has reanimated him, has given him a new zeal for life.  For a while, Regulus would only see Sirius smile when he was with Harry, but recently, he has caught Sirius smiling wistfully when lost in thought.  He even has tentatively begun telling Regulus about Lupin, about how they got together at Hogwarts.  Everyone had known Remus Lupin—a prefect, tall and silent, with mysterious scars—half the girls wanted to fuck him in school (the others wanted to fuck Sirius, and both factions’ heads would have exploded if they had known the two boys were, in fact, fucking each other).  Regulus had, of course, hated Lupin on principle, because he was one of the Gryffindors that had stolen his brother away from him, but as a closeted gay boy, could appreciate his mysterious demeanor and sinfully massive hands.  

But Sirius has now told him about Lupin’s wicked sense of humor and dry wit, his love of books and old sweaters and Muggle music, his patience and understanding  toward another scarred boy that arrived at Hogwarts with him.  “James was like the sun,” Sirius had said one night, shortly after Pettigrew was arrested.  “He made everything brighter, and warmer, and everyone orbited around him, and wanted to be near him.  He was my best friend in the world, and he loved me no matter what.  He made me want to be a better person—he made me a better person.”  

Sirius had taken a swig of his firewhiskey, and wiped a tear from his eye.  “But Remus knew me— knows me, I guess.  Knows why I am the way I am, knows why I act the way I do, sometimes.  When I’m impulsive, or angry, or what-have-you.  We understood each other, in a way that no one else did, not even James.  It even made James jealous sometimes.  But it didn’t always make us better, and I think it’s why we fell apart in the end—we knew each other too well to forgive each other—and ourselves—for what the war was doing to us.”

So Regulus, against his will, has developed a soft spot for the sickly, scarred werewolf sitting before him, even if he bears little resemblance to the witty, kind boy that Sirius described, or the ruggedly handsome prefect that walked Hogwarts’s halls.  And, more importantly, Regulus truly cannot bear for Sirius to experience another loss.  

No one is saying anything.  Dumbledore looks at Lupin with unmasked pity, and Sirius is crying silently, and Lupin—well, Lupin still looks like he is on the verge of death, and wears a grief-stricken expression on top of it all.  Apparently Regulus is the only person in this room with any problem-solving skills, which really shouldn’t still come as a surprise to him.  

He pulls several empty vials from inside his pocket, laying them in front of him.  “For the memories,” he says, pulling everyone from their stupor.  Sirius glares at him.  

“Albus, you have your wand, yes?”  Dumbledore nods, pulling it from the inside of his robes.  

Lupin looks resigned, and sits more upright.  

“Do we have to do this right now?” Sirius hisses.  

“If you want me to get to the Ministry this afternoon and petition the Minister for a conditional release, then yes, I think time is of the essence,” Regulus snaps back. 

The anger melts from Sirius’s face.  “Do you think that will work?”

“Well we won’t know unless we try,” Regulus says briskly, and stands.  “Can you call up those memories, Lupin?”

Lupin looks at him warily, but nods.  

They take them one-by-one.  Lupin describes them, briefly—his mission before Sirius disappeared, the day Sirius was found, Sirius’s death, discussions with James about the Secret Keeper, the day he found James and Lily, and Regulus dutifully labels the vials with a ballpoint pen (his current favorite muggle invention).  

Against his will, he feels a pang of sympathy for Lupin, whose eyes have glazed over, and who is shaking even harder than he was before.  Extracting memories is difficult even when the memories are not emotionally taxing, and Regulus recognizes that they are forcing the already fragile man to relive what must be some of the worst days of his life.  After the last memory—Lupin confronting Pettigrew—he keens sideways, and vomits onto the floor.  Only bile comes up, and it triggers another violent round of coughing.   

Sirius cannot stand it anymore, and leaps to his feet, skirting around the table to get to Lupin.  He rubs his back, like Regulus did earlier, and murmurs soothingly into his ear.  When his coughs subside, Lupin just… crumples , in a dead faint, against Sirius, who catches him, alarmed.

“REG,” he shouts, frantic, trying to hold Lupin upright. 

“He’s just fainted, Siri,” Regulus says softly.  “You can feel him breathing, right?”  

Sirius pauses, feeling Remus’s body against his.  He nods, still shaken. 

“The guard can take him back to his cell while we go to the Ministry,” says Regulus, recognizing that he does not have much time to get this done today, which is probably what Sirius needs to stave off a full blown anxious meltdown.  

“I’m not leaving him,” Sirius says, appalled.  “Not to wake up on his own.”

“Did you not hear me, Sirius?  We need to go, now .” 

“You should go,” Sirius says breathlessly, “You and Professor Dumbledore.  I’ll stay here—the guard said he’d be back at 5:00 unless we called him earlier.”

“I’m not leaving you alone in Azkaban , Sirius!” 

“I’m not alone!  I’m with Remus!”

“Who has no wand, and no way to defend you, or anyone else!  He’s nearly d—.”  Dead , he was going to say, but cuts himself off abruptly.  

“I’m. Not. Leaving. Him.”  Sirius is stern, and determined.  “Can you do this in three hours?” 

Regulus throws up his hands, exasperated beyond belief.  “Believe it or not, I do not have an exact timeline for how long it will take to convince the Minister of Magic to let out a notorious, bloodthirsty werewolf from Azkaban!” 

“You said you could do this!”  Sirius cries. 

“I said I would try , Siri, which I will , but I’m not leaving you in this horrible place alone!”

“ Please , Reg,” Sirius begs.  “I promise I will be okay.  I promise .  But I don’t think I’ll be okay if I have to leave him right now, not while he’s not even conscious.”  He’s wrapped an arm around Lupin, whose head lolls against his shoulder.  

“I swear to Salazar, if this sets you back even one tiny step in your recovery…,” Regulus begins. 

“It won’t ,” Sirius says emphatically, and gives Regulus a grateful half smile, knowing that he has won.  

“Okay,” Regulus says, resigned.  “But even if I fail, you’re leaving here at 5:00 PM, and we will regroup tomorrow.”  

“I promise.” 

Sirius staggers slightly against Lupin’s weight, and he is awkwardly hunched.  “Albus, can you do something about those chains?”  Regulus asks. 

Dumbledore looks at them thoughtfully.  “I don’t believe I can remove them, not without some time to parse through these runes, but I can certainly unchain him from the table.”  He mutters a complex incantation under his breath, and with a clink, the chains fall from the table, and Sirius awkwardly lunges toward them with his free hand to make sure they don't touch Remus’s skin.  

Dumbledore cocks his head thoughtfully, then flourishes his wand in an elaborate swirl.  “There,” he says, satisfied. “The chains are now made of iron, and should not hurt him.”

“Thank you,” Sirius says. 

Dumbledore levitates Lupin out of his seat into a prone position on the floor, where Sirius promptly sits, gently pulling Lupin’s head into his lap and leaning against the wall. 

