Certain Circumstances

"Caradoc?"

No answer.

"Caradoc. Are you in there?"

Silence.

"Mister Dearborn."

Nothing. No surprise. Caradoc has this habit, Amelia Dearborn knows it full well, of disappearing. Not physically. It's more of a mental vacation, which happens only at the dinner table.

What Amelia Dearborn does not know is that Caradoc is listening to everything she says. It is retaliation, Caradoc tells himself, of the harmless sort. Name a child Caradoc and you're lucky if the only sort of retaliation they take up is harmless. Especially when you have named your boy Caradoc. The only possible nicknames for such a travesty are Cara - fine for a girl; unfortunately, Caradoc is not one - and Doc - which loses its novelty before it manages to get any.

"Caradoc." Caradoc plays idly with his fork. "Your father and I were wondering." Oh dear. "Well, no, that isn't it - but you see, we were looking, looking through the flat adverts in all the papers." Ah. That's all right, then. Caradoc plays with a pea. "And we found a few bargains we thought you might want to look into." Caradoc rolls a pea onto the floor. Hubert the dog, also a victim of unfortunate naming, inspects it cautiously, drools on it half-heartedly, and then vacates the premises. "All we were wondering," Amelia manages, becoming exasperated with her son at last, "is when you are planning on moving out."

"Getting a job," Bertram Dearborn supplies with all good cheer and helpful intentions. Neither his son nor his wife seems much impressed. Shrugging, he returns to his roast.

Caradoc feels faintly annoyed, himself. It's always been this way. Learn how to play a guitar, Caradoc thinks, that will be fun; but his parents would rather not hear about it. Apply for a top-secret job, but his parents would rather not hear about it. Give up most of his free time in order to go about saving the world - or so it feels like, or so it very well may be - and all his poor mother can concentrate on is--

"Caradoc, why aren't you eating?" Amelia attempts to solicit a response. Any response. She is growing desperate. After a long silence, Caradoc decides to give her a break. Only a little break, though. It's essentially all she deserves for talking to him as if he's ten and wanting him to act as if he's thirty. It's no wonder he has a hard time taking things seriously.

"I'm a vegetarian," he says. "As of two weeks ago. Didn't you know?" From the look on Amelia Dearborn's face it is quite clear she did not know. Caradoc grins a big, bright grin and catapults a pea from his fork into Herbert the dog's ear.

"I thought vegetarians ate peas," Bertram says distractedly through a mouthful of roast. "Does this have anything to do with that guitar of yours?"

'Does this have anything to do with that guitar of yours' has been Bertram Caradoc's favorite phrase for three years now, since the advent of said guitar. Caradoc likes his guitar. It is red and electric and has a top of the line amplifier. When Caradoc plugs it in and plays, even Hubert the dog feels young enough to hide.

"Of course it doesn't. This has to do with Caradoc. Caradoc, stop throwing peas at Herbert." Caradoc is pushing Amelia too far. She looks a bit purple.

"Sorry, mum," Caradoc says, grinning charmingly. Amelia softens immediately. Caradoc's grin is like that; from a very young age, he was endowed with this most irreplaceable magic. "Actually, I'm moving out Wednesday. Didn't I tell you?" Bertram drops his knife. Excited and bombarded by an onslaught of peas, Herbert the dog hurries to slobber on it.

"Wednesday," Amelia says, and promptly bursts into tears.

"Oh, mum," Caradoc says. But all is lost. Not even his grin can save him now.

*

"Well I've made some melted cheese," Remus says, into the long silence that follows. "I didn't think you were coming back. But there's enough for two, if you're staying." Still on the doorknob, Remus's hand looks small and white. Sirius is trying not to listen to everything echoing in his brain: his own request, Remus's amendment to those five words, and now a faint repetition of the phrase 'melted cheese' in an attempt to drown out the former two.

"Oh," Sirius says. His voice sounds slow and uncertain. Then, his stomach growls, startling both of them out of their respective reveries. Well, Sirius tells himself, a sheepish grin forcing its way to his face, 'like a brother' is far better than an alternative Sirius had thought Remus was talking about. In fact, there's no comparison between the two at all. Sirius loves Remus, as well - like a friend and, now that he thinks about it, certainly like a brother. And this way, there's no need for awkwardness between them, no need for paranoia on Sirius's end and disappointment on Remus's. Sirius is grateful to realize it has all been a misunderstanding. Sirius is grateful not much rationalization is needed; just enough for him to handle. It's a good thing Remus hasn't been listening to James, or getting any crazy ideas from him. He'd had Sirius worried, there, for a moment. The relief that grumbles in Sirius's belly is eclipsed only by another clench of hunger. He turns his eyes to Remus's face, and watches some strange expression flee those familiar features. For a moment, he tries to name it. The attempt fails. "Haven't had any breakfast, late or not," Sirius points out, still sheepish, "and then I got rained on. Drove around for a bit, which really works up an appetite, especially on an empty stomach."

"I could put up more tea," Remus adds, helpfully, "and make a few more sandwiches."

"That sounds great," Sirius says, because it does. His grin reassures itself that it is actually a grin and holds firm, despite the second wave of understanding, which Sirius cannot believe: things are still awkward between them. They stand at odd angles from one another, Sirius feeling as if he will intrude by walking in, and Remus's hand refusing to be anything other than pale and clenched on the doorknob. Sirius clears his throat. He wonders if he will see that same expression chase itself over Remus's face again, but does not want to look for it. He keeps his eyes on Remus's hand, rubbing the back of his neck. "Uhm. Hey, and maybe, I could use a couple of your towels. And maybe we could move in together."

"Of course," Remus replies, quickly, and then, "yes. I'd like that. