Love In The Ruins

Love In The Ruins

Padfoot stopped his series of gleeful barks as the wolf sprung on him, teeth bared. In an instant they were rolling on the ground, fangs clashing near each other's throats, Padfoot realizing that his every move was a step too slow. How had he grown so out of practice at canine battle? He'd thought that Doberman in Hogsmeade had been keeping him in shape!

It was only in a moment of relative calm, when he managed to pull his neck out of Moony's mouth and back up into the corner, that he realized it was not he who had changed. As much as the human Remus was more Remus than ever -- if only because the absent-minded professor act was rather disconcerting in a 12-year-old -- so was Moony more of a wolf, his attitude as he sat back on his haunches frankly imperious. He howled, not the unpracticed playful cry of their schooldays but a long, modulated message that Padfoot knew should speak volumes.

With no time to wonder what Remus had been up to these past thirteen years, the dog tried desperately to read his companion's language. Each swivel of his pointy ear, each flick of his tail, called for a response that Padfoot's instincts wouldn't help him with. He barked, which made Moony lower his tail; then he tried a howl, which evoked an unmistakable curl of his lip to show just who had bigger canines. The wolf pounced again, grasping the dog's shoulder in an expert grab and wrestling him to the floor.

As much intellectually as anything, Padfoot took the posture of a playful puppy -- he rolled on his back, put his front paws up, and lolled his tongue. The wolf stepped back, seemed to think, and then flung himself at Padfoot again.

But this time it was play. Moony barked, a rare but familiar sound, one he used to use to humor Padfoot -- and, the dog suddenly remembered, to indicate when he found something interesting. It meant "Who are you?" and Padfoot showed him who he was, grabbing the nape of the wolf's neck as he had done hundreds of times before. He didn't bite deep enough to hurt, and Moony shook him off and ran, looking back over his shoulder as if hoping he would follow.

They played this game in the small space for hours, trading top dog position, slobbering on each other's necks, digging holes in the earth. Padfoot never relaxed, nor did he dare vocalize -- and each mistake of his body language would cause Moony to sit back, ears forward and brow furrowed in thought. Sometimes he returned to the game, but more often than not he'd fly into the rage of a dominant animal whose territory has been invaded. There was something he expected, something missing in their communication that no Animagus or even real dog could provide. Padfoot's floppy ears didn't swivel in the right way, and his curly tail wouldn't stand straight up, so that he was like a Muggle in Hogsmeade asking for the nearest McDonald's.

Moony's rages didn't bother the dog so much as his effortless expertise, the way he didn't waste a moment in finding Padfoot's most vulnerable spots. If the dog backed up, he'd get his throat; if he turned around, his heels; if he crouched, his face. He seemed tireless, and Padfoot began to wonder how long he could keep this up.

He had just clamped the wolf's muzzle in his jaws to avoid another attack when the sky suddenly lightened, and he got a glimpse of feral anger and confusion in Moony's yellow eyes just before he crumpled to the floor.

Padfoot reacted instinctively. His friend and playmate had just collapsed, as if ill; the change in species was, for now, immaterial. He whimpered a bit, and prodded Remus with a paw, sniffing at his wounds. He then proceeded to lick at the blood staining his friend's face.

The licking went on for a bit, while the faint flicker of an idea materialized in the back of Padfoot's faithful mind. His human side was reasserting itself, suggesting that this would be a really good time to Change back.

So he did. Padfoot's fur disappeared in an instant, revealing Sirius Black.

Sirius, balancing on unsteady limbs, felt a bit odd when he realized he was licking Remus' face. It was, however, a good sort of odd. Anyway, he told himself, it could have been much worse: he could have been sniffing his friend's butt, or something.

Drawing back a little, he took a careful look at Remus. Apart from some superficial scratches, he could see no major damage, so he decided that Remus was just in his usual post-werewolf state. If Sirius recalled the post-werewolf state correctly, that is; quite a bit of time had passed since he had seen it last.

The question was, why was he seeing it now? Or rather, why on earth was he seeing it while trapped in some under-furnished out-building? Sirius lifted Remus' head into his lap, waiting for his friend to wake, and then turned his attention inward, towards his recent memories...

He could certainly remember riding his bike high over the English countryside, a witless smile plastered on his face in the anticipation of seeing Remus again. Remus! Yay! They had met a few times over the summer, of course, but only at solemn, secretive meetings, where Remus had looked stressed and tired. Sirius was looking forward to spending some relaxing quality time with his old friend, both on four legs and on two. He even howled out a few times, just for practice, as he raced over the fields and hedgerows.

At last, he touched down in the lane outside Remus' cottage. He knew this cottage well, by now, having used it as a hideout on several occasions. A few occasions more than strictly necessary, if truth be told: he had enjoyed the idea of inhabiting his friend's rooms, and there had always been at least a slim hope of Remus returning home unexpectedly for an impromptu reunion.

Oh, well, Sirius would get his reunion now. He pulled up to the house and let the Shadow's engine wind down, gently so as not to upset the bike.

He was still on the bike when he noticed Remus' slender form appear on the porch.

Odd. Remus wasn't looking particularly welcoming: he seemed to be frowning at Sirius as if at a stranger.

Well, Sirius was rather late. He hadn't expected the extra hour or two to matter, not on top of those thirteen years, but still, perhaps a lighthearted apology was called for?

"Remus!" he yelled. "I know I'm late, but surely that's no reason to look so grim?"

Remus seemed to rally a bit at this: he even held out his hand, a bit stiffly.

Sirius walked up and took the hand, feeling a bit awkward at all this formality. It seemed to contrast quite sharply with that spontaneous hug in the Shack. He tried for a firm, yet casual, handshake, smiling into Remus' eyes.

Now, that was really strange. Remus' answering gaze was unsettled, confused. Sirius frowned slightly, searching his friend's face. Was something wrong?

His thoughtful concentration was suddenly broken by a familiar series of bangs. The Shadow! Sirius rushed towards his bike, feeling oddly pleased. His beloved Shadow, though temperamental, was never really confusing. It misbehaved, you fixed it: it didn't have layer upon layer of longing and fear, like the people whose screams he had heard in Azkaban. It didn't look at Sirius quizzically, the way Remus had just done.

Sirius loved that bike.

In fact, he had always wondered if Remus might feel mildly jealous...

What an unworthy thought that was! He dismissed it, took out his wand, and examined the motorbike with care. "Still getting the kinks out of her," he explained over his shoulder. "I think Hagrid let some of his creatures nest in her. I knew I shouldn't have let him have the bike."

Well, actually, he hadn't much cared at the time, one way or another. Not after finding... Harry.

Growling at his own morbid thoughts, he focused on the sparks spraying out of the Shadow's engine. "A bit like taming a dragon," he laughed, twirling his wand in his fingers.

In no time at all, the bike had been tamed, leaving Sirius feeling pretty pleased with himself. Sirius Black, the magical mechanic: he still had what it took. His pride died away, however, when Remus spoke. "Really, Sirius. You propose to take Harry up on that thing?" he asked, incredulously.

For a moment, Sirius felt a little defensive. But then he remembered that Remus had always been that way, looking out for people at all times (even, sometimes, at moments of, er, extreme excitement.) He looked back towards his friend with an arch smile.

"You don't trust me?" he asked. "It'll be fine by tomorrow. You worry too much, always have."

True to form, Remus proceeded to worry about where the bike should be parked, in spite of Sirius' certainty that attempting to steal her would be tantamount to suicide. They eventually put it in the unlocked shed, and set off for the house, Sirius thinking that a night running under the stars (and moon) was exactly what the overly-worried Remus needed.

They walked into the main room.

"Um... Well, this is the main room," Remus said feebly, and then started to complain about the mess Sirius had left there after his visits.

As long as he doesn't hit me with a rolled-up newspaper, Sirius thought, this is actually mildly pleasant. Nobody had ever complained about the mess down in Azkaban.

Remus eventually departed to fetch some tea, inviting Sirius to make himself at home.

"Oh, I will," Sirius grinned, lowering himself into a fireside chair. After all, he'd felt quite at home here on his solo visits: and he'd even begun to think of this as a home base of sorts on his longer journeys. He just wished that he had found an appropriate way to repay his friend. Well, he had tried to leave him little tokens of appreciation, like beer in the fridge, but Remus had always left that undrunk.

He hadn't given the mess too much thought. Perhaps he had been rather rude after all; Azkaban had made him forget almost all his manners, and, let's face it, he'd never been strong on etiquette in the first place. Had Remus been truly upset?

Or was Remus, Sirius mused, watching his friend lean over the tea, just being rather formal and remote? Had he completely slipped out of the habit of their friendship? Perhaps a joke would help his slip back in.

No sooner had he decided this, than Remus provided him with the perfect opening. "Black, right?" he asked, handing Sirius a cup of Earl Grey.

Sirius smiled to himself. "So flattered that you remember," he said. "And you... let me see, it's on the tip of my tongue... Lupin, right?"

He was rewarded with a half-smile and a groan. "I must admit I'd forgotten your painful sense of humour," Remus said, dropping down into a nearby chair.

They were close now, their eyes at the same level. Their gazes met, and Sirius felt himself flushing. "As long as that's all you've forgotten," he found himself saying.

He saw Remus' pupils widen. There it was, surely - a spark of life, of recognition. He'd seen those eyes widen that way quite frequently, all those years back, usually as a result of one of his inappropriate jokes or suggestions...

Well, actually, the suggestions had been quite appropriate, all things considered. There had been that time, at James' wedding, when Sirius the best man had publicly asked Remus the usher for help with his suddenly ill-fitting trousers. Fully appropriate considering that it had been Remus' (unintentional) fault. And also very amusing, even if nothing had, er, come of it, at the time.

It was only later, after they had stuffed the boggart under the newlyweds' new bed, and after Remus had removed the Wilting Curse Sirius had placed on James, that the two of them had been able to take proper revenge on each other. The too-tight-trousers syndrome had proved to be very much a communicable disease, and their remedies had resulted in both of them losing the security deposit on their rented dress robes.

Sirius could still recall the face the rental wizard had made when examining some of the rips. He could also recall the face Remus had made when he realized that Sirius had figured out how to cast an Anti-Wilting Curse on himself.

Although, really, it hadn't been half as impressive as the time he'd tried the Engorgement Charm.

Was Remus remembering all this, too? Sirius glanced over at his friend's face, cooly neutral, enlivened only by the play of firelit shadows. No, he decided: Remus had drawn back, and was now lost in his own, tamer, thoughts.

It was too bad, Sirius decided, because Remus was looking so very good to him at that moment. He had aged, of course, but somehow the main result of this was to make him look even more like Remus, and that could only be an improvement as far as Sirius was concerned. And the most irritating thing was that Remus was clearly completely unaware of the effect he could have on lesser mortals, because otherwise he would not be holding his head slightly askew in that insanely attractive way.

Really, it was too bad that Remus had grown so formal and forgetful. Sirius felt a strange emptiness in his chest, and decided to change the subject.

"It'll be nice to see Harry again," he tried a safe topic. "Although I still haven't quite got the hang of this godfathering thing."

They talked about Harry for a while, and Sirius remembered James, another friend he'd loved (although differently, in more, well, conventional fashion.)

"Honestly, Remus, Harry's so much like James..." he confided, suddenly. "It's almost as if..."

Remus shook his head, rejecting the past.

"Yes, it is!" Sirius exclaimed, rejecting the rejection. "It's almost as if the Marauders were all here again. Fighting old Voldie, you, me, and... Potter!"

"Much has changed in the last thirteen years," Remus said quietly. "I just can't..."

Looking at his friend's tired face, Sirius felt a knot of rage grow within his chest. "I'll say much has changed!" he snarled. "Wormtail... We won't miss him. Although I would dearly like to see him just the one last time," he continued, thinking of all the revenge scenarios he'd imagined over the last few years. "I'd like to..."

Remus clearly didn't approve. "Have some tea," he suggested, interrupting.

Sirius found himself drinking obediently. His rage faded, replaced by an inner amusement. "Well, one thing hasn't changed," he said. "I do still tend to take your advice, Moony."

He lifted his eyes from his teacup and considered his friend. Remus had always been one of the very few people he would ever listen to, in bed or out of it. And one of the even fewer people whose presence he had found consistently soothing. So why did he now feel so on edge? There was one possible explanation...

"You've changed, though," he announced. It felt like an accusation.

"It's been thirteen years," Remus replied, unfazed. "Life has treated me kindly compared to you, of course, but certainly I've changed. I'm no longer Moony the carefree Marauder."

Oh, no, Sirius sighed to himself, he's getting all maudlin again!

After a moment's reflection, the thought cheered him. Perhaps this was the old Remus, just in one of his less sociable moods. In that case, he needed to lighten up. Perhaps Sirius could help.

Remus, meanwhile, was still following his melancholy train of thought. "I haven't changed in essentials, of course," he began.