“I’ll be back soon,” Regulus promises.  Sirius nods, but otherwise doesn’t say farewell.  As Regulus and Dumbledore exit the dank room, he hears Sirius murmuring softly to Lupin.  “You’re going to be okay,” he says, stroking Lupin’s hair.  Lupin groans softly, and leans his head into the touch, but doesn’t wake. 

Chapter Text

At 4:45 PM, Regulus strolls through the door of the visitation room, an envelope brandished proudly in his hand.  “I’ve got it,” he says, grinning down at Sirius.

Sirius, for his part, has not moved in nearly three hours.  Remus has drifted in and out of consciousness, but mostly seems unaware of what is happening.  He trembles under Sirius’s hands, and the few times his eyes have opened, he looks at Sirius with a mix of fear and awe.  “ Sirius ,” he whispers reverently, then falls back asleep.  

He’s ill.  Sirius can tell, as he runs his hands over his matted hair, that he is burning up, and his breath comes in harsh wheezes that sometimes dissolve into coughs.  He’s taken care of Remus countless times after the moons, but this is different.  He’s never seen Remus this frail—Remus, despite his lycanthropy, was always the strong one, even when he was recovering from the moons.  He would sometimes tear himself open, and would face his wounds with a kind of stoic indifference that scared and impressed Sirius. 

Sirius always feared pain more than Remus did.  His mother had subjected him to the Cruciatus curse for the first time when he was twelve years old, and the pain seeped into his bones and became a maimed and twisted part of him.  He had left Regulus when he was sixteen because of that fear—it outweighed his loyalty to his brother, his protectiveness, and everything else.

It was a blessing, then, that he did not remember his month in Death Eater captivity.  Regulus hypothesizes it is because of the invasive Legilmancy they tortured him with, but Sirius suspects that Regulus may have Obliviated him before he woke from the coma.  He should probably feel violated, but he doesn’t—he is grateful he does not remember what he went through, even if his body remembers the trauma.  The scars on his body, the tremors, the seizures, the headaches are all familiar echoes of the torture he endured, and that is enough.  

“Reg, you’re brilliant,” he says from his perch on the floor, giving Regulus a grateful smile.  His brother is fierce, and loyal, and honestly pretty fucking terrifying if he’s not on your side.  

“I just need to show this to that buffoon of a guard, and then we can go,” Regulus says.  “Can you wake him, or will we need a stretcher?”

“I think I can wake him,” Sirius says.  Regulus nods, and walks out of the room, probably to terrorize the guard.  Who, frankly, deserves it, after the things he’s said and done to Remus, including the cruel silver chains. 

“Remus,” Sirius whispers, leaning down until his lips graze Remus’s ear.  “Remus, can you wake up for me?” 

Remus groans, and twists in Sirius’s arms, agitated.  

“I know you’re tired,” he says softly.  “It’s almost over, I promise.”  

His eyes flutter, unfocused, until they finally rest on Sirius.  Sirius has always loved Remus’s eyes, which shift in color with the phases of the moon.  Now, with the moon only a day away, they are a golden amber—Sirius’s favorite.  

“Sirius?”  Remus says, his voice raspy.  It breaks Sirius’s heart, knowing that the wolf was so lonely and angry that his howls tore through his throat.  He doesn’t hate the wolf, not like Remus does.  Which, of course, makes sense—Sirius doesn’t have his body torn apart each month, and hasn’t spent his life despised by everyone because of something he cannot control.  But Sirius…Sirius knows the wolf—or, Padfoot does, at least—in a way that Remus never has.  Remus views the wolf as a bloodthirsty monster, but Sirius has seen him yip and play with Padfoot, has seen him nuzzle and protect, has seen him lead his pack with confidence and pride.  He must have been miserable, locked in a cell, thinking his pack was gone forever.  And, clearly, he has punished Remus for it.  

“I’m here,” Sirius says.  “We’re getting you out of here.”  They will have to call in a Healer to treat his shredded vocal chords, Sirius thinks—Reg is brilliant at potions, and has developed a real knack for healing as he’s nursed Sirius back to health, but he’s also a twenty year old with no formal training.  Maybe Madam Pomfrey will come; she always was so fond of Remus in school, and she must be one of the foremost experts on treating werewolf injuries as she had one in her care for seven years.  

“Today?”  Remus’s brow furrows in confusion.  There’s a brutal scar that cuts from his left temple, across his eye and nose.  It’s a wonder he didn’t lose his eye.  Sirius thinks it must have happened here, in Azkaban, and he gently thumbs over it.  Remus closes his eyes at the touch. 

“Yes, today.  In a few minutes.  Do you think you can sit up?”

“Regulus…”

“I have no idea what he did, frankly.”.  

“He’s a bit scary,” Remus says, lips quirking slightly. 

Sirius snorts.  “That he is.  But he’s a big softie, really.”

Remus tries to sit up, pressing his hands against the concrete floor for leverage, but he doesn’t seem to have the strength.  “Here,” Sirius says, grabbing his shoulders and easing him upward.  Even that seems like a struggle for him, as he pants to catch his breath.

“Sorry,” Remus says, sheepish, between breaths.  

“Don’t…,” Sirius begins.  He can’t stand Remus apologizing, not right now, not when Sirius left him here for months longer than he needed to, not when Sirius believed him capable of murder, not when his last words to him were accusations that he was the traitor.  

Remus, oblivious to Sirius’s turmoil, is struggling into a standing position.  “Reg will have some potions, to tide you over until we get home,” Sirius says.  

“Home?  The flat?”

Of course he doesn’t know.  “The flat is…gone.  Seized by the Ministry, I think.”  

“Oh.”  

“Reg and I live together…in a townhouse.  With…,”  He cuts himself off, not sure if Remus is quite ready to hear about Harry.  He will wait until he feels better to mention their toddler.  “You’ll like it, I think.  We have a nice library, and a big garden out back.”  

“Okay,” Remus says.  He leans against the wall, and closes his eyes as he steadies his breathing. 

It’s…awkward, Sirius realizes.  He doesn’t know what to say, or how to interact with this new version of Remus.  He is gaunt—scarily so, with protruding cheekbones and eyes and teeth that look too big for his head.  He’s always been thin, the wolf’s high metabolism, apparently, but it was always a wiry kind of strength that he wore well.  Now, he is skeletal, and sick.  Your fault your fault your fault , repeats through Sirius’s head.  

“How do you feel?”  He asks, unable to stand the silence.

“Um…,” Remus pauses, thinking for a moment.  “I’m having a hard time believing this is real.” 

That’s not exactly what Sirius meant, but he jumps at the opportunity anyway.  He moves to stand before Remus, and takes his rough hands between his own—Sirius’s hands tremble slightly, they almost always tremble now, the after-effects of the Cruciatus curse.  He looks up into Remus’s eyes, which look pained, and confused, and so unbelievably sad that it breaks Sirius’s heart.  “It’s real, Moony,” he says, the first time he’s used the nickname since he used it as a weapon all those weeks ago.  

Remus nods slowly, but has a deep furrow between his brows.  He still has on the horrible shackles, and Sirius notices deep scars that go all the way around his wrists where the shackles have shifted.  He runs his thumbs over them, looking up at Remus with a question in his eye.

