Crown of the North

Rated PG-13 for erotic sub-text.

They landed in the porch of a private home. Her head was spinning as Remus opened the battered front door with his wand, urged her inside, and closed the door behind them. He looked at her for a moment, as if to reassure himself that she was really there, before saying, "Well done." Then he pulled her into his arms and held her in a crushing embrace.

Dropping the Chinese take-away to the floor, Ariadne leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, her arms folded around his ribs. His heart was thundering, his breath ragged, and his arms tightened around her convulsively in a protective, almost possessive, gesture, as if the terror of facing the assassins had only that second touched him. His cheek brushed hers, and she pressed her face against his, willing him to recognise that they were safe now.

For one incongruous, timeless minute, she was waiting for him to kiss her.

Suddenly he dropped his arms to her elbows, drew back from her in an agony of embarrassment, and said, "Ariadne... I'm sorry."

He was not going to kiss her. Of course not. Faint with disappointment, she managed to say, "It's not mattering, Remus. I was not minding."

"It does matter. Please attribute it to state-of-emergency conditions... Do you have the food?" He picked up the plastic bag and took it through the door to the left. Ariadne followed him through what was evidently a sparsely and hideously furnished living room, which ran the length of the house, and through an arch on the right to the kitchen. Remus pulled two plates from a cupboard and began to spoon out noodles and fried rice. "It's still hot," he said in a valiant attempt to sound casual. "The table's rickety; you might want to sit on the sofa to eat this."

"How safe are we?" she asked as she took the plate.

He seized gratefully on this topic. He sat down at the far end of the sofa, handed her a fork, and said, "This is as safe as anywhere. Hardly anyone knows I live here, it's off the Floo network, and I'm the only person authorised to make any kind of magical entry. I want you to sleep here tonight."

"Are you thinking there are more of them out there?"

"I would say that if Macnair sent his henchmen after you, he almost certainly sent a team after your friend Ivor too. And if they've found out that Ivor is untrackable and that their comrades are out of action, they may well be after you by now - if only so that they have something to report to their boss. I also think that Macnair knows where you're living because your parents aren't likely to understand that they shouldn't trust him with the family news."

He had a beautiful voice, low and slightly hoarse, with infinite shades of expression. She caught herself absorbing its timbre instead of listening to his meaning. "They're thinking he's wonderful because he asks them all about my exam results and job prospects," she managed to agree. "They've probably told him everything about where I live and work."

"That means that Macnair could Floo to your flat. People aren't supposed to be able to step through a fireplace without authorisation, but wizards have been known to fake an entry, and only modestly competent wizards have sometimes succeeded at throwing hexes through hearths. I'd rather you went home to a wrecked flat in the company of Aurors tomorrow than spent tonight there waiting to become a corpse."

"We nearly did." Safe on the stuffing-leaking sofa, she finally allowed herself to understand what had happened. There was a chill around her spine; the only warmth came from looking directly at Remus. "Macnair's servants tried to use an Unforgivable."

"We'll report that in the morning," he said with a brave approximation of calmness. "Meanwhile, I have their wands, so it won't be too hard for the Aurors to identify them. The Wizengamot won't be impressed that I breached the Statute of Secrecy before I had clear evidence of a life-threatening situation; a wizard is supposed to risk sacrificing his life under that kind of ambiguous condition. But I had already risked your life - I'm not pleased about that."

"How did you risk mine?" She understood why he had been so distressed; anything like gambling disconcerted him.

"By letting Macnair's henchmen stalk us. I could have brought you straight here, the instant I suspected we were being followed, and you would have been safe for tonight. But then they would simply have stalked you another time and perhaps cornered you when you were alone; as it is, I think they attacked tonight on the assumption that I was a Muggle. It seemed safest to provoke the confrontation while I was at hand to do something about it. But I didn't like doing it."

"That situation gave no likable options," she said, although the words sounded inane in her ears. No words could be truly reassuring. "And you did save us."