That was too good to pass up."I'm glad to hear that," Sirius smirked, looking Remus up and down. "Can I see?"

"What?" Remus sat up in his chair. "Can't you just drop it, Sirius?" he asked.

His irritated gaze hit Sirius like a blasting curse. Remus had understood the joke only too well: he clearly did remember quite a bit. He was, probably, equally well aware of Sirius' own longings. His formal attitude was, then, nothing less than a rejection of the past, as well as of any future flirtation.

In his better days, a rejection would have made Sirius feel angry, and disdainful of the rejector's bad taste, but now... now he could only feel depressed. He had a vague suspicion that he had just screwed up the whole reunion with his silly needs. He looked away, muttering an apology.

"No, I'm sorry, Sirius," he heard Remus reply. "Time of the month, you know."

Sirius nodded at the familiar joke, and watched his friend rise and walk off towards the tea-tray. Confused, and suddenly tired, he considered turning into his dog self an hour or two early. Well, it did make sense. Padfoot was almost guaranteed to be less attracted to Remus than Sirius, and absolutely guaranteed to care less if Remus (or Remus' leg) rejected his advances.

Remus, meanwhile, returned with some biscuits. For a moment there, Sirius thought that maybe they were thinking alike, but he soon realized that they weren't dog biscuits, after all.

Just as he was searching the biscuits for hidden meaning, he heard a series of sudden, familiar bangs. Grateful to the Shadow for yet another timely interruption, he stood up slowly and said, "Thought I had that nailed down...I'd better go and see."

He had walked out quite quickly, genuinely puzzled by the sounds. The last thing he remembered was opening the shed door to be confronted with a slightly off-colour cloud of green smoke, and hearing the word Stupe...

Sirius wondered now: what had that thing in the shed been? Something to do with Voldemort, no doubt, he decided. Which would also explain why the two of them were now locked in a building, with rope burns on their arms.

Why were they free, and guardless? Had they done something to the guard during the night? Sirius could not remember doing anything quite that much fun.

He suddenly remembered something else, though: Remus Changing, wild with worry for his unconscious friend. Somebody out there had wanted Sirius to come to a rather nasty end involving a werewolf's teeth; somebody out there had a very twisted mind. But then Sirius supposed he had known that all along.

Pushing aside his memory of the outraged naked Remus for future enjoyment, Sirius reached the unpleasant conclusion that the Twisted Mind might be turning up pretty soon to see how their Twisted Plan had worked out. And the resulting encounter would not be pretty. Especially not if Remus remained unconscious. Perhaps he could speed the waking process? Sirius looked down at his friend and shook him, none too gently.

"Come on, Moony, wake up," he said, slapping Remus' cheek lightly. "We've got company coming."

Remus, however, did not respond.

Damn, Sirius thought, this is all my fault. Me and my poor impulse control, rushing out to the Shadow like that. And now we're stuck here, injured and wandless - damn, how I wish for a nice, big wand. I wonder if, unarmed, I'll be of any use at all when the jailers appear?

"Do you think I'll be of any use when our jailers appear?" he asked Remus. "Who are they, anyway, and what do they plan to do with you? Kill you?"

Remus was still non-responsive, and Sirius sighed and pulled him up closer. Nobody, nobody would be killing Remus Lupin while Sirius Black still lived. Now that he was thinking about it, he realized that he would gladly die protecting Remus, more gladly that he would die for Harry, Dumbledore, for their shared cause...

"Hah, Moony," he said, "Let's see you act all formal with me after I die trying to protect you."

Remus, again, showed no signs of having heard or understood this. Sirius was, for once, rather glad.

Which reminded him of the shameful pleasure he himself had felt earlier, upon waking to see his friend's very un-Remus-like distress. He had always enjoyed watching Remus lose some of his reserve. Fervently wishing that he might have further opportunities to observe Remus under any circumstances at all, he stared down at his friend. Drinking in every detail, just in case...

Perhaps he could shock Remus back to life somehow? Sirius leaned down towards his friend's ear. "Remus, you're naked, and I'm staring at you," he said.

No reaction, not from Remus at least. Sirius himself did feel slightly comforted by his friend's proximity. For a moment, he just looked at Remus and smiled. And, then, poor impulse control struck again: he leaned even closer forward, and kissed him.

He could remember kissing Remus that same way before, when bored on lazy mornings. It had usually worked, back then.

It worked now. Remus' eyes popped open.