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October is a month for omens.
Owls are restless, quickening in flight, predatory flashes through barren branches. Mars moves through the head of the bull, through the heart of the lion. The balance gives way to the scorpion; justice fades to vindication, fairness to secrecy, beauty to obsession. Summer dies and winter grows, a grey hunger across the land, a knife of wind through the trees. Shape-shifters haunt the roads, gliding from one form to another, untamed and restless. Fires roar in the fields: smoke, fragrance, shadows. Spirits wander free, unfettered and forgotten.
October is a month for omens, portents and prophesies, warnings of things to come.
But it has been a long time since Remus Lupin believed in tomorrow.
-
An old woman with one eye tells him that he will die in three days.
His step falters; his thoughts stumble. The evening rises swiftly, and the air is brisk with expectation and hunger. One clouded eye seizes his gaze, and he forgets, for an instant, why he is rushing away.
It is only an instant, but it is long enough.
Remus looks down at her, and she laughs -- a cough, a rebellion of lungs -- and winks, or blinks, for there is no difference at all. Her missing eye is an empty hole, dark and deep, and her body is no more than a twist of mottled skin and crooked bones hidden beneath dirty robes that smell of piss and tobacco. Stained and matted with dirt, smoke and grease, her hair has no colour of its own. She is crouched against a crumbling stone wall in Knockturn Alley, behind a nameless shop with boarded-up windows and iron locks on the doors.
"Three days," she says again. Her voice is like the creeping frost, delicate and cold. She extends her hand: three fingers, so long they might have been elegant, if they could remember. "Three days, and you will die," she says. One of the fingers is cut off at the second knuckle. The wound did not heal properly, and there is a hard, misshapen knot of dead skin at the end. "You will die in three days. Trust not the plague-bringer, the nest-fouler, the one who devours. Malaise and poison in the blood. In three days, you devour yourself."
The hand disappears into the filthy robes. The eye closes. The woman sinks into the stone, leaving only a confused, lifeless pile: wool and hair and bone, dirt and filth and rubbish. The alley swallows her, and she is no more.
Remus adjusts the package under his arm and walks away. Her words float from his mind, seeds on the wind. He does not believe in omens and portents; he does not believe in prophesies and fate.
In the darkening street, he keeps his head low but does not cower. Shopkeepers scowl, prostitutes leer, traders stoop beneath bulky burdens, beasts strain on chains, but there is nothing that he fears in Knockturn Alley. The shunned alley comes alive in the evening, and the alley souls are detaching themselves from doorways, slinking along the walls, scurrying in the gutters. Moving swiftly, Remus relaxes into the anonymity of distrust. All faces, even his own, are hooded, and no eyes turn toward the gold and crimson sky.
It is the twenty-eighth of October. Night is falling, and he has nowhere to go.
-
A man with a silver chain and a rusty knife tells him that the angels will unsheathe swords of flame to strike down the sinners of Sodom and Gomorrah.
The Muggle is wearing dirty jeans and a threadbare tee; his arms are marred by long red streaks and his gaze is wild, unfocused. He waves the knife unsteadily, bloodshot eyes skipping over Remus and the street and the darkening London night, his voice trembling. "The sinners will know their evil," he says, "and the righteous will prevail."
Remus steps to the side quickly, but the man blocks him.
"You wear a shroud of betrayal." The man's voice drops, low and almost intimate, and his thin lips curve into a tight, ugly smile. He raises the knife to his own chest and catches the silver chain with the blade, pulling it away from his neck like a lead. For a second, no longer, his too-large pupils look into Remus' eyes; Remus steps back before he can stop himself. "It stains your skin, clouds your eyes." The man's hands are shaking, and he dances, an inconstant shambling motion in the dull light of a streetlamp. "The righteous will prevail," he hisses, lunging toward Remus, "and sons of evil will fall in a rain of blood and light, for the righteous never sleep."
Remus dodges him easily, and the Muggle falls to his knees, dropping the knife and wrapping his scarred arms around his stomach. "The righteous never sleep," the man says again, pleadingly, tears gathering in his wild eyes. "It stains your skin, clouds your eyes. We never sleep."
As Remus passes by, he says, softly, "No, we don't."
The Muggle weeps silently as he walks away.
-
A child in a white dress and a crown of flower tells him to go home.
