Destruction Where You Stand

Chapter Eleven: That a Ghost May Him Haunt

"Yesterday is history
And tomorrow is a mystery
But baby, right now,
It's just about you and me.

You can run, you can hide

Just like Bonnie and Clyde.

Reach for the sky,

Ain't never gonna die.

And I thank the Lord for the love that I have found
And hold you tight cause tomorrow may never come;
Reach for the sky cause tomorrow may never come."

- Social Distortion, Reach for the Sky

The library is enough to stop Remus in his tracks.

"Sirius," he asks after a moment, "how many books are in here?"

"No idea," Sirius says, smiling faintly at him. "All of the shelves along the back wall were magically expanded years ago. There's no telling what's been shoved in there since."

Remus raises both eyebrows.

"That's bloody dangerous," he says. "There's a reason we weren't allowed to do magic in the Restricted Section at school."

Grimoires are volatile enough on their own. There's no telling what the effects of storing them in a magically expanded space might be - especially these sorts of grimoires. The library practically reeks of Dark magic.

Sirius shrugs.

"It's been like this for ages," he says. "The wards on the shelves keep the books fairly quiescent."

Remus tries not to think about the sorts of magic that would, from necessity, have been involved in keeping thousands of books on Dark magic 'fairly quiescent.' Such books take on a life of their own after a while, especially under circumstances like these, and suppressing them is not easily - or lightly - done.

"If you say so," he murmurs.

"It's fine, Moony," Sirius says, with a flash of his old confidence. "Er - don't touch anything, though," he adds. "It's not really safe for anyone who isn't family." He is already crossing the room to the first of the shelves, extending a hand to run a finger over the leather spines.

"Can I at least sit down?" Remus asks, trying to keep some of the sarcasm out of his voice. The library has gone rapidly from 'interesting' to 'irritating and vaguely creepy.' It wouldn't surprise him to find volumes on these shelves that are bound in human skin.

"Go ahead." Sirius gestures vaguely at one of the chairs. They are all heavy, ornately-carved mahogany, and look hideously uncomfortable.

They are hideously uncomfortable, Remus decides a moment later; then forgets his discomfort in favour of watching Sirius, who is scanning the bookshelves with a glare so fierce that a stranger would most likely think him furious.

Remus recognises the expression as one of intense concentration.

"Removal," Sirius mutters to himself. "Magical tattoos, magical markings, magical - bugger. Charm work, that might help..."

Remus listens to him with half an ear. Sirius retreats into his own world when he's thinking hard about something, verbalising mental connections even as he makes them. Both he and James have always been able to make great intuitive leaps, crossing all boundaries of logic. Remus, who thinks his way methodically through nearly everything, has always been slightly awed by the process. The sheer, focused concentration that Sirius is capable of at times like this is both fascinating and intimidating, a fact that Remus has been aware of since second year.

I don't care if you're a werewolf, Sirius had said. You're Remus.

With Sirius's eyes glittering grey at him from the shadows of the Gryffindor common room, Remus had, for the first time, run out of denials. The only word he'd had left was promise?

Sirius had looked at him then, face calm and certain, perhaps even a little bit hurt.

I promise, he'd said.

In the next second's gasp of relief, Remus had fallen irretrievably. Ten years later and several countries away, he can't take his eyes off of the man.

Sirius is going through the shelves in front of him with what looks like carelessness but is actually meticulous attention to detail. The sleepless, pale cast to his features gives them an added intensity, and his dark hair, grown just a little too long, reminds Remus of one of the Romantic poets - Byron, perhaps, with all of the inherent danger that implies.

"Bugger this," Sirius exclaims.

Remus starts, his attention pulled suddenly away from his study of Sirius's features.

"Give me your arm, Moony," Sirius says. "The one with the tattoo on." He goes to his knees on the carpet as Remus obediently extends his left arm.

"Idea, Pads?" he asks.

"Not certain yet," Sirius answers absently, pulling his wand from his pocket. He places the tip precisely in the center of Remus's tattoo and closes his eyes.