“Silver,” Remus says simply.  “When I first arrived.”

“Gods, Remus,” Sirius whispers.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m so sorry for…”

Before he can finish, Regulus opens the door.  The guard is in tow, with a mutinous expression on his face.  “I’m not in the business of letting monsters out of my prison,” he growls, throwing a disgusted look at Remus.  

“Don’t call him that,” Sirius says, voice low and dangerous.  He feels such a surge of protectiveness for Remus—no one has protected him in so long.  

“Ignore him,” Remus mutters.  “He’s not worth it.”

“Don’t you say a fucking word about me, you freak,” says the guard.  “We should have put a silver bullet between your eyes when we had the chance.” 

“That is enough ,” interjects Regulus.  “Take off the chains, and we will take our leave, and none of us shall ever meet again.” 

Sirius is trembling with anger, but says nothing after the warning look Reg throws at him.  

“What did you do to these chains?”  The guard cries, holding the iron between his hands.  

“Send us a bill,” Regulus says sharply.  

“Fine,” he grumbles, and slots his wand into a hidden keyhole below in the shackle.  They fall to the ground, and Remus lifts his hands in front of him, flexing his wrists.  

“Better?”  Sirius asks softly. 

Remus nods, looking slightly stunned at his free hands.  

The guard repeats the same exercise for the shackles around his ankles.  He pulls two wands out of his inner pocket, and shoves them at Regulus.  “You’re free to go,” he says, voice filled with venom.  He storms out of the room the way he came.  

“I…,” Remus begins, and he sways a bit on his feet, looking completely overwhelmed.  “We’re leaving?”

“Keep up, Lupin,” Regulus says, but his voice is gentle.  “It’s time to get you out of here.” 

***

Remus valiantly stays awake for the walk through Azkaban, down the rickety stairs to the dock, and in the roiling boat back to shore.  From the sea, he stares back at the fortress, eyes blank and expression unreadable.  Sirius wants to wrap his arms around him, pull him close, whisper that he’s never going back there—but it feels different, somehow, now that Remus is conscious.  He doesn’t know if Remus will welcome the touch like he did before.  He said he loved Sirius a few weeks ago, but he had thought he would never see him again, and Sirius doesn’t know whether it is true, or whether it’s the same kind of love they had before .  

Before Azkaban, their last conversation had been…not a breakup, necessarily, but more than just a fight.  It revealed cracks in their very foundation, the trust that no longer existed between them.  He hadn’t thought Remus was the traitor, not really (though he did have his suspicions, in the dark of night, anxious because Remus was nearly always gone, and when he was home, he was cagey, evasive, and jumpy), but after Remus had left the flat that day—he had wanted Remus to fight for them, and he didn’t know what it meant that he hadn’t.  And then Sirius had believed it, fully, when he awoke from his stupor to a world where his best friends were dead and his lover was in Azkaban.  It made a sick kind of sense.  And now…he does not know how to reconcile the man he loved, the man he hated, and the man who sits before him now.  

The uncertainty is a wall between them, preventing him from reaching out and taking Remus’s hands.  

When they Apparate to his and Regulus’s street, the evening sunlight casting shadows across the sidewalk, it is finally too much for Remus, and he faints again.  The two Black brothers catch him, hoisting him between their arms easily despite his height, and carry him toward the yellow front door.  

“Do you think he’ll be okay for the moon?” Sirius asks Regulus, looking with unease at Remus’s pale, nearly grey face.

“He’s had virtually no medical treatment since he’s been in Azkaban, aside from the few potions I was able to sneak in this morning,” Regulus says, matter of factly.  “Once we are able to actually run some diagnostics, use healing spells, and take advantage of our full stores of potions, he will be significantly stronger tomorrow evening than he is right now.”  

“Strong enough to survive?” 

“He’s survived this long, Siri,” Regulus says softly.  He waves his wand at the door, which swings open to their cozy foyer, and they drag Remus across the threshold.  He grunts softly, but otherwise doesn’t stir.  Sirius can feel the heat from his fever through his threadbare Azkaban uniform.  “I don’t think he’ll give up now, not when he finally has you back.”

“I don’t know,” Sirius whispers.  “I have no idea what he’s feeling.  He…what if he hates me?  For leaving him there?  For believing the worst in him?” 

Regulus gives him a long look over Remus’s back.  “He doesn’t hate you.  And you didn’t leave him there.” 

“But you don’t understand, Reg,” Sirius says.  They bring Remus into the small bedroom on the ground floor, which they had originally had as a type of playroom for Harry.  They had cleared it out in anticipation of Remus coming, which Sirius had worried tempted fate, but which he was now grateful for.  Remus will like this room.  It faces the small side yard of the house, where Sirius has planted a row of five weather-resistant lemon trees that Regulus purchased from an eccentric Herbologist in Southern Italy.  The lemons are yellow and bright, and when the window is open, the fresh scent of lemons wafts through the entire ground floor.  The room faces south, so is bathed in sunlight, which Remus may appreciate after his months in the dank, dreary North Sea.  

Regulus skillfully levitates Remus onto the bed, performing a gentle cleaning charm to remove some of the Azkaban grime.  He tucks him under the crisp sheets and vanishes his filthy uniform, then flicks his wand to clothe him in soft pajamas.  “He’ll need a real bath, once he’s awake,” Regulus murmurs, “But that will do for now.” 

He performs a few diagnostics, then casts several healing charms aimed mostly at Remus’s chest, which still stutters with every breath.  Sirius helps him lift Remus’s head and shoulders, while Regulus pours a fever reducer, nutrition potion, and sleeping draught down Remus’s throat, muttering a charm that keeps Remus from choking. 

“He also desperately needs real food, but I think it’s better for him to rest now, and let the potions work,” Regulus continues.  “He should be out until morning.” 

“Thank you, Reg,” Sirius says, hoping his voice conveys how much he means it.  

Regulus doesn’t acknowledge his thanks, which isn’t unusual, but does look at Sirius, cocking his head.  “I’ll grab us a drink—I think we need one.  Do you want a moment?”

Sirius hadn’t planned on staying, but once Regulus leaves, he perches uncomfortably in the armchair by Remus’s bed.  He wants to say something, or reach out and touch him, but Remus looks so fragile, and his gaunt face looks both very young and very old, and Sirius tries to staunch the tears that threaten to spill over, the all-encompassing sadness about what Remus has gone through—what they both have gone through, really.  It doesn’t feel fair.  He feels like the man laying before him is a stranger, and also feels like he’s a part of his soul.  Overwhelmed, Sirius stands, awkwardly resting his hand on the sheet covering Remus’s legs.  “I’ll come back,” he whispers.

***

“So what happened, Reg?”  They have taken their drinks to the garden, where they sit at the small bistro table overlooking their sanctuary.  Dusk has settled, the nocturnal insects beginning their evening concert.  Regulus has charmed lights that crisscross over the seating area, which twinkle slightly.  Harry loves them, and always asks for his “stars,” even in the daytime.  

“We watched the memories together,” Regulus says, taking a slow sip of his gin and tonic.  Sirius introduced him to Muggle liquor a few months ago, and Regulus immediately took to it.  “They align exactly with what Lupin told us a few weeks ago, and Pettigrew’s confession.  And I just decided to gently infer that we could make the Minister’s life very uncomfortable if an innocent man died in prison while they had the real culprit in custody.”  

“Gently, huh?”  Once Sirius had recovered from his ordeal, Regulus had offered Sirius his position as Head of the House of Black, as the eldest son and rightful heir.  But Sirius declined—Regulus was more cunning than him, more strategic, more ambitious (ever the Slytherin, even if it turns out he was as much of a blood traitor as Sirius himself).  And, frankly, Sirius doesn’t want to be the head of the family that tortured him, shunned him, and disowned him.  He is happy for Regulus to bear that mantle, and Regulus has taken to the politics of it remarkably well.  He has always had a quiet, steady confidence, contrasted with Sirius’s deep insecurities that he masked with a loud personality.  It means that Reg, just out of his teenage years, can waltz into the Minister’s office, demand an audience, and have one of the most well-known criminals in Azkaban released by dinnertime.  

But instead of chuckling, Regulus looks quite miserable.  “I’m sorry, Sirius,” he says, looking at his clasped hands.  “I should have…I don’t know.  I should have known it wasn’t him, somehow.  I should have saved him for you sooner.”

Sirius stares at him, stunned.  “This isn’t your fault, Reg.  How on earth would you have known?  You have never known Remus…I have, and I still…,” his voice cracks, and he has to suppress a sob.  Remus will never forgive him.  “You shouldn’t feel guilty,” Sirius continues, voice firm.  “He would be in Azkaban, without you.  He probably would have died tomorrow night, without you.  You’ve done more than I ever could have…,” he trails off, feeling slightly ill.  

“Sirius,” Regulus says, impossibly and uncharacteristically gentle.  “You shouldn’t feel guilty either.  It’s not your fault.” 

“Before I saw him in Azkaban, the last time we’d talked I accused him of being a traitor—then I believed it for months .”  Sirius buries his face in his hands.  “I…I think I might have broken things between us, even before…everything.”

“He loves you,” Regulus says simply.  “His memories…you could feel it, Siri, in every moment.  His grief when he thought he lost you…”

“And that’s my fault too,” Sirius whispers. 

“Oh you are absurd ,” Regulus snaps, gentleness gone.  “You were unconscious, how the hell would you have been able to control anything?  Stop self-loathing, stop thinking you don’t deserve to have your friend back—just…stop.  If that’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine, and I have just now decided that I am not going to feel guilty for doing the best I could during a war where I was trying to keep us both alive as long as possible.”  

Sirius smiles, despite himself.  “Okay, no more guilt,” he says, though he knows that is easier said than done.  “

“What are we going to do about tomorrow night?”  Regulus asks, staring pointedly at the nearly full moon.  “I wasn’t expecting to have a full-grown werewolf in our townhouse for the full moon, and don’t know the protocol.”

“I was thinking about that,” Sirius says.  “I…I want him to be outside.  It will be easier for him, especially since he’s been cooped up for so long.”  He had contemplated the Shrieking Shack, but something about taking him there, without James and Peter, and the memories of all they have lost…it seems unnecessarily painful.  

“I don’t think the garden…,” Regulus starts.

Sirius chuckles.  “I wasn’t proposing the garden, Reg—I love my plants too much to subject them to a restless werewolf.  And I would never put Harry in that kind of danger, no matter how many wards we put up.”  

Regulus looks relieved.  “I’m sure your lemon trees will thank you.”

“I was thinking the garden at Grimmauld,” Sirius says casually, waiting for Regulus to explode.  He doesn’t, and simply chews his lip contemplatively.  Sirius continues.  “No one lives there, and the garden has high walls, and is warded to the hilt.  No one could come in or out.”  

“And I assume you plan to transform with him?” 

“Yes,” Sirius says simply.  If Remus will allow it, then he’ll never let Remus transform alone again.  

“Is there any point in me trying to talk you out of it?”

“Nope,” Sirius says, grinning.  But Regulus looks worried, and Sirius won’t stand for that.  “I’ve done this dozens of times, Reg—the wolf knows me and won’t hurt me.  Plus, I think he might be too weak to get into any mischief.” 

“Okay,” Regulus sighs.  “But I’ll be there at moonset in case anything happens.”

They sit in comfortable silence, sipping their cocktails and basking in the cool evening breeze.  Andy will bring Harry in the next hour, and he will be sleepy and cuddly after a day of playing with Tonks.  Remus is inside, and even though he and Sirius have a million things to discuss, he is here , and healing , and safe .  He has Regulus, his prickly yet compassionate little brother, who he’d thought he’d lost, like Remus, but who came back and has saved him again and again.  And Sirius…despite everything, he feels better than he has in a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

Remus sits across from Sirius in the back garden of Grimmauld Place.  It is dilapidated and neglected, and the overgrown flower beds are surrounded by choking weeds.  Moss grows between crumbling bricks, and a broken pot spills dirt onto the patio.  He has learned that Sirius’s parents fled after the war once they realized both their sons were alive–and were both blood traitors who would not protect them from the harsh hand of the Wizengamot.   And Grimmauld Place, without the sustenance of its magical inhabitants, quickly deteriorated.  

Sirius still hates it here, and Remus feels irrationally guilty for making Sirius return to his childhood home, even though he had no role in the decision.  When they tumbled through the Floo an hour ago, Sirius had straightened up, helped Remus to his feet, and stalked directly to the garden without letting his eyes rest on any of the dusty furniture or whispering portraits.  

They have barely spoken today.  He had woken up that morning with his body protesting the pull of the moon—he could feel the fire in his bones, the ache in his joints, the sharp teeth ready to break through his gums.  But he was comfortable (or as comfortable as he could be), and was tangled in a thick comforter.  He was warmer than he’d felt in months, even if he still could feel the deep chill of Azkaban, and the scent of Sirius was everywhere .  The combination of feelings, plus the unfamiliar sunshine on his face streaming through gauzy cream curtains, was deeply disorienting.  

He knew, intellectually, that he was not in Azkaban.  And when Sirius walked into his room bearing a tray with tea and porridge, raven hair gleaming in the mid-morning light, he knew that it was real.  But his pounding head made it impossible for his mind to settle and accept this new reality.  

He is less human on the days of the full moon.  In the hours before the wolf takes over, his senses sharpen, and his thoughts simplify—and this only became more acute during the war, when he was with other werewolves that surrendered fully to their instincts, and in Azkaban, when the wolf was his only reprieve from his grief and misery.  Sirius has had years of practice taking care of Remus on the days of full moons, and seemed to adjust quickly—he had spoken to him with gentle words, had offered him simple food that his stomach could tolerate and tea— which he had not had in eight months, and which made him very nearly cry, and had given him pain potions that dulled his aches and let him drift in and out of consciousness.  In response, Remus could say very little, simply basking in Sirius’s scent and giving short, one-word answers in response to Sirius’s tentative entreaties.  

When dusk fell, Sirius had come into Remus’s room, helped him out of bed, and explained the plan for the evening.  Remus protested, of course.  He is dangerous—he always has been, even when his teenage foolishness cared more about having his friends nearby during his transformations than their safety.  But he has been alone, for months , and the wolf hates him enough already.  He has no idea what the wolf will do when he sees Padfoot.  But Sirius has promised that he will hide if the wolf gets out of hand, and Remus…Remus still is selfish, and fundamentally does not want to be alone again.  So Remus reluctantly agreed, and now he and Sirius sit together in silence, waiting for the moon to rise.  

He had thought this was going to be his last night on earth, and now he sits across from the love of his life, and he doesn’t know what to say or do .  It is beyond surreal—just yesterday, he knew with almost absolute certainty that this moon would be too much for his tired heart, his beaten and bruised lungs.  But now, he has spent 24 hours being pumped with healing and nutrient potions, and he feels stronger than he has in a long while, and, most importantly, he is not in a cage—and he thinks his chances of surviving are, actually, pretty high.  And he doesn’t actually know how he feels about that.  

Remus has reluctantly stripped his clothing, and sits with his knees clutched tightly to his chest.  Sirius politely looked away when he did so, which both relieved Remus and also hurt , because he knows his body is so much more broken and scarred that Sirius has ever seen.  He is monstrous, and he doesn’t want Sirius to see the transformation. 

The monster rears its head after a few minutes.  Remus tries not to scream as his spine twists and cracks, as his hands and feet elongate.  But its when it reaches his head—when his jaw breaks and reforms into a snout, and teeth break through his gums like they’ve been trying to all day—that he can no longer keep it in.  He screams, and it turns into a howl midway through.  The last thing he sees before he loses his mind to the oblivion of the wolf is the huge, shaggy black dog that he loves so much, and the wolf yips in delight.  Hello, old friend .

***

A bared neck, a wagging tail, sniffing and licking and yipping and playing —gentle, distracting nudges when the wolf starts gnawing at his paws or scratching at his skin—nuzzling, when the wolf tires out (sooner than usual, which the wolf doesn’t understand).  But it is okay, because Padfoot is there, curled into his side, and the wolf rests his massive head on Padfoot’s flank as he falls asleep under the moonlight.

***

When Remus wakes, he doesn’t understand where the hard floors of Azkaban are.  He is on soft grass, and there is a blanket pulled around his waist.  He does not think he has any serious injuries; he feels no gashes, smells no blood.  His joints burn, and when he breathes in, he feels a familiar shooting pain that indicates bruised ribs.  

And then…he feels gentle touches on his face, his arms, and murmured healing spells.  His head is taken between two impossibly soft hands, slightly tremoring over his cheeks, and his head is lifted onto a lap.  “Hey, Moony,” says Sirius, his voice impossibly kind.  “How are you feeling?”

And, oh .  It’s been so long since Remus woke up with someone there.  And it’s been even longer since it was Sirius .  He thought he had lost this, forever.  He inhales Sirius’s citrusy scent, musky from a night running as Padfoot.  Sirius takes his thumb and smooths it between Remus’s brows, a familiar gesture that is both so comforting and familiar that Remus feels tears prick at the corner of his eyes.  “Remus,” Sirius says again, “Can you open your eyes?” 

His eyes crack open, just slightly, but it is still dark outside.  Sirius pulls him further into a sitting position, so that his back is pressed against Sirius’s chest, and Sirius’s legs bracket him on either side.  Sirius points his wand at Remus’s ribs, and the pain fades to a dull ache.  With his other hand, he is gently patting Remus’s hair—he might have run his fingers through it, if it wasn’t so matted.  

He feels safe .  He feels cared for .  “Oh, Moony,” Sirius murmurs, thumbing underneath his eye.  And Remus realizes that tears have started to fall.  For the first time since Sirius died—or since Remus thought he died—Remus is crying.  “Does it hurt?” 

Remus shakes his head emphatically, but his head is foggy with post-moon fatigue, and it makes him dizzy.  So he turns his head, and instinctively buries it into Sirius’s chest.  His scent is so strong here, and Remus lets out a relieved and desperate sob.  Sirius drops his wand, and puts both arms around Remus, enveloping him in a full hug.  Sirius eases him fully onto his lap, until Sirius is cradling him like a child.  And Remus lets the tears fall and soak into Sirius’s jumper, sobs coming one after the other.  

Sirius murmurs comforts into his hair, interspersed with firm kisses, but doesn’t try to shush him or calm him.  He lets the sobs wrack over Remus’s body and holds him through it.  Sirius’s own tears fall into Remus’s hair, but they are calm tears, controlled tears, nothing like Remus’s desperate release.  He has missed Sirius so much , and he had thought he lost this forever.  He thought that he would be dead today, not wrapped in Sirius’s arms, broken and brittle but alive , both of them.  

“I missed you,” he says, because he can’t hold it in any longer.  His voice is thick with tears, and still croaks with his strained vocal cords.  “Oh, oh I missed you,” he says again, and then is overwhelmed by another round of sobs.  

“I missed you too, darling,” Sirius whispers, squeezing Remus impossibly closer.  “I’m so glad you’re here.  I’m so glad you survived.”  

“I almost didn’t,” Remus gasps through his tears.  “Losing you…losing you…,” he can’t finish.  He can’t put into words how much losing Sirius hurt .  

“You didn’t lose me.”  Sirius is rubbing comforting circles on his back.  “You never could.  Even if I really was gone, I’d still be yours.”  

Remus nods desperately into Sirius’s chest, willing it to be true, willing Sirius to be his.  

They are intertwined like this when Regulus finds them an hour later and coaxes them back to the townhouse through the Floo.  And when Remus collapses into bed, and Sirius continues to stand, Remus loses all pride and reaches out his hand.  Sirius smiles softly, grey eyes still shining with tears, and crawls into bed beside Remus.  Now that the floodgates have opened, this gesture brings on another round of tears, and Remus nestles his face into Sirius’s sweater, letting himself hear the steady heartbeat that confirms that Sirius is alive , and here with him.  He lets the heartbeat lull him to sleep, wrapped in Sirius’s arms. 

Chapter Text

“Paddy!”  Harry says happily as Sirius sneaks out of Remus’s room.  He slept only a few hours before the familiar twisting ache in his spine woke him up, forcing him to stand up and walk around.  Remus is still dead to the world, his tears leading into abrupt exhaustion.  Sirius watched him sleep until his back forced him out of bed.  Remus is a familiar stranger, in many ways, a ghost of the Remus he remembers.  He is scary thin, with a new scar bisecting his face, a troubled, anxious expression that doesn’t go away even when he sleeps.  But there’s still the bean-shaped freckle under his right eye, the tiny burn scar on his ear from Sirius getting too close with a lighter, the slight gap between his two front teeth that whistles softly when he breathes out.  Sirius can’t tell if it’s horrifying or comforting to stare at him—both options break his heart a little bit. 