An evening wedding spills into the street. Remus pauses, but before he can cross to the other side a little girl is in his path. She is clutching a bouquet of white roses, her gauzy dress and pale hair angelic in the failing light. Her eyes are blue, like summer skies and oceans, round and innocent.
"It's time to go home," she says. "You'll be too late."
"Excuse me," Remus replies, and takes a step to the right. The wedding party is laughing and shouting, and a rain of rose petals fills the night.
The little girl jumps forward, her patent leather shoes clicking on the pavement, and she grabs Remus' sleeve. "Please," she says again, cocking her head to one side. "It's time to go home."
"I haven't got a home," Remus says without thinking, then curses himself immediately. He pulls away, glancing nervously toward the wedding party, wary of the eyes of suspicious Muggles. But their attentions are held by shouted jokes and tearful well-wishes, and nobody notices the little flower girl speaking to the strange, shabby man.
"Everybody has a home," the girl states simply, "if you know where to find it."
She smiles beatifically and pulls a single white rose out of her bouquet. She hands it to Remus with a perfect curtsey then laughs, a song of bells and tumbling water, and skips back toward the celebrating adults.
Remus holds the rose carefully, mindful of the thorns, and crosses the road to the other side. There he pauses, brushing his fingers over the silk-smooth petals, and looks upward. The clouds are breaking apart, and a few bold stars are visible.
He does not believe in omens and portents, prophesies and signs.
But he does not believe in coincidences, either.
-
The flat is dark and empty.
His heart -- what is left of it, not yet withered to dust -- crumbles.
He walks through the quiet rooms, holding the white rose as though it were fashioned of porcelain. The flat is suffocated by empty spaces, deafened by echoes -- just get out of my sight, you lying bastard, just get out -- holes where warmth and comfort should be. Even Sirius' things, strewn about haphazardly -- don't even know why I ask anymore, just to hear more fucking lies, more fucking unbelievable lies -- are alien and lifeless. It has been nearly a month since Remus left -- don't say anything else, I don't want to hear it, you're just a fucking monster like the rest of them -- a month, and a lifetime. His mind reels when he traces the days, so shockingly few.
Nothing has changed, but everything is different. His knuckles are healed, but the hole where he hit the wall remains. There are dirty dishes in the sink, unread newspapers on the counter. In the bedroom, the bed is unmade, but only one side is rumpled. And on the bedside table--
Remus stops and sits heavily on the side of the bed. The photograph has been turned facedown -- better than hidden in a drawer, he thinks, his throat tightening -- and his hand shakes when he reaches for it. He studies the picture for several moments.
Everybody has a home.
An explosion of autumn colour, fields and forests. Both of them squinting and laughing in the sunlight. Three years ago. Before their friends began to die, before the secrets began to spread, before the world tumbled into a darkness that seemed to have no dawn, before--
He frowns, tracing the frame with one finger, trying to identify the feeling in his chest.
The men in the picture, with their easy smiles and entwined hands, they are not entirely strangers.
If you know where to find it.
Remus sets the photograph on the bedside table -- upright, facing the room -- and places the white rose beside it. Then he stands, draws his wand, and Disapparates.
-
In this village, there are stories for every season.
The village is a gem, its discovery a lark: an afternoon adventure with a motorbike, off the edge of a forgotten map, chasing autumn leaves down the narrow lanes. His memory is a rush of wind in his hair and laughter whisked away, arms tight around his waist as he drives -- I love you, Remus, but if you crash my bike I'm going to have to kill you -- hot breath on his neck, the machine rumble between his legs, sunshine and colour and there has never been a bluer sky.
The pub is called Gabriel Ratchets, but the Muggles have forgotten why. Over lazy afternoon pints, the old men speak knowingly about the standing stones on the fairy mound, about the stories of the seasons: pursuit, love, loss, death, rebirth. Their stories have no beginnings and no ends; there are no boundaries but a fiddle in the corner, a shaft of sunlight through the dusty window, an amused Scottish noise at the back a throat and a wink of an eye, a gossamer veil between tales and truth.
In the evening, they leave the old men and the warm pub and climb the hill to the stones. They stay through the night, transfiguring a sock into a warm woollen blanket, talking of everything and nothing at all, wrapped together in a comfortable tangle, warm palms resting on chests, laughing kisses pressed into hair. The stones are silent sentinels, jagged silhouettes against a clear, star-filled sky. There is no moon.
And they return.
