The Second Time Around

"Harry, would you mind giving me a hand with something tomorrow?" Remus asked.

"Harry glanced up from his end of the chess board with a smile. "Of course not." There had been a few tense days after their late-night encounter, but things were, for the most part, back to normal. Harry was content to fantasize about Remus, satisfied that this was a purely physical attraction that would ebb away in time. Remus, it seemed to Harry, was content being oblivious to the whole thing.

"Pawn to E3," he said, watching the little figure hop its way to the correct spot. "What did you have in mind?"

"Well," said Remus, looking a bit uncomfortable. "I have a ton of boxes in the attic I need to go through. They were stored away in my flat for years, and then with the war, and the move, I've just never had a chance to sort them out."

"What's in them?" Harry inquired, looking interested.

Remus cleared his throat. "Well, ah... you see, much of it belonged to... it was all... Sirius's. I thought maybe you'd enjoy helping me go through it," he finished in a rush.

A pained look flitted across Harry's face for an instant, but it was quickly replaced with a smile. "Sure, Remus," he said easily. "I'd love to help."

"Great. We'll get an early start - I'm sure it'll take us most of the day."

"I'll be there with bells on," Harry mumbled, concentrating on his next move.

Remus, a bit more distracted than he would have liked to admit by the thought of Harry wearing nothing but jingle bells - sleigh-ride-snow-ball-fight-roaring-fire-fur-rug-against-our-naked-backs-spiked-eggnog-scent-of-evergreen-taste-of-cinnamon-and-nutmeg-on-his-skin-stop-it-Remus-stop-it - that he nearly forgot to take his turn.

"Something the matter, Remus?" Harry questioned.

"Er... no. I was wondering if you'd like to come back for Christmas."

Harry looked puzzled. "Christmas? It's barely July. But sure, I'd love to Remus, thanks."

Remus flushed scarlet. "Are you all packed for Saturday?"

Harry scowled. Saturday was the full moon, and Remus insisted he stay at the Hogsmeade Inn. "Yes, but I don't see why -"

"Harry, we've been over this," Remus said, exasperated. "With Snape gone, and no one yet to fill his position, I've got to ration the Wolfsbane potion. I can only drink half the dosage. I've told you -"

"It's not safe, I know, I know," Harry said irritably. "I can take care of myself, Remus. Honestly, it can't be that bad."

Remus's amber eyes snapped up suddenly. "I hope every day that you never have to know how bad it is, Harry," he said with quiet intensity.

Harry felt like kicking himself. "Hey, Remus... God, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it like that, I just..."

"I know, Harry. And I'm sorry too. I get a bit... testy... around this time of month. It's the wolf," he explained. "It starts to take over slowly as the full moon approaches. I hope I don't snap at you too much."

Harry smiled. "It's okay, I understand."

Remus laughed, recalling a fond memory. "Sirius used to call it my PMS - pre-moon syndrome." Harry chuckled with him.

"More like 'Pissy Moony Syndrome,'" he said, and Remus grinned.

"You're so much like him," he said. The smile died from Harry's lips. For reasons he couldn't quite understand, Harry had no desire to be compared to Sirius in Remus's eyes. Harry was fairly innocent, but he wasn't naïve. He knew from sixth year on that Remus and Sirius had been lovers before Sirius's death, and it had never bothered him.

Until now.

Suddenly, the thought of Remus and his godfather making love made him feel ill. And jealous. The image of Remus writhing around, covered in sweat, crying out Sirius's name made him want to throw up. It also made him strangely aroused.

"I'm not," he whispered, shutting his eyes in the hope of blocking out the thought of seductive, naked Remus. It only made the vision more vivid.

"You are," Remus said firmly, and Harry opened his eyes to look at the man in front of him. He wasn't naked, sweaty, or seductive. This was no fantasy - this was Remus Lupin - kind, witty, passionate, and very real. And those eyes - God, a person could fall into those eyes, Harry thought.

"You're funny, and smart, just like he was," Remus continued. "And you're..." he faltered, realizing what he'd been about to say.

"What?" Harry asked, barely above a whisper.

"You're... I mean... just... you're beautiful," he finally finished. "Checkmate."

But Harry no longer cared about the game. Remus had just told him he - awkward, too-thin, four-eyes Harry Potter - was beautiful.

Perhaps being compared to Sirius wasn't such a bad thing after all.

***

Harry sneezed as a cloud of dust rose around his head. He blew a fine layer of filth off the cover of the photograph album, before gently turning the brittle pages. It was terribly old, probably in Sirius's family for generations. And that's just what it was - an album of the Black family, dating back to Sirius's great-great-grandfather.

"God," Harry whispered, as he flipped through pages and pages of stiff-looking wizards and broken, lifeless witches. If not for a small child clapping his hands - and the stern look of reprimand his father was giving him - in one photograph, Harry would have thought they were Muggle pictures.

"Awful, aren't they?" Remus said, leaning over Harry's shoulder and placing a hand on his arm. Harry glanced up, nodding.

"Why did he keep it? I thought he hated the Black family?"

"He did. But I think a part of him wanted to keep something - a souvenir of sorts - to prove to himself how far he'd come." Remus's eyes grew sad, and Harry realized he would have given anything to be the one to make him smile again, to bring the golden glitter back into those eyes.

"He did," Harry said with conviction. "He became so much more than them. They're the ones not worthy of the name Black - they weren't worthy of Sirius." Harry was suddenly angry. He didn't let himself think of Sirius often, but when he did, he couldn't help the bitterness that surged up inside him, thinking of how good a man he was, and how awful his family treated him.

"I know, Harry," Remus said, resting his chin on top of the boy's head. "I can only hope that, wherever they are now, they've realized that. But come," he said, smiling into Harry's dark tresses, "Sirius would hate for us to be depressed. I'm sure he left some pretty amusing things in here as well."

Harry raised his eyebrows, wondering what Remus was referring to. The older man nodded to a trunk in the corner. It was covered in old, worn brown leather, and Harry could vaguely make out a large "H" embossed into the lid.

"His Hogwarts trunk," Remus said softly, smiling. "He refused to unpack it once we graduated. Said he was starting over, leaving that life behind. I never could make myself open it up."

Harry ran a hand across the leather reverently. This one box held all of Sirius's memories from his years at Hog warts - all his memories of Peter, of Remus, and of James, Harry's father.

"Open it," Remus said, giving him an encouraging smile.

"I - I don't know," Harry said slowly. "It seems sort of... sort of like an invasion of privacy."

Remus nodded knowingly. "I think he would've wanted you to, Harry."

Harry caressed the leather once again, his hand fluttering around the tarnished gold clasp. It gave way easily beneath his fingers, and the lid snapped open. Harry and Remus sat back on their heels, not really knowing what to look at first.

The trunk was a mess, which was no surprise. Sirius had never been a neat person, and his school trunk was certainly no departure from that. Jumpers and robes were heaped about, wrinkled and smelling quite moldy. Remus pulled them out, tossing them aside with a slight look of distaste.

"Padfoot always was rubbish at laundry," he muttered. Underneath the clothes were piles of contraband that had obviously come from Zonko's. There was a stockpile of fizzing whizbees, enough to last any normal wizard a year, and a heap of dung bombs that had gone bad, and were giving off a sort of greenish-looking toxic haze.

Laughing, and trying with all his might to avoid the rancid dung bombs, Harry reached in and pulled out a small wooden box, the initials "S.B." carved into the top. "What's this?"

Remus's eyes turned a shade darker, and when he spoke, his voice was low. "A paint set. I bought it for Sirius for Christmas our last year."

Harry was dumbfounded. "Sirius was a painter?"

Remus laughed. "Yes. And quite a talented one, at that. He used to make me pose for him," Remus added, blushing.

"Do you have any of his paintings?" Harry asked, wishing desperately to see one. This was a side of Sirius he'd never known about, and it was most intriguing.

Remus shook his head. "No. He promised to give me one, as a graduation present. He wanted it to be special - of the two of us. Every time he got one nearly finished, he'd give up and burn it, saying it wasn't 'just right.' He worked on it for almost three years, and then..." Remus trailed off, but Harry knew what happened after that. Then Voldemort had killed Harry's parents, and Sirius had been carted off to Azkaban.

Harry returned to the trunk, unable to bear the pain in Remus's eyes any longer. He lifted out a stack of old spell books, his fingers brushing something of a different texture underneath.