"I want to see how it's connected to you," he explains. "I need to know how deeply..." His voice trails off.

Remus can feel the magic tracing through him, along his tendons, bones, muscles, a touch that would go far beyond invasive if not for his recognition of the hand behind it, his knowledge that this is Sirius's power stroking gently along nerve and sinew.

"The magic is interwoven with the spells on this bloody tattoo," Sirius says suddenly. Remus almost jumps at the abruptness of it. "And those are practically a part of the ink!" Sirius continues, unaware that Remus is practically shaking to pieces in front of him. It's going to take days to untangle this, not hours, and we're running out of time."

Remus is aware of a fresh stab of guilt, but it buries itself in his near-intoxication at Sirius's nearness, at the feel of Sirius's hands on his arm, of Sirius's magic running along his veins like the transformation diluted and turned harmless.

"We'll have to leave it," Sirius continues. "I can't untangle all of this right now, and it's warded against your doing it yourself." He taps his wand thoughtfully against his lower lip.

"You'll hex your lips off," Remus warns, aghast at the breathless sound of his own voice. "Think what Moody would say."

"Moody's in England," Sirius says. Then: "Wait. England. A separate country."

"Earth to Sirius," Remus says gently.

"No, no, no," Sirius says. "We can use this, Remus. I just have to - that's it!"

"That's what?" Remus asks, nearly distracted from Sirius's nearness by the possibilities gleaming in his eyes.

"I can't remove the spell," Sirius says, "but maybe I can separate it from you - cut it off from your magic."

"The tattoo will still be on my arm," Remus objects. "What's to keep the Tracking Charm from simply reporting the location of the tattoo?"

"That's the genius part," Sirius says, bending back over the tattoo. For a moment, they could be back at Hogwarts, planning their way around school restrictions.

"They've set it up so that your magic is powering the spell as well as grounding the Tracking Charm," Sirius explains. "Separating it should act like pulling the magnet out of a compass. It will still be there, but it won't have any way to track. The Ministry will think that their spell has gone haywire." Sirius's head is bent over Remus's arm, his dark hair falling forwards into his eyes.

"This entire tattoo is just barely skirting the edges of Dark magic," he mutters. "Using someone else's power without their knowledge or consent... at least Voldemort asks before putting the Dark Mark on people. As for this bloody Tracking Charm - !" He makes a strangled, frustrated noise, and the magic vibrating through Remus changes, intensifies in frequency before settling down again into a background hum.

"If I turn it back on itself..." he mutters, "wrap each attachment..." He goes silent again, his lips moving noiselessly. Remus can feel bits of power flaring and subsiding again beneath the skin of his arm and along the tattoo itself.

He never ceases to be impressed by Sirius's seemingly instinctive ability to manipulate spells and charms to suit his own devices. James can - could - do it too. Remus has wondered since sometime in their fifth year if this apparently inborn grace is what the old families mean when they talk about pureblood superiority; if this is why they refuse to allow the Decree For Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery to be enforced in their homes, if this is why they create houses like this, lined every which way with magic.

Sirius grew up in a place like this, with magic humming around him every moment of his life - Disillusionment Charms, protection spells, anti-Muggle spells - all of these were basic components of his environment, a state of affairs that had continued all through Hogwarts and then onto the series of heavily charmed and warded flats he'd inhabited in London up until last week. It might not be blood at all that makes the crucial difference, Remus thinks, and puts the idea away for a research paper after they've sorted everything out. If they sort everything out.

"There," Sirius says, as one last spell ignites and fades under the surface of Remus's skin. "I've done it!" he says. "That should fix them!" His eyes are practically glowing with triumph, and he looks more like the boy Remus remembers from school than he has in years.

"It's done?" he manages.

"I'm certain of it," Sirius answers, and the gleaming, satisfied shine of his eyes, the curve at his mouth where he's trying to hold back a grin are all suddenly too much for Remus. He can always claim it was a side-effect of the spell, he thinks vaguely, and then he stops thinking altogether. Instead he leans forward and closes the short distance between his mouth and Sirius's.