His hand seemed to move towards her for a moment, but he changed his mind and plucked a non-existent piece of fluff from his sleeve. Finally his hand rested on the knee of his Muggle jeans, palm upwards and fingers slightly curved. His fingers were long and graceful, the scar from that long-ago bite faint on two of them... she made herself stop watching his hands as she settled herself back in the sofa, faced towards him.

"I'm glad you think there's any humour in the situation

"It's not humour. I'm just happy. By the time the Aurors have dealt with all this, Veleta will be safe too. That's why we're in this situation, is it not? For Veleta."

She took his empty plate and laid it on the floor on top of hers. She had never wanted more to curl up in his arms and say nothing, do nothing, except listen to his breathing. Instead, she watched the pattern of creases on his palms, the angle of his thumb, the path of the scar to his fingerprints. Once again, he restrained his hands from moving towards her, as if a second's provocation would entice him to draw her head down onto his shoulder, and she wondered whether those slender fingers would ever touch her cheek.

But an impassable gulf of sofa stretched between them.

"Remus," she said, "why are you not ever wanting to touch me?"

"Of course I want to, but I think it unwise." For a moment his face was unguarded, and his attention was so entirely focused on her that it was as if he had touched her. "I'm sorry I indulged myself before dinner. I decided a long time ago that I would let you set the pace. If you wanted to get married tomorrow, I'd do it, and if you decided to cut ties and never notice my existence again, I wouldn't for a second call you back. I think it's easier for you recognise what you really want from me if we keep our interactions uncomplicated."

She could not entirely shut out the unworthy thought that she longed to smash his restraint and let their interactions become as complicated as they might be. Every grain of the rough upholstery against her cheek, every lifeless fold of her sleeve against her arm, was hinting that the touch of his hand would be softer, firmer, warmer. But of course she could not smash his restraint without also smashing his integrity.

She drew back a few inches, as if to promise that she would not try to persuade him, and said, "Does not what you're wanting count for anything?"

He stopped short at this new idea, as if embarrassed to admit to what he did want. The hairs on her neck stiffened as his eyes travelled down her mouth, her throat, her arm, then away, and back up to meet her gaze. He swallowed. "Ariadne, you must see that it would be extremely exploitative for a man of my age to seduce a girl like you just because he can."

"Exploit?" She looked at him sharply. "But you've just asked me to marry you!"

"So I did." He could have denied it or changed the subject, but instead he looked right at her, although he did shift uncomfortably. "That was rather presumptuous of me. I'm sorry... I've given myself away rather blatantly... twice in one minute."

The blood rushed up to her ears. He was looking at her so intently that she could not have torn her eyes away. She was almost dizzy trying to think of a sensible answer while all the heat in the room was coming from him, and his hands were at the other end of the sofa, and she was about to collapse against him, except that his eyes were fastening her immobile to the spot and... But he dropped his eyelids and looked away, and she found her voice.

"Remus, I'm not going to make tonight difficult for you. I was not planning to sleep anywhere except in your spare room." Her mouth was dry, and she wondered if her words sounded truthful. "My question was only about why you become so upset at the thought of... of holding hands, or hugging." She interlaced her fingers so that both hands would lie still. "If... if you're wanting to play a game of hands off because then you can pretend we're just good friends, then I... it's not really the hands off-part I mind. Or not much," she added honestly. "What bothers me is the pretending part."

"I'm only pretending to pretend," he suggested, "since we do both know the real score. I'll tell you the truth any time you ask me." A smile played around his mouth for the first time since they had entered the Chinese take-away, a smile that brought her closer to him than any touch, and her heart turned over.

"Whatever you're calling it, is there really any reason why we cannot be married this summer?"

The smile instantly vanished. "Sweetheart, that would be a horribly cruel thing for me to do to you."

"Remus," she persisted, "are you really thinking that the wolf should be allowed to dictate both our lives in this way?"

He averted his head, as if he had been about to look in the wrong place. "This isn't about the wolf. To be honest, you handle the wolf well - better even than James Potter, because his brave and brilliant plan for overcoming the traumas of lycanthropy contained a serious moral flaw. But even if we ignore the wolf for a moment, I don't know how we shall ever deal with the reality that I'm so much older than you are."

