we won't eat our words

A huff of laughter escapes, ragged and half-mad. It’s teary and deranged, and he crushes himself closer to Remus even when he should be pulling away. How? He asked himself that so many times. Dumb luck, a one in a million chance that his plan would go right at all. But Sirius had months to consider his own demise, the gnawing feeling in his stomach leading him to formulate some kind of tactic for escape, if the time ever came where he would need it. “Let’s just say the great and mighty Dark Lord didn’t consider a spy in the ranks when he decided to base his wards on the ones at Number 12.” 

Sirius remembers being eighteen years old, tagging along with his father while they constructed them. Marked for months already, Sirius was fondly regarded by all at home by that age. Dear Sirius is a master of runes, my lord. Crafted the ones on his wand himself. Praise from his father, an alien concept. But he was the golden child, then, finally. Tom Riddle looked at him with interested eyes, gaze too heavy, and Sirius managed an innocent smile in return as he answered every question that arose. Yes, my lord. I find ward-crafting fascinating. Not even a lie. He’d harboured teenage dreams of going into curse-breaking, before he doomed himself to a life as the Black Heir. It was easy, then, to get up close and personal, to watch as the spells were laid down. 

More intimate knowledge came later, when he first tried to bring Remus into Grimmauld Place. He squeezes Remus tighter at the memory of that, the way the wards had gone up and on the offensive, the way Remus had almost bled out from his wounds. Sirius had spent weeks down in the cellar after that, tucked away in the ward room, pouring over the spell schematics to figure out what he needed to remove, to learn the way every link in the chain of magic worked. It was an obsession, accompanied by the dawning horror that overwhelmed him when he read his great grandfathers notes. All the darkness that had gone into the spells beneath his home. All the darkness that must have been carried out in the sessions he had missed at the Riddle house, when his father had sent him away to tend to other work. Dark magic. Blood magic. The sacrifices necessary for a certain type of safety. 

His voice is a numb thing, but he broke the seal and now the words keep coming. “Locked me up in the dungeons, but there were cracks. Found them after a few days, got out and down to the ward-room and ––” A breath. “Easy to slip out as Padfoot.” Nuzzling close, drifting into quiet again. A few days. A few days too many. It had felt like weeks, but he didn’t feel like he should share that sentiment. He’d rather spare Remus than have him know. And then there was the journey through the woods. Being hunted like a prey animal, Bellatrix following behind. “And then I made it here. And it’s all okay now.” 

There are so many questions he wants to ask. So many things he needs to know. Some for his own peace of mind—did they hurt you? what happened to your wand? what can I say, what can I do to help?—and some that would be important to the Insurgency—did Amelia really turn you in? can we trust or, or is she lost? how much trouble did you have, crossing the border? did they follow you?—but he can’t bring himself to ask them, yet. It’s clear there is something Sirius isn’t telling him, and he’s defaulting back to their usual behavior: talk later, let Sirius ignore it all until he can’t anymore, even if he ought to talk about it, even if it would help for him to.

But a part of Remus is afraid. Afraid to hear it, and worse, afraid to make Sirius relive it, or afraid that Sirius will resent him for bringing it up at all. Afraid of losing him again, for some avoidable reason. He can’t bear the thought of that, not right now. 

His heart is a maelstrom, relief and fear and despair and joy all in equal measures. He’s dreamed of the day Sirius could come home for years, since the very moment he convinced himself not to give up on his own life. They’ve been working towards this and planning for it, and now he’s here, and whether it’s on their terms or fate’s doesn’t so much matter, because he’s home, and he’s safe, and he’s here, in Remus’ arms.

But... he’s not safe. Not entirely. Not knowing that the Death Eaters have some way of crossing the border undetected, not knowing they know he’s a traitor and will probably stop at nothing to hunt him down. Not knowing the Mark is still on his arm, clear and dark and angry, and that they haven’t found a way to get rid of it yet. Not knowing that, though Molly and Ted and Minerva are working, doing their best, the wards are still unstable at best, only holding in certain parts of the castle. The worst case scenario leaps readily to mind: the wards falling, the Death Eaters coming, taking Sirius from him again.

They would not grant him a merciful death, if they caught him. Remus knows this better than most. 