He picks Harry up, nuzzling into his wild hair.  “Heya kid,” he murmurs, as Harry leans happily into his embrace.  “I missed you.”

“How’s Lupin?”  Regulus asks.  He stands by the stove, wearing a ruffled apron atop his starched white shirt, and flipping pancakes.  By the multiple bowls around him, Sirius can see he’s making three different types of pancakes:  blueberry for Harry, banana for Regulus, and chocolate chip for Sirius (which Regulus justifies by telling him he needs the extra calories, but Sirius knows that he remembers Sirius’s favorite from when they were kids).  It always softens Sirius when he sees Regulus like this, relaxed (or as relaxed as he is capable of) and self-assured.  He swore loudly at Andromeda when she gave him the green and white checked apron to celebrate his newfound domesticity, but now he won’t cook without it (or one of his growing collection of aprons that delight Harry to no end).  It’s endearing as hell, in all honesty— Sirius is once again grateful that he gets to see this side of his brother, that he gets to see him grow into a young man.  

“He’s okay,” Sirius answers.  “Resting.”  

“Well, I made extras,” Regulus says, pointing to a stack of chocolate chip pancakes under a stasis charm.  “I figured he had your same unrefined palette.”

Sirius knows that Regulus, with his near-photographic memory and perfect recall, has not forgotten that Remus’s favorite food is chocolate, but Sirius won’t force him to admit his extra bit of thoughtfulness.  

“Buh’ berries,” Harry gasps, delighted, staring at the bowl behind Regulus.  

Regulus grins, bright and unrestrained.  “Only the best for you, Harold.” 

Harry shakes his head dramatically.  

 “My apologies, Harrison.” 

Harry shakes his head again.

“Harry….mcharoldharrisonhairpin? That must be correct!” 

Harry smiles a toothy grin.  “I’m Harry!”  He says with a bright laugh.  

“Oh, that’s right.”  Regulus smacks himself on the forehead, and Sirius smiles fondly at the pair.    Regulus is good at encouraging Harry to talk.  For the first few months they had him, he was quiet and taciturn.  One morning, he tripped in the living room and banged his head on the coffee table, leaving a massive goose egg.  Regulus and Sirius had both rushed to him, and Sirius had scooped him into his arms to comfort him.  But he didn’t cry.  Instead, he stared at the floor with wide and glassy eyes, and put his hands over his mouth, muffling the whimpers that were escaping.  

“What is he doing?”  Sirius had said, desperate. 

Regulus had a look of pure fury on his face.  “I think…I think he’s trying not to make any noise.”  It had taken a lot of effort not to leave right then and murder the Dursleys.  Instead, he snuggled him closer, pressing a kiss to his forehead and gently pulling his hands away from his mouth.  

After nearly six months of love, the boy is finally starting to act like a toddler.  He laughs and cries and babbles—all softly (Sirius thinks he’s still anxious about being too loud).  Once weekly, he goes to a Muggle therapist that specializes in childhood trauma—to Sirius, it seems to mostly consist of fingerpainting, but he can’t deny that it has, somehow, coaxed Harry out of his shell.  

Harry continues to giggle softly as Sirius puts him into his high chair.  Regulus brings him his blueberry pancakes—topped with lemon zest and creme fraiche, the utter ponce, which Harry digs into with gusto.  

“Only toddler in the world who likes fucking creme fraiche,” Sirius says to himself, as Harry grins up at him with a glob of the stuff dripping from his nose. 

“He is a boy of expensive and refined tastes,” Regulus says pretentiously as he gives Sirius his pancakes.  

“No lemon zest?” Sirius asks with a raised eyebrow. 

“With chocolate chips?” Regulus says, aghast.  “You monster.  Here.”  He waves his wand, and a small mesh sieve appears above Sirius’s plate, raining powdered sugar atop his pancakes.  “And these,” he says, bringing out a bowl of raspberries garnished with a sprig of mint.

“Presentation,” Regulus begins, “Is half the experience,” Sirius finishes, rolling his eyes. 

Regulus huffs and goes to get his own plate.  “This looks amazing, Reg,” Sirius calls after him.  “Thank you.” 

Regulus visibly softens, looking quite pleased with himself.   “You’re welcome,” he says simply.

They eat in comfortable silence, broken only by Harry’s occasional babbling.  “It’s weird, right?”  Sirius finally says.

“What is?” 

“Having him here,” Sirius says, nodding his head toward the closed door.  

Regulus shrugs.  “It’s a bit weird, yes.  But we’ll get used to it.”

“I don’t know if I know him anymore,” Sirius says softly.  

Regulus eyes him appraisingly.  But before he can respond, the door behind them creaks open, and Remus—shaking on his feet, pale as death, but upright—stands against the doorframe.  

Sirius smiles instinctively, but his smile drops when he sees the pure horror on Remus’s face.  His eyes are trained on Harry, who looks back at him nervously, cowering slightly in his high chair.  

“Remus…,” Sirius begins, but then he stops short.  He’s not sure what to say.  So he turns to Harry.  “Harry, do you remember Moony?”  He sees Remus flinch out of the corner of his eyes.  “He was best friends with your dad.” 

“He’s staying with us,” Regulus adds.  “A sleepover, like you have with Aunt Andy sometimes.” 

“I’m sorry,” Remus whispers.  His voice is hoarse and cracked.  “Fuck…, I mean, shit…um, sorry, I’m really sorry,” and he backs into his room and closes the door.

Harry looks bemused, and Regulus wears a similar expression.  Their matching faces might be funny if Sirius’s heart hadn’t just fallen through the floor.  But, thankfully, despite Harry’s confusion, no tears come.  He just stares at the closed door for a bit, then turns back to his pancakes, digging in with gusto.  

“I’ll go check on him,” Sirius says softly.  “Harry, are you going to finish your breakfast like a big boy?”  He smiles and nods happily.  

When he enters Remus’s room, his heart sinks further.  Remus sits hunched on the bed, nearly folded in half, with his fist pressed harshly into his mouth, biting down on his knuckles.  His other hand is hooked around the back of his neck, and he rocks slightly back and forth, eyes wide and glassy.  

“Hey,” Sirius murmurs, moving quickly across the room to sit beside him.  He gently pulls Remus’s hand from his mouth and takes it into his own, rubbing his fingers over the teeth marks that almost broke through the skin.  Despite the cleaning charm Sirius cast this morning, Remus still smells like sweat and dirt, and his matted hair and wild eyes make him look every bit like a recently released convict.  Even just holding his hand, Sirius can tell that he’s burning with post-moon fever and knows that he must feel absolutely wretched.  Remus continues to stare blankly ahead.  

“So, we have Harry,” Sirius says bluntly.  “I hadn’t really had a chance to tell you yet.  And, well…well I didn’t really think you’d react very well.  So I wanted to break it to you gently.  Which I pretty much completely mucked up, and now you’re freaking out, which is fine, because I’d probably feel the same way.”  He takes a breath.  Merlin, he’s terrible at this. 