The villagers do not remember magic, but their stories do. In the dark midwinter, when the days are brief and bitter, the old men speak of battles waged on barren plains, the silent killing frost, a king frozen in stone, travellers lost in voracious storms--
--slipping on the frozen grass, rushing up the hillside, breath in hot bursts, gloves tossed aside and scarves untangled -- eager fingers fumbling with metal buttons -- storm-dark eyes and sly red mouth grinning upward, bent knees on the frost-hard ground -- the shock of cold, strong hands on his hips, a grip almost painful -- he pushes the hat away and twists his fingers through soft black hair -- a rush of warmth, a rough, eager mouth -- he arches his back against the standing stone and closes his eyes--
--until the thaw, when the stories change, and the old men in the village wink and joke and tease, recalling the loves of their childhood and the lasses they chased. They tell the story of a maiden and a man, a forbidden love, a forgotten child, and the wild hunt that echoes still. This is their favourite story, retold with the recklessness of spring and the boldness of immortality, and while they laugh they forget, for a moment, their aching joints and failing eyes. The stories are ancient, familiar and strange, memories through fog-softened time--
--and the May night is rich with the scent of crushed flowers and new grass -- intoxicating, thrilling, a chase through the dewy woods and a tackle to the damp ground -- confusion of limbs and laughter, wrestling like schoolboys -- earth overturned and dead things returning to life -- beneath him Sirius is too alive, a wild thing both beautiful and terrible, hands pinned above his head -- and over the gasping breath, the incoherent curses and the tearing cloth and roaring blood, he can hear the hunt overhead, for only an instant--
--which stretches into summer, when the sun reigns again and the stories are bright and bloody, full of war, treachery and long-forgotten battles. The old men nod over their pints, naming dates and battles, kings who died and heroes who failed, women who stood on castle ramparts waiting for knights who would never return. Blood feeds the midsummer fields, rich and dark; the roots are stained red and memory is long--
--in a summer thunderstorm that shakes the heavens and the earth, rivulets run between his hands and knees, soaking his trouser legs and filling tiny pools where his hands dig into the mud -- no time for words between the deafening crashes, between the arms that form a cage around him, the hungry mouth on his shoulder -- he shuts his eyes, he has no words anyway, nothing beyond a choked, unspoken please, please, please -- and the lightning is like pain, fire through his body--
--but it fades in the fall, into the season of mists and silence, when the men in the pub have only sad stories to tell. This is the season when mothers bid farewell to children, when crops cease to grow and the green man hides, when lovers part for the winter and frost sneaks through the night. This is the season of muted light, subtle shivers, hushed voices--
--and Sirius has been whispering for hours, days, years; time has no meaning in the circle of stones, once so comforting, but even the words are dwarfed by the menacing sentinel stones: so beautiful, so fucking beautiful, we can stay here forever, we don't need to go back, we don't need to fight, this and you and me and fuck the rest of the world, we'll just stay -- but he turns away, turns away even though he wants nothing more than to roll into those arms, crawl inside Sirius' skin and agree, yes, yes, we'll stay, stay forever -- dead leaves cling to his jumper, and he can scarcely feel the touch -- his eyes are open but sometime in the night Sirius falls silent, as though he never said anything at all.
Remus stands on the dark roadside. The air is thick with smoke, carcasses and crops in roaring bonfires. They burn for many days in these valleys, dictated by traditions older than memory. On the hill, the stones are tall and sharp, dark shadows against a sky that glows red and orange.
He finds the motorbike easily; it's always hidden in the same place, obscured by the same misshapen tree. Remus runs a hand over the smooth seat, over the cool metal curves, and brushes a few stray leaves to the ground.
There is a story for every season, in the stones on the hill. He remembers them all.
-
Sirius jumps to his feet and draws his wand as Remus approaches.
"It's me," Remus says. But he holds back, waiting.
The relief that flashes across Sirius' face causes a flicker of hope, but it fades quickly. "What are you doing here?"
"Looking for you."
"What do you want?"
The suspicion in his voice is a like a knife through Remus' gut. He turns away for a moment, looking across the fields that stretch below the hill, aglow with light from the fires, obscured by thick smoke as the unwanted remains are offered and the farmland cleared, leaving only a charred scattering of bones.