     ‘It will be,’ he rasps, barely a whisper before he pulls away to finally look at him, take in his sunken features, his mussed hair, his exhausted eyes. Remus couldn’t exactly expect him to look well after days or weeks in his animagus form, on the run, but it’s still hard to see him like this. ‘I promise it will be.’

The sensible part of Marlene knew that Remus was right. As usual. It would be ridiculous for any of them to go charging off into England with absolutely nothing to go on. Especially when they couldn’t even be sure that Sirius was still – Their breathing hiccuped at that line of through. They huddled still closer into Remus, drawing comfort, and turned their fingers to curl through his. “You’re right,” they agreed softly. “I know, you’re right.”

Of course, Remus was right. He was right now as he had been so often in school, as he had been when he rejected the idea of using them all as spies, when he had formed the Insurgency.  Marlene hadn’t just followed him out of the Order because it was the right thing to do, and because they were friends. No, it was precisely because he was Remus, and he was right. And that was why they would continue to follow him, until this war was over, or they were all dead from it. That was why Marlene was grateful for him as their leader every day. 

“I just want him back,” they said, voice forlorn and shaking. It was silly to say, like pointing out that gravity existed to Sir Isaac Newton. Remus certainly didn’t need to be told about missing Sirius. But, he was also the only one who could understand the depth of Sirius’s absence. Only Remus could understand, more even, what it meant to not have Sirius and to want him so thoroughly, as they did. “He belongs with us.”

Soon, Marlene was sure, their distress and fear would transpose to anger. They would soon be whipped into a righteous frenzy – cursing everyone from Amelia to Dumbledore and all those in between that had landed Sirius in this position. It would come, eventually. But in that moment, it was just a terrible, unabated sadness. “None of this is fair.”

He let them hold him close, for a while, the both of them still in the silence of their sadness. He wasn’t glad that they were feeling this loss as deeply as he was, as wracked with the fear of it as he was, but he was grateful that he didn’t have to feel all of it alone. Especially when there were others, who should have been feeling it with him, and who weren’t. He could lean on Andromeda, on Marlene, and it almost made up for the fact that he’d seen neither hide nor hair of James, who surely had to be as scared as he was, or of Peter—thought that was more likely attributed to the fact that he’d made it fairly clear early on that if he so much as saw Peter in the halls of Hogwarts there would be trouble.

      ‘I know,’ he muttered, finally, after a long moment, face pressed  against their hair. ‘I know, me too.’

We’re going to get him back, he wanted to promise, but he couldn’t bring himself to. He didn’t want to lie. There was a difference between hope and delusion, and hope could only let him believe so far that they were sure to get Sirius back; the small part of him that had already begun to grieve the moment he heard the news had kept him from imagining a future where they actually did get him back.

      ‘We just... need to think through this logically. There has to be something we’re missing. Some piece of information that can help...’

rcmu-s‌:

L-

Private cells, impregnable save to the Marked. Under perpetual watch. Most definitely alive: their stores of Veritaserum are too low to carry out a full interrogation at present. He’ll be intact enough to talk until they tire of him, and then he will be drawn and quartered. Perhaps literally. People like our mutual friend are examples waiting to be made.

This risks all the rest of us. Is it your plan gone awry, or a pup running off with his lead? If you are carrying out rash actions without forewarning me, our alliance will not last long. I hoped I’d made myself clear before when I said I won’t be your blind pawn like I was his.

–M

M—

We had no way of knowing this was going to happen, but you are not at risk; the information our mutual friend has doesn’t involve you. Still, the information he does have is high-risk for our side. We’ll be looking to extract him ASAP, and have intel that he may be being kept in a secure location we have some knowledge of. I’m working out what I can as quickly as I can, but you will be filled in as soon as there is a plan of action.

Seeing Remus almost tears his chest open. Seeing Remus like this makes him want to cry. The look on his face, like Sirius shouldn’t be sitting there, like he shouldn’t be alive. It feels like every cell in his body is shaking, because they kind of are. He’s become a quivering mess of a man, and around the time Remus start’s crying is when Sirius feels the wet tears on his own face. 

He throws his arms around Remus once he feels the touch. Sinks into it. Warm arms, strong. Sirius is clinging and desperate, his face pressed close, tears spilling almost silently onto Remus the moment they escape him. He lets himself become overcome by this, the overwhelming feeling of relief, the fact that he’s here again and no one can make him leave, the surety he has that Remus will protect him from anything that wants to hurt him. When he’d been out there, on his journey back, being hunted, he’d thought that he didn’t want to die out there alone. Now he won’t. 