Remus shakes his head.  “I shouldn’t be here,” Remus mutters.  “Fuck, Pad-, Sirius…why did you bring me here?” 

Sirius stares at him blankly.  “What are you on about?”

“I’m a werewolf!”  Remus says hysterically.  “I’m a convict!” 

“I know you’re a werewolf,” Sirius says, slightly exasperated.  “And you’re innocent!” 

“His parents are dead because of me!”  Remus chokes on the last word, letting out a deranged-sounding laugh.  “Remember Uncle Moony?  The monster who killed your parents?  Well now he’s sleeping down the hall.”  

Sirius’s heart twists.  “You didn’t kill them.  You know that.” 

“I as good as killed them,” The heat drains from his voice. 

“You were trying to protect them,” Sirius says gently.  

Remus lifts his gaze to the ceiling, blinking rapidly.  “I did a bang up job of that, didn’t I?  Tried to protect you, and you get fucking kidnapped and tortured, tried to protect James and Lily, they get murdered, tried to protect Pe–the rat —and instead give him everything he needs to betray them.”  He coughs softly to clear his throat, seemingly unaccustomed to saying so much at once.  

Sirius is quiet for a moment.  Remus has always tended to do this—he blames himself for everything; he fundamentally does not trust himself and does not believe he should have friendship, or love, or happiness, and when he loses one of those things, he always thinks it is his fault.  Now, with the benefit of hindsight, Sirius can see how it tore them apart during the war—Sirius pulling away, and Remus simply accepting it because it’s what he felt he deserved.  

“I don’t blame you,” Sirius finally says.  “I blame Peter—I blame Voldemort.  I blame the Death Eaters, and blood purists like my parents who started the war that killed them.  Not you.” 

“You should,” Remus spits.  

“Don’t tell me what I should feel,” Sirius retorts, no heat behind his words.  He moves his arm to wrap around Remus.  “I.  Don’t.  Blame.  You.”  He says it again, slowly.  “It’s not your fault.” 

Remus takes a deep breath, relaxing slightly into Sirius’s embrace.  “I shouldn’t be around their kid,” he says softly. 

“That’s my decision,” Sirius replies.  “I’m his godfather.  I trust you, and I want you here—I want you to know him.  And James and Lily would want that too.”  

Remus falls into a skeptical silence. 

“Do you want to see him?”  Sirius asks. 

Remus shakes his head, and Sirius isn’t sure whether to feel disappointed or relieved.  He wants Remus to see Harry again, to become comfortable with him, to hold him and love him like he did before .  But he also can’t deny that this version of Remus is rough, and sad, and might frighten Harry like he did before.  He also, frankly, looks (and smells) awful.  

“I think…maybe a bath first?”  Renus asks tentatively, sniffing at his shoulder and wrinkling his nose slightly.  

Well, that’s one less awkward conversation, at least.  Sirius nods encouragingly.  “Okay, let’s get you up.” 

“I can do it,” Remus mumbles, pushing himself away from Sirius.  Sirius is skeptical…and rightly so.  As soon as Remus pushes himself onto his bare feet, his legs wobble dangerously.  

Sirius darts to his feet to catch him.  “So Azkaban didn’t make you any less stubborn, huh?”  Sirius quips, before freezing.  Stupid, insensitive prick!   He thinks to himself.  Why would you joke about AZKABAN?  

But Remus doesn’t react aside from a soft snort.  

Sirius gets him into the bathtub and sets him gently atop the toilet while he gets the bath ready.  “Strip, Lupin,” he says with a grin.  But Remus just stares back at him impassively, and Sirius deflates.  He knows, intellectually, that Remus needs some time, that it’s the day after a full moon and his body is recovering, that his last 8 months might have been even more hellish than Sirius’s, that he’s scared and uncertain and confused—even more so by his best friends’ son sitting just outside his room.  But Sirius still can’t help the twinge of disappointment that follows every time he tries to pull a smile or laugh out of Remus, only to be met with blankness.  His sobs this morning, and even his uncertainty over Harry, have been a blessed relief showing that, beneath this stony facade, Remus is still there, even if he’s since retreated back into himself.  

He turns back to the tub with a sigh, pouring in some fragrant soap that foamed up on the surface of the water.  He picks up a murtlap-based potion that Regulus had made to soothe his aching and trembling muscles in the months after he awoke, which he still uses sometimes after particularly hard days.  It will help Remus, too—Sirius decides then that they’ll get him clean, then refill the tub with fresh water, and let him soak away some of his soreness.  

Sirius is leaning to feel the water temperature when he hears Remus gasp.  He whirls around, and sees that Remus has removed his shirt, and is now standing in front of the mirror.  He looks at his reflection with a mixture of horror and revulsion, his hand drifting to the new scar that bisects his face.  His eyes move down to his chest, likewise scarred, and his sternum and rib bones that jut sharply under his skin.  Sirius realizes with a jolt that this must be the first time that he’s seen himself in months.  

“Remus…,” he starts.

“Um,” Remus says, voice shaking.  “I think I would prefer to do this on my own, now that I think about it.”  He places his hands on the countertop to steady himself.  

“Remus,” Sirius says again, moving to stand next to him.  “It will get better.  Your body just needs some time to adjust.”  

Remus averts his gaze, and wraps his arms around his abdomen.  “Please, Sirius, can you get out?” 

“You can barely stand…,” Sirius begins.

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t want you to see me like this!”  Remus shrieks.  His chest is heaving, and he wears a furious expression.  

“Hey,” Sirius says softly, realizing that Remus is very close to breaking down again.  “Look at me.”  He rests his palm against Remus’s cheek, and gently turns him away from the mirror, and toward him.  He is going to say that he looks fine, or that he is still handsome, but he sees the shame and uncertainty in his eyes, and takes a different approach.  

“You’ve been through a lot.  And you’ve survived, yeah?”  He gives Remus a small smile that Remus does not return (not that he expected him to).  “This,” he nods his head toward the mirror, toward Remus’s mangled body reflected back to him, “Doesn’t make you any less beautiful to me.”  Remus sucks in a sharp inhale and lets his eyes flutter closed. 

They have not, of course, remotely discussed what exists between them now, or how they can cross the chasm of eight months of grief and pain.  But Sirius still loves the man in front of him, and unless Remus was lying in Azkaban, he still loves Sirius too.  Sirius is just going to have to force Remus to see that again; he’s done it before, convincing a teenage Remus Lupin that his scarred body and “furry little problem” didn’t make him any less worthy of love.  He will just have to do it one more time.  

“This body kept you alive long enough to get back to me, okay?  Give yourself a bit of credit.”

Remus’s lip quavers, but he opens his eyes to meet Sirius’s.  They are filled with shame and so much uncertainty, and Sirius suddenly feels completely out of his depth.  He doesn’t know how to talk to Remus anymore; he doesn’t know how to comfort him.  