"An old woman in Knockturn Alley told me that I'm going to die in three days," Remus says, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. He feels foolish, but he has no other explanation, so he merely shrugs and says nothing more. He looks away from the field to the standing stones behind him; they are both familiar and strange, comforting and menacing. There was a time -- not so long ago -- when he believed that nothing could be wrong in the presence of these stones.
Though he doesn't turn, he can feel Sirius' eyes on him, steady and searching.
"What were you doing in Knockturn Alley?"
Surprised, Remus laughs aloud, an unpleasant sound even to his own ears. "Of course that's what you ask."
"Of course you refuse to answer," Sirius snaps. He crosses his arms over his chest, and Remus can see the shift -- it's not subtle, nothing about Sirius is subtle -- a shift from former friend, lover, whatever the hell he is right now, to suspicious, cautious, dangerous Auror. He used to joke about it: Don't use your Auror voice, Sirius, it doesn't work on me.
That was a lie, of course. It works. No matter how he hates it, it always works.
"I was meeting someone," he begins. Sirius snorts and takes a few steps away, shaking his head and kicking at the dying grass. Remus sighs, wishing the argument could end before it has to begin. "It was--"
Nothing.
"Nothing. Right?" Sirius asks, mockingly. "It was nothing at all."
That's the only answer Remus has given, for months on end, and he does not need Sirius' derision to know how weak it is. It is the only answer he's allowed, in the cage of vows and secrecy, the web of lies and distrust, the dance of concealed meetings, ill-lit pubs, corners and cloaks and low voices -- and failure. Months and months, trying to persuade those who have no love for the Ministry or anyone else to join the fight, and he has nothing to show for it. Nothing.
"They killed the last two," Remus says absently. The smoke in the air is beginning to sting his eyes. He imagines that he can watch the words float away, spectres in the heavy scents, gone before they matter.
"Who? Who are you--"
"The last two who tried. A man and a woman. You never met them," he adds thoughtfully, thinking of it for the first time. An Order with no order, a society with no trust. "That was the point, of course. But it didn't work, and they died anyway. It was a warning -- they rely on the secrecy -- without it, what do they have but just another cage in the Ministry, or another regulation, and decree. Let the secrets slip and it's all pitchforks and torches and angry mobs, that's the reason they act the way they do. A hell of a warning. Have you ever seen what happens to a man who's driven mad by a banshee? I don't think she wanted to, but what choice do they--"
"Remus, what are you talking about?" Sirius' voice is low, perplexed, even -- Remus frowns slightly, unwilling to believe it -- concerned.
"I'm telling you what I've been doing," he explains. A part of his mind points out that he hasn't been speaking very sensibly, but it's too late to stop now. Another part of his mind reminds him that it doesn't matter anyway; the smoke will swallow what he says, and in the morning it will not matter. "Isn't that what you want to know? Isn't that what this is all about?" He waves one hand grandly, a ridiculous dramatic gesture. This: fights and silences, holes in plaster, overturned photographs, months of half-lies and whole regrets.
"But -- what have you been doing?"
Not a demand, not an angry retort, not a declaration of disbelief. It is a genuine question.
Only a question, and something inside Remus, something tight and cold, begins to unravel.
"Monsters," he says quietly. "I've been talking to monsters."
In the long silence that follows, he forces himself to look at Sirius, to meet his eyes in the diabolical red glow of the bonfires below, and not look away. Emotions dance across Sirius' face as plain as day; he has never been much good at hiding his thoughts, not when it really matters. Confusion, uncertainty, comprehension -- and guilt.
"I shouldn't--"
"Dumbledore asked me," Remus is saying suddenly, forcing the words before they vanish into the smoke. "He doesn't want to have -- have any wild cards, any unknown factors -- we can't afford that now. But it's harder than he thought, much harder, he's like--" Remus laughs shortly, shaking his head. "He's like you, he can't imagine why they -- the giants, vampires, hags, and werewolves, of course, of course the bloody werewolves -- why we would refuse a hand offered in friendship. Even after they killed Joshua -- and Annabelle disappeared -- even then--" He pauses, meeting Sirius' eyes again and not daring to read what he sees there. He finishes lamely, "It's not that simple. It never has been."
A long pause. Another question: "Why did they kill them -- the other two?"