A long moment passes before he can make words form, but he doesn’t move away. His fingers are clutching the back of Remus’ shirt, holding him there so he can’t pull away. But Remus is crying, and Sirius has to say something. 

     “It’s okay.” He manages, eventually. “S’okay, Moony. I’m here.” 

It isn’t enough, not really. There should be something more profound that he can give Remus, but his voice is shaking and whisper quiet, face half pressed against the warmth of Remus’ neck, fingers loosening in their grip only enough to move up and tangle through his hair, petting gently and tenderly. 

It’s almost too much, the familiar feeling of Sirius’ arms around him, pulling him close: it’s a kind of feeling he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from, like this ache of relief in his chest is just a part of him now, just another pain he will have to live with every day. Sirius is shaking in his arms, muttering soothing words, and he can’t even move to look at him, can’t even loosen the muscles in his arms to begin to let go, his body won’t let him, like if he lets go he’ll wake up and realize it isn’t real, or that Sirius here is a ghost coming to say one last goodbye before he’s gone forever.

He needs to say something. Needs to do something other than burying his face in Sirius’ chest, the sobs coming too fast, too regular, for him to catch his breath. He’s going to asphyxiate, if he can’t stop himself from crying for a moment, but every movement Sirius makes, every reminder that he’s really here and really alive starts them up again the moment he starts to calm himself. 

His voice comes out ragged and raw, when he finally manages to summon it, more of a croak than a word at all through the tightening in this throat, the way his heart has lodged itself somewhere up around his windpipe.

     ‘How?’ he asks, and it’s not enough, because there is so much he should say: thank Merlin you’re safe, and don’t worry, I won’t let anything take you from me again, and please tell me what happened. There will never be enough words for everything that is going on in his mind, right now, for all the space between them, but he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, because Sirius is here and alive and he’s never going to let him out of his sight again, not for a very long time.

Marlene watched, sniffling, as Remus gathering up the bits and pieces of the mug. They tried to keep as still as possible, as if they were helping him with the magic, by just holding themself together. Their eyes tracked the minute movements of Remus’s fingers and once they were holding a whole-again mug, they let their head drop to rest against his shoulder. Their forehead just skimmed against his neck and as they sighed, their breathing skittered. “I’m still sorry,” they shuffled out. Sorry for the mug, sorry that Sirius was in his situation, sorry that they were both powerless in Scotland, sorry – on some pitchy, unspoken level – that it was them there with Remus rather than Sirius there with him.

They let him remove the mug and then trace his fingers along their shallow cuts. “It’s fine,” they said, pulling their hands away gently. Even as they balled their hands into fists so he wouldn’t worry on them, Marlene kept themself tucked against Remus. “What if we don’t, though?” they ventured. Because it had been days, weeks, and there was no other solution presenting itself. And every day was another day that could be closer to… closer to being too late. “I’m not saying it’s ideal, or even good, but it’s an idea, at least.”

It was something they could do, something other than poring over papers and cramped notes, hoping that something new would materialize and provide the answer to all their woes. Especially considering that Remus would very soon be out of commission. The thinking and plotting and planing and leading – Marlene was more than hopeless at that. Without Remus by her side, there was no chance of her formulating some way of working things out. 

Blowing out a quiet breath, Marlene carefully broached a subject that they knew was likely to be sore for their friend. “What about Bones? Has anyone tried to get contact to her? Or vice-versa?”

He took their hands again, unfurling them with his fingers, carefully, gently, holding them there. Marlene was scared, he knew, and so was he, and trying to lock all of that fear away wasn’t any good for either of them. He knew, objectively, that running headfirst into danger was only going to get more of them killed. There had to be a better way to find Sirius and bring him home than that. 

His stomach gripped at the mention of Amelia Bones. He had been all for Sirius’ plan, when he’d suggested it: an ally, on the other side, someone else working with them who could help to keep him safe, help to keep his cover. Remus remembered when Walburga was still alive and haunting the place, the way she’d been trying to set Sirius up with every pureblood woman who crossed his path, needling him to continue the family line, women with conniving eyes and sneering mouths who spat at Remus’ feet when he passed like he was a blight on the landscape of their beautiful new country. He didn’t know Amelia Bones very well, personally, but he knew she was on their side, and loyal, and good, knew she cared enough about the right things that she could keep Sirius safe.