So he turns to the concrete things he can do to help Remus.  He can get him clean, he can feed him, and he can make sure he has enough rest.  “Come on,” Sirius says gently, gesturing toward the milky, hot water.  “You’ve always felt better after a bath.” 

Remus looks confused for a moment, as if he has forgotten his post-moon ritual of soaking away his aches and pains, which he started after he became a prefect at Hogwarts and got access to the bathrooms.  He shirks off his pants sheepishly, avoiding Sirius’s gaze, and Sirius politely looks away.  

“Let me know if you need help getting in,” Sirius says. 

He hears the sound of Remus putting one leg in, and then another, and he turns around to face him.  Remus is lowering himself into the tub, skeletal arms trembling with the effort of slowing his entry.  But once he is fully submerged, he lets out a low, pleased groan, and it sounds so much like the Remus from before . 

“Good, huh?”  Sirius murmurs, chuckling softly.

Sirius gives Remus soap and a flannel, and he spends the next 10 minutes scrubbing at his limbs.  Sirius also helps him shampoo and brush through his matted hair, which takes less time than Sirius expected.  The dirt and grime from Azkaban float to the surface of the tub, swirling toward the top, and when Sirius vanishes the water to replace it with clean water, he hopes he’s vanishing some of the pain that Remus carries with him as well.  

“Reg made this for me,” Sirius says conversationally as he pours the murtlap potion into the fresh water.  It turns the water an inviting lavender color.  “It’ll help your muscles relax.”  He swirls his hand in the warm water, avoiding touching Remus, but only barely, and then he taps the surface of the water to add bubbles for privacy.  When he looks up, Remus’s eyes are no longer closed.  He is staring intently at Sirius.  

“What?”  He asks, feeling exposed.

“Are you…,” Remus trails off and takes a deep, steadying breath.  “Are you okay?”  His voice breaks on the last word. 

He stares down where his hand slightly trembles in the water.  He’s not sure if Remus is talking about his physical or mental wellbeing, so he settles on a bit of both.   “I don’t remember it,” he says softly.  “I remember our fight, I remember leaving for the mission, but nothing else.  Not until I woke up…,” he trails off.  The waking up is something he would prefer to also forget.    

Remus nods, but continues gazing at him, prompting him to continue.  

“It’s weird.  My body’s kind of fucked—it’s getting better,” he says quickly, seeing Remus’s stricken expression.  “But I don’t really know how it got that way.  I’m not sure if I want to know, to be honest; I think I’m grateful not to remember.  But still…sometimes I don’t feel like my body is mine.” 

This, of all things, is what finally gets a wry smile from Remus.  It stretches over his too-thin face, and his teeth seem too prominent, but he still looks more like himself than he has since Sirius saw him in Azkaban. 

Sirius huffs a surprised laugh.  “What?”

“You just described being a werewolf.” 

Sirius gapes at him, momentarily stunned.  “Huh,” he says after a bit.  “I suppose I did.  I’d never thought of it that way.”  And he realizes that, for the first time since he woke up, there is someone who understands how out of sorts he feels sometimes, how uncomfortable he is in his own body.  Remus has felt like this most of his life—waking up with hardly any memory of the night before, with broken bones and gashes inflicted by a part of himself that he doesn’t know.  Sirius feels unexpectedly warm.   

Remus’s smile falls, and Sirius immediately wants it back.  “I wish you didn’t know how it felt,” he says softly. 

“I know,” Sirius replies gently.  “I wish you didn’t either.  But…,” 

“But what?”

“It’s just…you’ve always been the person who knows me best,” he says softly.  “Even now…even after everything we’ve been through.”  He tentatively extends his hand, pushing a wet lock of hair behind Remus’s ear.  Remus closes his eyes and leans into the touch, nodding slowly. 

“But I don’t think you know me anymore,” he whispers, grief in his voice.  “I don’t think I’m the same person you remember.”

Sirius immediately feels guilty, because hadn’t he said the exact same thing to Regulus this morning?  Sirius is quiet for several long moments, contemplating how to respond. 

“I don’t care,” he says, finally.  Remus looks at him, surprised.  “I mean, I want you to be okay, obviously.  I want you to heal.  But of course you’re not the same person you were before all of this.  I’m not either.  It doesn’t mean I don’t know you, or that you don’t know me.”  He pauses for a moment.  “And the things I don’t know, I’ll learn,” he says.  

Remus’s eyes well with tears again, and he looks up to the ceiling, blinking rapidly.  “Sorry,” he says, the ghost of familiar self-deprecation in his tone.  “I’m like a fucking spigot.”  

“Sometimes you need a good cry,” Sirius says with a smile.  “James always told me that, I think to make me feel better about the fact that I cried all the time.  And because I do know you, believe it or not, I have a feeling you haven’t cried in a while.” 

Remus is quiet for long enough that Sirius thinks he is not going to respond.  But he finally murmurs, “Not since you died.”   

Sirius freezes.  He keeps forgetting, honestly, that Remus thought he was dead.  He thinks of how devastated he was when he thought Regulus was dead, and when he woke up and learned about James, the heartbreak and the grief and the finality of it all.  He grieved Remus too, of course, but he had at least known that he was alive.  Despite his rage and his grief, he knew he could go to Remus, he could see him again, he could demand answers, he could hear his voice.  That’s how they ended up here, after all.  

But Remus…Remus didn’t have that.  He thought Sirius had died , and then barely a week later, he lost James and Lily.  And then he was thrown into prison.  

“I’m sorry,” says Sirius.  It’s so inadequate to cover what Remus has been through.  

Remus sighs heavily.  He looks so small, curled into himself in the tub, shoulder blades jutting sharply from his back.  Sirius suddenly very much wants to hold him again, to take him in his arms, but he feels uncertain. 

But he’s a Gryffindor, damnit, and so he gathers his courage.  “Can I get in?”  Sirius says, gesturing to the water. 

“You want to?”  Remus says, clearly surprised. 

Sirius nods.  “I want to be closer to you.” 

“Are you sure?”  Sirius thinks there’s hopefulness in his tone.  

“Scoot forward,” Sirius replies, and Remus smiles—just barely, just the corners of his lips turning up, but it’s there, and it’s beautiful.  

Sirius quickly undresses and lowers himself into the hot water behind Remus.  Remus remains bent forward, so he gently puts his arms on Remus’s shoulders and pulls him toward him.  Remus obediently follows, until his back is flush with Sirius’s chest.  Sirius sighs contentedly, wrapping his arms around Remus’s chest.  They soak for long minutes, Remus slowly releasing more and more tension until he’s boneless in Sirius’s arms.  He’s placed his hands atop Sirius’s on his chest and has turned his head into Sirius’s bicep, and Sirius thinks for a moment that he has fallen asleep.  

But he is not.  “Are you sure this is real?”  Remus whispers, voice muffled by Sirius’s arm.  Sirius gets goosebumps where Remus’s breath tickles his arm, where his lips lightly brush his skin.  

Sirius nods into the crook of Remus’s neck, where his hair has started to curl again. Sirius replies softly, not wanting to disturb the stillness of the bathroom.  “It’s real.”