"What's this?" he said, shoving the books aside and peering into the recesses of the trunk. It was the backside of a canvas, the kind artists use to paint on. He lifted it out breathlessly, almost afraid to turn it over.

When he did, his loud gasp was muffled by Remus's cry.

It was a painting, obviously done by Sirius, of himself and Remus. It was no doubt one of the many test-runs that he'd never been quite satisfied with, as it was only half-finished. One side was fully completed, paint and all, while the other half was just a bare-bones sketch. It was really quite beautiful in its own unique way.

The half bearing Sirius's image was the one left unfinished. It was quite fitting, actually, that his side was never completed. It was really a stunning likeness. Harry knew it must have taken ages to do - hours sitting in front of a mirror, studying every nuance of his own face and body. The pencil-drawing Sirius was staring quite impudently out of the canvas, looking pale and beautiful, a smile softening his lips. He was bare-chested, his arms wrapped around the figure next to him, a sheet tangled around their hips.

Remus's half of the portrait was a blend of red, gold, and amber hues, bringing out the highlights in his hair and the sparkle in his not-quite-human eyes. He too was shirtless, one hand in his lap, the other fondly stroking Sirius's hair. Though Sirius was looking straight ahead, Remus was turned, showing off his strong, handsome profile. He was gazing at Sirius, a mixture of love and exasperation evident on his features. Harry had a feeling it was an expression he wore often when regarding Sirius.

Remus was making a strangled sort of noise above him, and Harry looked up, finally tearing his eyes away from the painting. "You've never seen this, have you?" Remus could only manage a slight shake of his head. "You loved him very much, didn't you?"

Remus finally seemed to find his voice. "Yes. I loved him with every bit of me that was capable of doing so. After all those years, tormented and scared, he came along with that arrogant little smirk, and turned my world upside down. He was the first to discover the formula for changing into an Animagus. He became Padfoot for me. He sacrificed so much for me."

Harry felt a lump rise in his throat. He felt horrible for telling Remus he didn't want to be compared to Sirius, especially after realizing what strong feelings the man still had for him.

Harry reached out a hand and gently brushed it over Sirius's form, lovingly tracing the face he knew so well, though it was much younger in the drawing. Remus's hand came up to join his, lightly covering Harry's fingers with his own. Harry trailed his hand slowly to the right, to the image of Remus, brushing one finger along the soft lines of Remus's face, down his chest, his hand finally resting on the spot where Remus's torso disappeared underneath the sheet.

The real Remus took in a shuddering breath. "Harry," he began, and just as quickly gave up. He lowered his face and pressed it into the crook of Harry's neck, planting a soft kiss on the sensitive spot of flesh between his throat and shoulder.

Harry arched against the sensation, tilting his head to give Remus better access. The older man continued, trailing kisses up Harry's neck, ending up at his earlobe. Harry's eyelids fluttered closed, and he struggled to keep them open, still staring at the portrait of Remus in front of him, his hand still tracing the outline of the portrait-Remus's figure.

Harry took in a sharp breath as Remus darted his tongue against Harry's ear. Unable to bear their current position any longer, Harry turned on his knees and sat back against his heels, taking in Remus's face. It was no longer as young or as firm as it was in the painting, but it was the same face nonetheless, with the same handsome features. And it was now watching Harry with that same enigmatic mixture of raw emotion and bemusement. Harry lifted his hand to Remus's face, and ran it across the older man's jaw, over his brow, and down the length of his nose, letting it come to rest against his slightly parted lips.

Harry's eyes widened as Remus took the tip of his finger in his mouth, sucking it lightly. "Remus," Harry said, his words seeming to choke in his throat. "Oh, please..."

Remus looked up at Harry through hooded eyes. He suddenly pulled a way a bit. "Harry, we shouldn't be -"

"Shh," Harry whispered, tracing the outline of Remus's lower lip with the pad of his finger. "None of that matters now. Do you... do you want this? Do you want me?"

"God, Harry, yes," Remus hissed. "I've wanted this for ages - wanted you... years now... never knew... thought it was wrong..."

"How could this be wrong?"

"I'm so much older than you. I was your professor. I was your father's best friend." Harry couldn't deny any of these facts. He'd thought of them himself not too long before.