And now she’d done this. Turned him in for what—to save her own skin? He couldn’t begin to guess at her motives. If he let himself start, he’d never stop, not until she was brought to some kind of justice for this. And if Sirius was dead, he wouldn’t even give her that chance. He wouldn’t even wait long enough to hear the full story: so, so many people would pay, and she would be among them. 

     ‘Not that I know of,’ he answered, his voice stiff and cold for just a moment before he forced it back into place, into the warm, professorial tones he adopted when he was trying to calm worried students. ‘But I can ask around, send word out to the Insurgency to see if anyone has any information. As for finding him... if anyone’s going to cross the border, they’re going to do it fully aware of what they’re headed into and where they might be going. If we can figure out where he’s being kept, at least that’s more of a head start than we have right now.’

The thing about Marlene was that they felt everything. They felt everything, at all times, at the top level. It was like their emotions were always turned to the highest volume. It had been a joke, when they were all in school, how easy it was to get Marlene to cry. One time the sunset had been so pretty, that had set them off. Another time, Remus had saved her a slice of her favorite pie for dessert. The past ten or so days, though, they hadn’t wept once. News of Sirius’s capture, of Amelia turning him in, of him being sentenced…to death. It was like the sensor had been overwhelmed and so shut itself off. They still felt everything, all of it. But nothing had come. Just a blind sort of panic freewheeling underneath everything else.

Being with Remus helped, too – he was so focused, so determined. Like with the Insurgency: there was nothing to change the situation so they would just have to figure a way out of it. They had to. And they would. But that had been days ago and there was still no news, no hope, no plan. And nothing that they had, nothing in Remus’s papers or Marlene’s intel, could offer a way out. At Remus’s outburst, Marlene sighed and pushed away from the table as well. “I know,” they intoned quietly. They moved to Remus easily, catching his elbow in a comforting gesture. “Maybe I should try and get back over,” they said. England was beyond dangerous at the moment and Marlene didn’t exactly trust themself not to go storming the Ministry without a second thought, but they didn’t have much else to work on. “At least to see if I can overhear anything.”

They knew it wasn’t likely that Remus would agree to such a risky plan. And if they were being honest, they didn’t want to go. Not really – not when so much of their concern was siphoning into Remus and how he was doing and what he would be going through in just one more day’s time. So instead, to be useful in some manner, they picked up Remus’s mug and moved to the kettle to refill it. As they moved, though, something caught in their chest. Something awful and bright and angry, something metallic at the back of their mouth as they thought about being here, with Remus, and without Sirius.

They set the mug down far too forcefully and the ceramic of it shattered. Shards of it danced over the floor but Marlene didn’t see it as they finally found tears over their cheeks. “Fuck,” they heaved. “Buggering fuck. Remus, I’m sorry…” With a shuddering exhale, they stooped to gather the jagged pieces. Since they had heard about Sirius, their magic had been less than trustworthy. Things had to be done the old-fashioned way. So, it was through a blur of tears that Marlene cradled bits of broken mug in her palm, ignoring the sting of cuts. “I didn’t mean to…make more of a mess.” Remus had enough to worry about without them losing their emotions all over the place.

The shattering sound knocked him out of this frustrated haze, derailing his train of thoughts. There was a moment of fight-or-flight at the noise, like breaking glass, a sudden fear rooted in his body telling him he needed to hide or attack or run, and fast, before he realized where the sound had come from, the shards of blue ceramic suddenly in Marlene’s hands. 

    ‘Hey, it’s okay, it’s okay,’ he said, moving to them kneeling down in front of them, ignoring the pain in his knees as he moved to gather the last few pieces, placing them in her hands alongside the ones she’d already gathered. He took a deep breath, for a moment, trying to compose himself—wandless magic was notoriously more finnicky than wand magic, tied much more closely to the emotions, and more likely to explode in his face if he was angry as he did it. This was delicate work, if simple magic, and the familiar motions of his hands calmed him as he used his fingers to mimic a stitching motion, the fragmented pieces of then mug aligning themselves into place and fusing back together, only a small seam between them to indicate where the breaks had been. 

The mug was whole in Marlene’s hands again, one small thing that Remus could managed to fix in this whole disaster of problems. 

     ‘You don’t have to go back over, Marls. We’ll figure something out.’