Taking in a slow breath, Remus shrugs. "It wasn't 'they', not really. It was just one or two or three -- they're just people, no better or worse than anybody else, but they're -- they heard the offers and saw through them. It's not -- it can't be pleasant to hear promises of freedom and equality and other nonsense, hundreds of years too late, and learn that all we -- the Order -- really want is cannon fodder. We're running out of live bodies. We're not in the position to offer them anything." He stops again, suddenly drained of words and too tired to continued. He feels the smoke closing around them, scouring through his throat, burning his eyes. "I didn't offer them anything. That's probably why I'm still -- well, I didn't accomplish anything, either."
Sirius wraps his arms around himself, as if he's cold or nauseous, and takes a few uncertain steps away. Remus thinks -- almost thinks, then sends it into the smoke, for it's too dangerous a thought to hold close -- that he can nearly hear the familiar wheels turning in Sirius' head.
"Two people died," Sirius says, shaking his head, "and he still sent you -- all that time I thought -- you could have died!" He whirls back toward Remus suddenly, his voice exploding with anger. "You could have died and I wouldn't have known -- and I said -- fucking hell, I didn't know. I didn't know you were on some -- some fucking good-will mission, how the fuck could I--" He breaks off abruptly and turns away again, taking several steps along the gentle hillside, far enough that tendrils of smoke drift between them. Sirius' shoulders and neck are rigid with anger, his hands clenched at his sides.
For the first time in months, Remus knows the anger is not for him.
When Sirius speaks again, it is barely a whisper. "What I -- I shouldn't have said that."
Remus doesn't have to ask. "I've been called worse."
"Not by me." Sirius turns and looks at him earnestly. "I shouldn't have said that."
"No," Remus agrees. "You shouldn't have."
"When you were gone all the time, and you wouldn't explain, I thought -- I didn't know what else to think -- somebody is passing information, somebody close, how else could the attack on Tugwood Lane, and the Prewetts, and Dorcas and -- and there aren't many of us." He watches Remus anxiously, and he seems very young and uncertain now, his eyes wide, begging Remus to hear what he does not say.
And like the tumblers of a complicated lock falling into place, Remus understands.
The questions, the accusations, the sudden silences and wary glances -- everything snaps into clarity, and Remus moves his mouth, unable to find he proper words.
Finally, he settles for: "Oh."
"I thought--"
"You thought I was the spy." The words, from his own mouth, are like an iron door falling shut.
Sirius doesn't look away.
"That--" Remus exhales slowly, running a trembling hand over his face. "That explains a lot."
Sirius nods.
Remus swallows hard. "And--?"
Sirius is quiet for so long Remus isn't certain he'll get an answer. His fear begins to grow again, a cold knot in the pit of his stomach, and he wants to back away, to retract the question and flee down the hill without knowing the answer. He hasn't said enough; his explanation is flimsy and incoherent, he has no right to expect Sirius to believe him, not after all the lies and evasion. He turns away and stares blindly at the murky, smoke-filled fields, at the bones and branches vanishing to dust, and but he feels nothing of the warmth, only the cold October night and the taste of ash in his throat. He does not want to see that thoughtful gaze turn to doubt and distrust again.
Then--
"And now..." Sirius waits until Remus looks at him. "I wish we'd had this conversation months ago." He is smiling wryly, and it's the most beautiful thing Remus has ever seen.
Remus doesn't trust himself to speak; he only nods stupidly, nearly shaking with relief, and his own face breaks into a smile.
Sirius tilts his head thoughtfully. "Why did you come here tonight?"
Remus laughs a little, a manic and ridiculous sound, and shrugs. This is not an interrogation; this is merely Sirius and his usual curiosity, his weird and wonderful mind trying to fit the pieces into place. "I told you, an old woman told me I was going to die in three days and I--"
He thinks about the one-eyed woman, the wretched Muggle, the little girl. Three warnings, three signs. It's barely a reason, much less an explanation. Omens and portents, prophesies and signs...
But there is another truth: "I was worried about you. I went by the flat, and you weren't there, and I wanted to see if you were alright. With James and Lily hiding and you their Secret-Keeper, I--"
Sirius shakes his head quickly. "That's what everybody is supposed to think," he says. "But we switched, a bluff. It's Peter now. The last person they would think to go after." He says it very slowly, watching Remus' reaction, not asking forgiveness for not telling him, only understanding.
"Peter," Remus repeats, trying to wrap his head around this unexpected change. It does make sense, in its own way; Peter is last person--
Trust not the plague-bringer, the nest-fouler, the one who devours.
"Remus?" Sirius' voice is confused, first, then urgent. "Remus, what is it?"