"But I'm all grown up now," he finally said. "You aren't my professor anymore. And I'm not my father." Saying this, Harry leaned in, pressing his lips against Remus's, allowing their chests to come together, closing the last inch of distance between them. Remus slipped his arms around Harry, pulling him as close as possible without crushing the boy.

Harry sighed contentedly against Remus's lips, making a soft purring noise as Remus explored every inch of his mouth. Remus still tasted like chocolate, Harry was happy to note. He relaxed into Remus's arms, returning the kiss wholeheartedly, feeling his heart begin to race as the intensity grew.

The attic was warm already, and the two of them were generating enough heat to turn the tiny room into a sauna. Harry shifted abruptly, moving his legs so he was practically sitting in Remus's lap. Remus shivered at the unexpected intimate contact, and unconsciously deepened the kiss, pulling Harry's hips against his own.

"Mmm... want you..." he moaned, his hands roaming freely over Harry's lithe young frame.

Harry, feeling as though he'd died and gone to heaven, suddenly realized that besides the fabulous way Remus was making him feel, there was something beyond the physical - something that transcended that place, that moment. Something that felt suspiciously like love, though Harry wasn't ready to admit he knew what that particular emotion felt like.

Instead, he rocked gently against Remus, feeling his heart speed up and then stop completely as all coherent thought drifted away on a stream of euphoria.

"Yes," Remus growled, lowering his chin to nip at Harry's neck. "Oh, God... oh, Harry... oh... yes... please... Sirius."

Harry flung Remus away before the other man had even realized what he'd said, hurt flooding his emerald eyes. Remus looked at him for a moment, aghast, the comprehension of what he'd done slowly sinking in. Still panting, he shut his eyes tightly, looking rather ill.

"Harry," he said softly, not opening his eyes. "Harry, I didn't mean -"

"I don't care what the fuck you meant," Harry hissed. "It's not about what you meant, it's what you said. I'm not your Sirius stand-in."

"No, no I never thought you were," Remus protested, his eyes now shimmering with tears. "It's just... being up here... going through his things... the painting..." Remus trailed off, not sure he wanted to continue this train of thought. "Harry, I never wanted to hurt you. I care about you, and I want... I wanted this to happen."

"Oh, I'm sure you did," Harry said bitterly. "I'm glad I can help you live out all your repressed Sirius fantasies, Remus."

"Harry, that's not -"

"But honestly, I don't see the comparison. I'm sure Sirius was much bigger, stronger, handsomer than I am."

"No," Remus whispered. "Actually, he -"

"He's what? Identical to me? Is that it, we look alike? Our voices sound the same? What is it Remus, huh? What is it about me, Remus, that's so much like him, that you'd lower yourself to kissing me, just to get some of him back?" Harry was fuming now. His eyes were glassy and his breath was coming in short gasps.

"Harry, stop it." Remus was getting angry now as well. He had no right to make a mockery of Sirius's memory.

"Do we feel the same?" Harry continued viciously. He grasped Remus's wrist and brought his hand forcefully to the crotch of his jeans. "Is that what it is, Remus? Sirius and I are equally well-endowed?"

Remus snatched his hand away. "God, Harry!"

"I'M NOT SIRIUS! HE'S GONE, REMUS! GONE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THAT? HE'S GONE AND HE'S NEVER COMING BACK -"

Harry heard the slap before he felt it. It made a sharp cracking noise - Like in the Muggle movies, he thought vaguely. The sting spread slowly across his cheek and jaw. He felt a warm trickle on his chin, and realized his lip had split. He looked at Remus for a second - at the raw pain in his eyes, the tension in his shoulders and clenched hands - before getting jerkily to his feet.

"If you need me, I'll be at the Hosmeade Inn," he whispered, lurching toward the door. "I don't know when I'll be back." Saying this, he flung himself through the attic door and down the stairs, pausing only to grab the small suitcase out of his room, before fleeing the house, and everything that had happened within it.

Still in the attic, Remus grasped the canvas bearing the painting of himself and Sirius, turning it over and over in his hands. In a sudden fit of rage, he swore, hurling the painting away from him, hearing the wooden frame splinter and break. There was a faint ripping noise, and Remus curled himself into a ball, dropping onto the floor, shaking violently.

For the first time in his life, he prayed for the full moon to arrive.