He took the mug from them, setting it down gently as he could on the table beside them, and then turned his attention to the small cuts on their hands. His healing work wasn’t nearly as good as it could have been—if he took them to Poppy, the cuts wouldn’t scar, but he couldn’t promise the same. Still, though, he didn’t think he’d be able to convince them to let anyone else look at them.

M—

I’m sure this letter is not unexpected; it concerns the recent capture and sentencing of one of our mutual friends. I need to know what you can do about the situation, and what information you can provide me with aside from what was in last week’s Prophet article. Anything you have—his current location, the planned date of execution, or any information that has changed since the Prophet article would be appreciated, the sooner the better. 

He wanted to storm the fucking castle, as it were, barge into Riddle’s bloody joke of a Ministry with curses crackling at his fingertips, find Riddle himself and tear his throat out with his fucking teeth. Wanted to stage a fucking battle. Anything, anything he could do to find out where Sirius was and bring him home safe. He’d been pouring over what little intel they had at his desk for the better part of six hours, including the paper Mundungus Fletcher had brought back and distributed to half the Order before word had even gotten to him—through Marlene, thankfully, one of the few people he could trust himself not to take his anger out on at hearing the news.

His entire body was aching from sitting in one place so long. His tea had gone cold on the corner of the desk, an unpleasant kind of dull taupe color in its blue mug, and he pushed himself to his feet, every joint creaking and straining in protest; his skin felt too tight across his bones, the normal aches and pains amplified terribly in a constant and unpleasant reminder by this time tomorrow he wouldn’t be able to do anything for a few days to help, a dozen or so hours as a mindless wolf and then three or four days, as always, where he’d barely be able to get out of bed, let alone storm any bloody castles. 

     ‘I don’t know what to do, Marls,’ he exhaled, through gritted teeth, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes to try to rub away the exhaustion, or the frustration, or both. They hadn’t made any progress on finding a way to find him, and the seconds on his own personal clock were ticking down faster than he could stand. 

Her home and family had sprung up almost by accident. She hadn’t consciously built it, no, she’d just stopped and looked around one day and there she was, with a husband and child, a house that had bits of her and James all over it. It wasn’t idyllic and it wasn’t what she’d dreamed, but it fit, somehow, the person she was now.

(Sometimes, she comes home and this place feels alien to her. Like it’s built by and for a Lily that doesn’t exist, a role she’s playing when she’s not at work, or maybe an entirely separate Lily Evans-Potter, maybe there are two of her running around and she’s intruding on her counterpart’s life.)

When she goes to make tea, it takes her a moment to locate the necessary parts of the process–she should be familiar with her own kitchen, in theory, but she isn’t usually here enough to make much use of it. James is the homemaker, between the two of them. Inevitably, when she goes to the cabinets to find something, she ends up distractedly complaining to James about the current state of the Ministry and opening doors blindly until he steps in.

“What brings you by?” she asks, setting the kettle to boil. “If it’s James you need, he fell asleep putting down Harry. He’ll be awake in a half hour or so, I’ll guess, or I can wake him now if it’s urgent–?” She chatters because it’s easier than confronting the swollen elephant in the room, always between them. Easier to ignore it if you talk through it.

He sits himself down at the familiar kitchen table—not because he plans on staying for all that long, but because the walk down from the castle has been enough wear on his bones and muscles for one night. He stopped worrying, a long time ago, about looking rude or presumptuous or disinterested for taking the chance to sit whenever possible; it’s a preservation method, saving up his energy for where he really needs it. And if he should be allowed to be comfortable anywhere, it should be his best friends’ house, shouldn’t it?

    ‘No, no, it’s okay, he just mentioned he had something to tell me, asked if I’d stop by when I had a chance, but...’

He glances outside, at the rapidly setting sun. So early, now that it’s October, but it’ll be worse before long, the sun long set before he even gets out of class for the afternoon most days. He doesn’t mind staying late, doesn’t mind sticking around past dark; as far as he’s concerned, he has little left to fear. There isn’t much worse that can happen to him than what he’s already endured and survived. He doesn’t want to inconvenience Lily, by sticking around, but if she’s inviting him to stay...

     ‘I can wait til he’s up. No rush, really. It’ll be good to sit, for a bit, as long as you don’t mind.’