"It's just--" He swallows, trying to arrange the words in his mind. "Everything I knew -- I mean, about the Prewetts and Tugwood Lane -- Peter knew all of that, too..."
"Peter?" Sirius says, incredulously. "Peter is the most reliable person--"
"But what if--"
There is a long, horrible pause.
"No." Sirius shakes his head. "No. This is Peter we're talking about. Peter, for fuck's sake, he's never had a bad thought about anyone in his life, it can't -- oh, fuck."
"We have to know for sure," Remus says quietly. "It's probably not, but we have to know--"
"I know. I know. Fuck. Bloody fucking hell -- how could he -- he said, about you -- we have to--" Sirius starts down the hill, long, angry strides into the smoke.
Remus takes two swift steps and catches his arm. "Wait! What are you going to do? If he's -- we have to be careful. Sirius. Think."
Panic, anger, frustration flash across Sirius' face, melding and settling into one steady look of determination. He looks at Remus, then looks out over the firelit fields, and does not pull away from Remus' restraining grip. Remus nearly breaths a sigh of relief; the calculating Auror has returned.
Sirius inhales shakily, and nods. "Right. Dumbledore can contact James and Lily. We have to -- we have to -- fucking Christ, Remus. We have to go to Hogwarts. Both of us. Now."
-
In the end, the plan is barely a plan at all.
In the dead of night, while only the ghosts and cats stalk the corridors of Hogwarts, Dumbledore listens gravely to Sirius' hurried explanation. He fixes Remus with a hard, unreadable gaze when Sirius tells him about his reason for suspecting Remus, and Remus meets the gaze steadily, never looking away.
"Tell me," Dumbledore says, speaking to Remus, "why did you choose tonight of all nights to find Sirius?"
Remus hears the questions the headmaster does not ask: Why have your broken your vows, after so many months? Why have you decided to put yourself in danger? Why now? He opens his mouth, then pauses. An old woman, a man, a child. It was probably just a coincidence.
But he is sitting across from a man who has gambled an entire war on a vague prophesy, so he quickly tells Dumbledore and Sirius about the old woman, the man, and the child. They do not interrupt him, and when he is done he feels he has explained nothing at all, so he merely shrugs and looks into the fire.
"Very interesting," Dumbledore says. Remus glances at him, and for a second, the twinkle returns to the old man's eyes.
Then he is speaking of something else, asking Sirius yet another question and waving his wand to send the emergency signal to James and Lily, hiding in Godric's Hollow. They come through the fireplace in Dumbledore's office, in their pyjamas and dressing gowns but wide awake. Harry is sleeping on James' shoulder, a stuffed black dog clutched in his little hand. Sirius paces the room while Dumbledore speaks to them; Remus stares at the fire and feels cold, removed, as if he has brought the obscuring smoke and veils of distrust into this safe room with him.
James and Lily listen in disbelief, but when he is done they nod in agreement, and then it is decided. There is no way to be certain. They have nothing but suspicions, and suspicions are as trustworthy as smoke.
But Lily catches Remus' eyes across the room and gives a slight, certain nod. After a moment, Remus inclines his head in return. Apology accepted. Sirius pauses behind James, runs his fingers lightly over Harry's thick hair, rests his hand on James' shoulder, but he is looking at Remus and his eyes hold no challenge.
Dumbledore sends the emergency signal to Peter. He arrives, fully dressed, his expression one of unmistakable worry; he hasn't been sleeping, either. He listens attentively while Dumbledore speaks, telling him that they have reason to believe the plans have been leaked, telling him that they've decided to go with the original plan -- the first original plan, before all the changes and doubts, using Dumbledore as the Secret-Keeper -- because it's too dangerous to use anyone else. Peter nods in agreement, says it's a good idea, seemingly unaware of the five sets of eyes scrutinising him.
It can't be him, Remus thinks. The conversation washes over him like a dream; the words scurry through his mind like lightning and butterflies, too swift for him to catch. Sirius is sitting beside him, wound a tightly as a violin, and he can feel the heat and anger and doubt rolling off of him. This is Peter. Reliable Peter. It can't be.
Peter asks, his voice wavering with the truest concern, "Do you know -- do you have any ideas who the traitor might be?"
"We have too many suspicions, and too little proof," Dumbledore says.
"I know," Peter replies. "I know." He flicks a glance -- brief, slight, barely a twitch of the eyes -- in Remus' direction.