Those unexpected words were like a slap in the face, the more shocking because Remus could never slap anybody, and the warmth switched off like a Nox incantation. "Why is that suddenly mattering?" She could not keep the quiver out of her voice. "You've never let it worry us before."

"I never believed we would reach the day when it needed to be considered." This time his hand almost reached her arm, as if to soothe her, before he thought better of it and moved himself yet further backwards. "I expected you to lose interest before it became an issue."

"You're treating me like a bairn." She kept her voice very soft. "I'm not going to lose interest."

"You're a child who didn't even have a proper childhood," he said. "Your parents gave you a fearsome work ethic, but otherwise left you to find your own moral compass when you deserved and needed guidance. I'm sorry to say that about them - "

"You can say it," she interrupted quickly, "because it's the truth."

"But do you see what's happening to you now? You've had so little playtime, and if you were to settle down now, you'd lose your last opportunity. You also have to come to terms with your parents' mistakes, establish your career on very little money, and learn to channel your idealism... Can't you hear that I sound like a teacher just talking about it? You can't possibly want to marry a pedagogue." But he was running his fingers through his beech-brown hair, as if he doubted his assertion.

She tried not to imagine her hands on his temples, his hair soft between her own fingers. "I'm wanting to marry somebody to whom I can tell the truth."

"Do you think you need to marry anyone at this stage?"

"I never really thought about... being married or not. Only about being with you or not. If we were the same age, would you be asking the question?"

"If we were the same age, I'd probably be too naïve to recognise the traps. And they wouldn't be the same traps. Two young people can discover the world together - make mistakes together - bolster one another's idealism - lose one another's money - reach disillusionment together. Even if love doesn't survive the journey, they've no reason to blame each other."

She thought of Ivor and Hestia, but heard him out. She dropped her hand, which had been playing dangerously with her throat-button.

"Whereas I'm always going to be a step ahead of you, sceptical about your grand schemes and trying not to say ‘I told you so' afterwards. I've already made my peace with my parents, I've already run riot at school, I've already seen what evil people can do and how little - as well as how much - the rest of us can do to restrain them. You were still at school when Voldemort fell, and you've begun your working life in a much more normal society, but that also means your growing-up pace will be much more normal - that is, slower."

"And that's not good?"

"It's very good, but it widens the difference between our ages. We're at such different life-stages."

"But it's not stopped our being friends until now." She only dimly understood what he was trying to say, but she struggled, between two beats of her heart, to grasp that it bothered him. "It will be a problem, but do not most people encounter problems? Why is this particular problem so insurmountable? Some of Sarah's boyfriends have been older than you are."

"Yes, but Sarah isn't thinking about marriage, and - if you'll excuse my speaking of your friend in this way - Sarah manages to pick men with money. Whereas I cannot give you any of the compensations with which older men usually lure young girls. There is only this shell of a house, at least two years of living on the breadline, and a lifestyle of pretence among the Muggle community. You'd displease your parents, you'd make no new friends, you'd be socially ostracised, and even if you did stay the course until we began to have some money, we wouldn't be able to have children. You'd quickly discover that it was very inadequate compensation to be allowed to share the house with a world-weary pedagogue."

"That's not you! Some of what you're saying is true, but you're exaggerating. I'm the one who decides whether you're a desirable housemate."

His eyes flickered down from her face to her neck to her waist and back, this time with no pretence at averting his gaze, so that she was acutely conscious of her own flesh under her robe. "To bring this conversation back to where it started, what makes you think I would even be a good lover? It's not as if I come with references."

Her pulse hammered against her wrists, and she fought off a blush; he was teasing her on purpose. "So I will be your one and only. I'm willing to take my chances. I'm just wanting to be yours."

"The fact remains that if you were married to me, you would suffer all the disadvantages of being with an older man without gaining any of the usual fringe benefits."

