On Finding Oneself Suddenly at Home

It had been raining on them for two days, a surprisingly cool rain for so late in the spring. All the ditches and gullies were flooded, and the air smelled sharply of water and worms and frog spawn. By the waning-gibbous moon, Sirius could see the house in the distance for quite a while before they reached it; then, quite suddenly it seemed, they were home. It would not have looked very welcoming to any other observer; the roof had been partially destroyed by fire at some point, and not a single light shone in any of the big mullioned windows of the main floors. But Sirius caught the glimmer from a small side window on the ground floor.

Buckbeak followed him up the wide stone steps to the first-floor entrance, through the double doors into the hall. The furnishings having been long since sold off, this floor was empty save for cartons of old glass bottles and stacks of Prophets and Quibblers and Guardians and Daily Mails that Remus had stashed there for some reason. The papers at least had turned out dead useful, as Sirius had gotten caught up on a substantial backlog of news through them, and Buckbeak liked to use them to fashion himself a nest of sorts. Leaving him to it, Sirius took the service staircase down to the snug ground-floor rooms that were still fit for human habitation. As he reached the dark lower corridor, he saw Remus waiting for him, standing in the doorway to the kitchen, framed by the glow from the fire.

"Are you soaked?" Remus asked. "Did you see Harry? The papers were a bit strange about it." Sirius felt himself sigh as though he were truly breathing again for the first time in months. He went to Remus and took his face between both hands.

"I'm soaked," he said between kisses, "I saw Harry." He rubbed his rain-chilled nose against Remus's, then released him and went over to the fireplace, where he peeled off his wet, muddy robes. The prickling of his damp skin as it dried in the heat from the fire was heavenly. He had no business losing himself to comfort just yet, though, he reminded himself. He had news that couldn't wait.

He considered Remus, who was busy with the kettle. Three days after the moon and he was still moving a bit stiffly. Sirius felt the inevitable twinge for having left him alone for four months, but it could not be helped. When Harry needed him, he had to go, and that was something he knew Remus would always understand.

Apparently feeling himself watched, Remus looked over at him and smiled.

"Let me get you..."

"Wait, come here," Sirius stopped him, "Quit fussing around. I need to tell you what happened."

Remus paused, then padded over and stood in front of him, his hands clenching, his face braced as though expecting a slap. "Harry's all right, though," he said quietly.

Sirius touched his face again, then took hold of his arms, needing to squeeze, to grip tight. "Harry's fine," he said, "but he witnessed something. He went through some stuff."

Remus nodded. He knew. They had both been expecting this, had known it would happen sooner or later. "It's all going to start again, isn't it," he said, in the soft voice that Sirius dreaded. But Sirius was prepared for it, for those very words.

"It won't be like before," he answered. "It won't. But yes, it's starting. Dumbledore is reassembling the Order. Harry saw him..." He held Remus's gaze as though willing him to read his mind, so that he wouldn't have to use the words. But this time he was going to have to say it out loud, though it would be a knife through both of them.

"It was Peter," he said.

Remus nodded again. He wasn't surprised by this either, but he was stricken. He looked as though he wanted to close his eyes or turn his face away, but he didn't.

"Peter took some of Harry's blood."

At that, a small involuntary sound escaped from Remus, and his weight seemed to sag a bit in Sirius's grip, which tightened reflexively. Or perhaps he was trying to pull away, but in any case, Sirius held on to him.

"He used it..."

Sirius found he could not continue. His breath was stopped by a fresh wave of fury - yes, hard to believe, but a fresh wave of fury at Peter; both for what he had done, and that he still had the power to hurt them, a power he had relinquished any right to years ago. Blindly he pulled Remus to him and they clasped each other protectively, silent for a while except for their ragged shallow breathing. Then Remus abruptly inhaled deeply, if shakily, and exhaled a bit more steadily. One of his hands vigorously rubbed up and down Sirius's spine a few times.

"Well, you've told me the worst," he said. "Sit down. I'll fix you something. You can tell me the rest later." He took off the baggy dressing robe he wore over his nightclothes and draped it over Sirius's shoulders.

Sirius shrugged into the robe, then sat at the table and pulled his boots off. Remus brought him a mug of tea and began cracking eggs into an iron skillet.

"I'm sorry I ate all the meat," he said, a bit distractedly, "I didn't know you were coming tonight."

Sirius laughed unexpectedly. "You would have anyway," he said, and Remus smiled. Remus had always been profoundly embarrassed about his food cravings, in that he had never wanted them referred to in front of other people, not even James. But when they were alone he was more matter-of-fact about them and could even take a bit of teasing. In their youth, as Sirius remembered it, it had most often been milk; he could recall days when Remus had drunk two or three quarts of fresh milk. Now it seemed it was chiefly meat or butter. If those were in the house on a craving day, they would be gone by nightfall. Willpower simply did not enter into it.

"Maybe Snuffles can steal you a chicken tomorrow," he said.

"Maybe Snuffles can walk down to the Home Farm with me and be a good dog while I buy one," Remus replied, his smile broadening. "I should be well enough. Anyway my reputation is bad enough around here without harbouring a rogue hound and chicken-killer."

Sirius suddenly realized that he hadn't told Remus about Peter killing the other boy. Well, that would have to wait, he decided, as he gulped the hot, sweet tea. He'd have to tell him eventually, but it would have to wait.

"Did you say it had been in the paper?" he asked as Remus set the plate of fried eggs and potatoes in front of him.

"Just that Harry had won the Tournament," Remus said dryly, leaning against the table. "And not a word about anything else. I assume the Ministry is doing its usual best to keep people uninformed." He was always covertly glad for the chance to blame the Ministry for something, and since Azkaban Sirius certainly saw his point.

"Not only that," Sirius replied between bites. He was ravenous, and greatly enjoying the peppery, slightly scorched taste of his supper. As he ate he described Fudge's refusal to even believe that anything catastrophic had occurred. "Maybe Dumbledore can talk some sense into him," he concluded, "but..." He shrugged and scraped some more egg onto his fork.

"But the possibility of Fudge being something besides a fucking idiot at some point in the future is not one we can count on," Remus finished for him. He was really incensed. Sirius stopped himself laughing by swallowing the sugary dregs of his tea.

Exhaustion claimed him swiftly and completely. He fell into a sort of doze, although he was not truly asleep, for he was aware of the light and warmth of the fire, and the wind and rain outside, and the sugar dissolving on his tongue. He was aware as from a great distance of Remus moving about and perhaps occasionally saying something. Then Remus was suddenly close, leaning over him, refilling his mug, enveloping him in the familiar camphor smell of the balm he used against muscle aches. Breathing deeply, Sirius turned and leaned into the fragrance, nestling his head against Remus. He felt a hand light between his shoulder blades and heard the clink of the teapot being set down. A palm cupped his cheek.

"I'm filthy," he mumbled pre-emptively, resting very comfortably, "Disgusting."

"I'll draw you a bath when you've finished your tea," Remus said, "I'll wash your hair," and it might have been a dream, except that he felt the fingers against his scalp, combing his dirty hair away from his face. "Then we'll go to bed," Remus said, and the fingertips smoothing his brow felt like a blessing.