Beside Remus, Sirius stops breathing, just for a second, then reaches down and takes Remus' hand. But Peter is listening to Dumbledore again, agreeing, worrying, nodding, and were it not for Sirius' hand gripping his own so tightly, Remus would think he imagined it.
-
Three days later a Muggle baker finds Peter's body in the alley behind his shop.
It wasn't the Killing Curse; his neck is broken. It is the same way Regulus Black died. Voldemort, when his followers are no longer useful, does not bother with subtleties.
"We tried to follow him," Sirius says. His voice cracks, like paint from an ancient mural; they are the first words he's spoken in hours.
They are alone in the flat, sitting on opposite ends of the sofa, facing the cold fireplace. Sirius is resting his elbows on his knees, compulsively running his hands through his hair; his eyes are shadowed, his skin pale.
"We tried to follow him, but you know how impossible--"
Remus doesn't know what to say besides, "I know," and it is the truth. His mind is churning with memories of gleeful midnight plans, snickers and laughter in the Gryffindor dorm, and Peter standing tall before them with yet another sneaky success behind him. Nobody, not even the cats, could catch Peter. Until now.
Sirius collapses against the cushion and exhales. Remus looks at him, looks away, looks again. Unruly hair falls into Sirius' face, and the lines around his eyes and mouth are too tight, drawn and hard and grey.
Sirius closes his eyes and tilts his head back. His voice rough and low, he says, "I don't think we can win this war, Moony."
Remus doesn't respond. There is nothing to say. There is no good way to mourn a traitor.
-
A week and a day later, it is James who comes through the fireplace in the middle of the night and wakes Remus from a restless, dream-churned sleep to tell him that the war is over.
James sits beside Remus on the sofa and explains. "They killed Frank's brother," he says, "and broke the Fidelius. Frank wasn't home -- he was working -- but Alice was, and their little boy..." James' voice trails off. He runs his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. His voice wavers, but he continues, "They think -- we think Voldemort tried to kill the baby but Alice -- we don't know what she did, but the baby is alive and Voldemort is gone and Alice is -- I don't believe he's gone. I don't believe it."
Remus dresses quickly, then joins James by the fireplace again.
James says, "Frank is with Lily, at our house. Sirius and Moody are already there. They were the first after Frank -- well, come on." He dashes a handful of Floo powder into the fireplace, then turns back abruptly just before stepping in. The green flames reflect in his glasses, give his face a sickly pallor. He blurts quickly, "It could have been Lily. I mean -- if he had come after us first -- it could have been Lily and -- and Harry."
Saying nothing, Remus merely touches James shoulder and shakes his head.
"I can't believe he's gone," James says again, then steps into the fire.
At the house in Godric's Hollow, the kitchen is crowded but quiet. Dumbledore is standing by the fireplace, saying nothing as Alastor Moody and Sirius speak to Frank Longbottom. Frank answers their questions calmly, never flinching and never pausing, but he does not take his eyes off the sleeping baby boy in his arms. The baby -- Neville, Remus recalls, his name is Neville, after Alice's father -- has a strange scar on his cheek, like two jagged claw marks.
Lily, by the sink, is trying to make tea, but Harry is fussing on her hip, his chubby face tear-streaked and red. Remus steps over quickly and takes the baby from her, and she thanks him with a quick kiss on the cheek. He bounces Harry softly, carrying him from the brightly-lit kitchen into the cool, dark parlour. Soon Harry stops whining and begins to babble quietly, rubbing his hands against Remus' two-day stubble and practicing one of his favourite words: "Moo-nee. Moo-neee!"
Remus listens to the low voices in the kitchen, but there is little more to learn beyond what James already told him. Voldemort is gone; Dumbledore has been to the wreckage of the Longbottom's house, and he confirms it. Alice is dead. Her son survived. There is nothing else.
Moody leaves to return to the Ministry, and Dumbledore follows shortly after. The story will spread through England by morning, Remus knows, and the wizarding world, so long without hope, will have its victory and a new hero -- heroine, rather, pretty Alice Longbottom, with her sweet face and laughing eyes and more dirty jokes in her repertoire than could be found in an entire locker room of Quidditchers.
"Moony," Harry says again, tugging on Remus' ear.