She knew now what he needed to hear. "So the only reason I could possibly be wanting to do it would be for yourself. I notice you have not yet proposed the simple and obvious and unanswerable objection."

"Yes?"

"Look me in the eye, and tell me that you've lost interest in me. Say that you're indifferent - that your ardour has cooled - that I'm not good enough for you - that my presence makes you miserable - "

"You're asking me to lie?"

"I'll know if you're lying." There was no humour in the observation; her chest was constricting painfully. "Convince me it's the truth, and I promise that I'll walk out of your door and never come back."

"We've already agreed that you can't go out tonight."

"You're meaning I'm only safe when I'm with you?"

"You do persist in discussing this illogically."

"That's because your basic premise is not logical. Remus..." Her words were all breath and no voice, "... of what are you really afraid?"

He hesitated, then became serious. "That in ten years, or perhaps in only five, when you recognise that you are dissatisfied with your life, that you have had so much less than you could have had, you will look me in the eye, and we will both know that I am the direct and sole cause of your unhappiness. Ariadne, I don't see how it can end any other way."

His hands were fidgeting, and she suppressed the urge to caress them into quietness. "You might give me a little more credit than that, Remus. Are you not believing that I'd take responsibility for my own actions and accept that I was the direct and sole cause of my unhappiness? If, that is, I became unhappy, which I'm not believing I would."

"Whatever the follies of youth, everyone agrees that youth is something of an excuse for folly. But what excuse would I have for ruining your life when I'm old enough to know better?"

"But we're already ruined," she said. "We tried the experiment of separating, and it did not work for either of us. If ruin is inevitable, then I'm wanting to be ruined with you, not at arm's length from you."

Suddenly his hands were still and his face motionless. She knew she was tormenting him with a terrifying vision of reckless optimism. When he did speak, his train of thought was in the middle. "I've forgotten whom I'm quoting. ‘Hell is the only place safe from the dangers of love. The alternative to the risk of heartbreak is the damnation of not loving at all.' Or words to that effect... have you ever read that book?"

She shook her head.

"But I'd always thought of it as gambling with my own heart; I never thought I'd be risking yours."

"Then ‘let our hearts break, as long as they break together'... I cannot remember whom I'm quoting either."

She thought he nodded in concurrence, but perhaps she imagined it. Then he picked up the empty dinner plates. "It's late," he said. "We have to report to the Aurors tomorrow, and then we have to explain your lateness to Jigger. I'll show you the way to the bathroom."

At the head of the stairs, he Summoned a pile of linen for her and Conjured a toothbrush out of nothing. She would never stop marvelling at the smoothness of his Charm-work. He had even found her a voluminous nightdress, presumably an old one of his mother's, which covered her with opaque white lace from neck to wrist to ankle. When she emerged from the bathroom, he was sitting at the top of the stairs, averting his eyes a little, although she was entirely respectably covered.

"It's this room," he said, opening the door beside the stairs to reveal a towering four-poster. "My parents' bed and chest were just about the only items in the house that the Death Eaters didn't scratch. There were even clean sheets in the drawer."

He followed her into the room, so that for one crazy second it almost seemed as if he were offering to sleep in the bed with her after all. She could hear the racing of her blood; surely he must hear it too. He held out his hand, but only to take her wet towel; she piled her robes onto the chest.

"So," he said, "we have an agreement?" He was trying to look solemn, but he was restraining a grin.

"We have."

"Can we compromise on a good-night kiss?"

Before she had time to reply, he saluted her forehead; and before she had the smallest chance to kiss him back, he fled the room.

His touch burned; she willed herself to stay awake, to sear the caress into her memory in case it never happened that he ever kissed her again. For him, she knew, it had been a true compromise; he had sacrificed a small corner of his integrity in order to give her a message. She would never ask him to sacrifice any more of it; she would let him see, hour by hour, that his presence did her no harm. Presently the shower stopped, and she heard him walk across the landing to the opposite room.

She was too tired to ask herself why he had needed to spend so long in the shower.