Once, he wouldn’t have even considered the possibility that he might be inconveniencing Lily. Once, she’d been the first person he turned to when he needed someone to confide in. What’s happened, to them, that he feels suddenly hesitant to be in her home, taking up space at her table? 

She tries not to mention the Order too much around Remus. She knows it’s as difficult for him as it is for her, if not more. He’s the leader of their little faction, after all. Sometimes, she just can’t quite stand it. Can’t quite stand sitting in her parents’ home while they’re off Merlin knows where, and Dumbledore is dead, and there’s still, somehow, nothing getting done. 

But it’s not much worth repeating all those points to Remus. He’s more than familiar with them, of course. They’re the reasons he formed the Insurgency to begin with, the reasons why she joined up so readily. She lets her eyes close for a brief moment and reminds herself of that: they have the Insurgency. They have another option and they will be making progress. They found an outlet from the Order, from Dumbledore, from all of it. They would make it okay. They would make a future.

When she opens her eyes again, she’s able to smile with a bit more sincerity. “That does help,” she replies, eyebrows up. Maybe some were wary about Gideon joining up after keeping in England for so long but Marlene certainly couldn’t blame her. She’s here now, anyway. And Marlene likes her style. “Sounds promising. Or, at least, interesting. Goes without saying, but if it’s something you’ll need volunteers for, my hand goes up first.”

Barely anything concrete, but already Marlene is stirred up and ready.

     ‘Yeah, of course, you’ll be the first person I ask.’

It wasn’t a promise he could make--they were all riled up, they all wanted to do something, and he didn’t even know what information Gideon actually had to give him, how actionable it would be or what it might lead to. But he trusted Marlene: if there was something to be done, he trusted them to get it done fast, and get it done right. So maybe, if they were both lucky, in a day or two he’d be coming to them again with a plan.

“Of course no one lives up to me,” Marlene concurs immediately, broad smile painted across her face. But hearing about Anabelle Clearwater makes Marlene break out her own laugh – audible from three floors down itself. “That’s brilliant,” she says after a peal. “Nice to know some Ravenclaws have a sense of humor.” It’s a tease, her eyes sparkling. Maybe it was the Quidditch, but Marlene has always had a healthy sense of inter-House rivalry. She is glad, though, truly, that the kids are still laughing. Still pulling pranks on one another and falling in fourth-year love.

The chocolate melts on her tongue, leaving behind that odd, rough after-taste. She lets it linger a moment. “That’s nice to hear,” she admits easily. It’s an old insecurity – mostly weaned out of herself – the feeling that Remus and James and the rest all just tolerate her secondhand, because Sirius is so fond of her. The biggest push to unlearn it was actually their last year, after winter break, without Sirius…

She fiddles with the hem of her jumper a minute before sighing shallowly. “There’s an Order meeting tomorrow. Be nice to have people in the house, I guess.” That was the trouble, though. She loved everyone in the Order, loved seeing them and gossiping and catching up. And then they started the actual meeting and all Marlene could feel was anger, white-hot. It washed over her at the pace, the hedging, the backpedaling… If anyone can understand that, though, it’s Remus.

He can hear her sigh at the mention of the Order, can watch the way her eyes downcast as she says it-- she’s not looking forward to it, the meeting, even if if means seeing their friends. He gets it: he wouldn’t want to be there, not when so many of them took the Insurgency as a personal slight, not when they couldn’t get anything done despite that. 

He felt weird about it, still, so many of his friends-- his best friends besides Marlene themself, all of them left, Sirius and Lily and James-- all loyal to the Order, still. He’d thought more of them would have agreed with him, been willing to step away-- but that had been before Dumbledore had died, and everything had changed. Still, he could keep his distance from talk of the Order, for the most part.

Marlene couldn’t. Not when they met in her house, not when she was their Secret Keeper. And, for a moment, it struck him how cruel that was, for Dumbledore to ask a child to become a Secret Keeper the same way he’d asked so many to become spies. She’d been stuck just as much as he had, just on the opposite side of the border, entrusted with keeping everyone else safe. 

     ‘If it helps...’ he starts, though the good news he has to give her isn’t entirely formed, just one more thread from the Insurgency he’s been meaning to follow up on, ‘Gideon Prewett says she’s got something that might be useful for us. I’m meeting up with her in a day or two to talk about it, so we might have good news sooner than later on our side.’

Something to hold onto, at least, some small hope of something getting done.