"Yes, lad," Remus replies. He lets Harry grab his finger, then leans against the window frame, staring into the forest outside. The sky is brightening in the east, a hint of grey through the leafless trees. "They'll have a new story to tell," he says quietly, "and they'll be telling it for years. And someday, when you and Neville in there are stooped and grey, it won't be anything more than an old, old tale."
Footsteps cross the room behind him. Lily says softly, "I'll take him up to bed now." She extends her arms, and Harry reaches happily for his mum. "You and Sirius should go home. You both need sleep."
So they do. They leave James and Frank in the Potters' warm kitchen and return to the flat. Remus steps out of the fireplace behind Sirius; the flames fade from Floo-green to the soft orange. Sirius sheds his Auror's robes and drapes them over the sofa.
"You can--" Remus begins, but he doesn't finish. Sirius steps quickly across the hearth and pulls Remus into a tight embrace, burying his face in Remus' neck. After one surprised moment, Remus closes his eyes and leans into Sirius, holding him close. Sirius smells of smoke and ash from the Longbottom's house, pungent and sharp, permeating his hair and clothing.
Sirius whispers, his lips moving against Remus' neck, "We should go to sleep."
"Okay."
"I don't want you to sleep on the sofa anymore."
"Okay."
But neither man moves toward the bedroom. Sirius rests his head Remus' shoulder and runs his hands slowly up and down Remus' back, and Remus wraps his arms are Sirius' waist, closing a circle, closing his eyes. They stand in silence for a long time, leaning together as the fire dies and the windows brighten with dawn.
-
A crow on a fencepost tells him, "Everything can be killed, if you know where it bleeds."
Remus stops. "I beg your pardon?"
The crow cocks its head to one side, regarding him with one dark, reptilian eye. "Gone is not the same," it says, stretching its wings but not taking flight.
Blinking twice, very slowly, Remus shakes his head and looks down the lane; Sirius is several paces behind him, distracted by a curious tree, and too far away to tell him he's going mad.
"I don't understand," Remus says. Then he adds, as an afterthought, "I'm talking to a crow."
"It isn't over," the crow says. "I have a present for you." It flaps away, into the low bushes beside the road.
It isn't over. There are Death Eaters that have not been captured, probably scattered to the four corners of the globe. There are too many unanswered questions, too few reliable truths. The Ministry is still shaking its head and shutting its eyes, denying everything that doesn't drip blood right on the Minister's desk. Through the celebrations and praise, there are still whispers and murmurs, suspicions and accusations.
But the full moon passed, and Remus awoke with his injuries already healed, a hot cup of tea waiting for him. The bonfires are gone, the frost has come, and every morning for seven days straight Remus has awoken with a possessive arm thrown across his chest, legs entangled with his own, a head of hair itching his face, half his limbs numb and asleep. It's hot, awkward, and uncomfortable. In the brief moments before dawn, before Sirius stirs and lights the room with his slow, sly grin, Remus lies in the messy jumble of limbs, his eyes closed, his throat tight, and does not dare to think.
It isn't over, but it is better.
The crow returns in a steady beat of wings; it lands on the fencepost again and squawks. It is carrying something in its beak, and Remus reaches out, uncertainly, holding his palm upward. With another hoarse squawk, the crow drops what it is carrying and flies away.
"Remus, you've got to see this. There's shoes in that tree."
Sirius is beside him suddenly, a bundle of warmth and energy in the cold November morning.
Remus replies, "That crow was talking to me."
"That crow--" Sirius raises an eyebrow. "Yes. Okay. That's weirder. What did it say?"
Instead of answering, Remus examines the object in his hand. It's a small plastic ring, like something a Muggle child would win at a carnival, a lurid green skull and snake, the edges worn smooth and smudged with mud.
"I'm not really certain," he says, holding the ring out to Sirius. "It said this was a present for me."
Sirius looks at Remus carefully for a moment, then picks up the ring and turns it over in his fingers. With a shrug, he drops it back into Remus' hand. "Well," he says, "as far as omens go, it's better than chicken entrails."
Laughing, Remus slips the ring into his pocket. "It certainly is."
"C'mon." Sirius takes his hand and tugs him down the lane. "Omens and signs are all well and good, but I want to show you the shoe-tree. Honestly. Shoes. Must be a Muggle thing, those daft buggers."
Still smiling, Remus allows himself to be led. The trees beside the road rustle invitingly, stirred by a breeze in the high branches, and the winter sun is shy but strong.