He’s in the library, a small attempt to battle the melancholy that tends to settle in on evenings like this. No guests to entertain, no dinners to attend, no balls to waste his time at. His social calendar has been remarkably empty, these last weeks. He’d be glad, if it didn’t mean he was probably on the outs –– his standing slipping, not once as favoured as he used to be. He felt useless, like he was failing utterly at his job. 

He’s sitting on the piano stool, absently hitting the same key again and again. Mother liked to have him sit and play, when she was still alive. So obviously he detests it. He feels chained here, wondering what will happen to him if he can’t claw his way back into everyones good graces. They’ll make him a laughing stock, maybe. Embarrass him and take things away. But they probably wouldn’t be so merciful. If they settle in on blaming him for Narcissa and Regulus being gone, its more likely that they’ll kill him nice and slowly. 

His heart stops when he hears something upstairs –– maybe its happening now, the end of him and all of this. But the voice that calls out is familiar, a safe sound. Remus. Unmistakably. He’s up in a flash, stool knocked over and forgotten as he exits the room and takes the stairs two at a time, opening the door of his study and shutting it again. 

It doesn’t feel like his heart has started back up again, but he takes Remus in regardless. He’ll worry about the blood supply to his brain some other time. He looks tired. He looks fraught. Sirius moves forward quick and pulls him close, wraps around him in a hug before pulling back enough to look at him again, hand on his face.

     “Remus.” Too soft, and he’s worried about what this means. What went wrong, what the problem is. It must be big, for Remus to come here. “What’s going on?” 

He lets himself bury his face in Sirius’ chest for a brief moment, shutting out everything in the world except the feel of his arms around him, the familiar smell of his cologne, until Sirius pulls away to look at him, to ask him about what’s happening. He wishes he hadn’t, wishes he could have stayed there for a few minutes, could have stayed there all night and forgotten everything he came here for.

But Sirius has a hand on his face, now, looking at him, waiting, and of course he deserves an explanation, of course Remus came here to do exactly this, to talk to him. He doesn’t know what Dumbledore would have done, had this happened-- asked Sirius to find out if it was a Death Eater plot or something more sinister, or left him in the dark altogether? But he made a promise, to himself and to everyone else, even if Sirius is still a part of the Order, even if he knows he can’t ask him not to be. He made a promise: no more secrets.

     ‘There was an attack,’ he says, and all at once realizes how out of breath he is. He’d kept his composure, certain and steady, in the face of his students but he’d lost it as soon as he was alone, and he’s losing it even more now. ‘At the castle. A girl’s been petrified, and today...’

He can still see it when he closes his eyes, the blood -- and it had to be blood, didn’t it? couldn’t just be paint or something else, not with how it dripped, though he hadn’t been the one to stick around and wash it up -- can still feel his heart race with adrenaline. 

     ‘A threat. Someone painted it on the walls: enemies of the heir, beware.’ 

She gives him a sharp little look, at that. Shrewd, the way a mother’s is, and she’s one seven times over, more if you count the others she’s taken in and let go over the years. Adoptions that didn’t stick, she considers some of them, sometimes, when she stops to consider them as children and not war-prompted guests.

All children have their rivalries, though, and looking at Remus’ face she decides to give him the benefit of the doubt. Almost killed someone, in the context of school, she doesn’t want to consider might be a serious allegation. She knows Remus has likely killed someone, in the role Dumbledore had shackled him to for so many years, but before that? No, Remus is not a killer by nature. Not a violent man.

Someone like Remus Lupin may not have meant to be a teacher, but his skills are obviously not misused in the role. “Gives you a unique perspective, then,” she answers. “Former troublemaker, now professor, students can’t pull anything on you.”

     ‘I guess you could say that,’ he answers, and maybe she’s right-- he can smell mischief and conspiracy halfway down the hallway, not to mention that his own troublemaking had given him the Map, which has proven to be a powerful deterrent. No one has the heart to make dangerous mischief when their professor keeps happening to round the corner just as they’re starting to scheme. 

Upstairs, the chattering of children has quieted down; it sounds like Arthur’s begun to have some luck wrangling the kids into bed and getting them settled down. He should head back up to the castle sooner rather than later-- he always does best when he’s to bed early-- but he wants to enjoy the company and the peace for just a little bit longer.

     ‘Then again, they can’t put anything past you either. What about you, Molly, were you a troublemaker?’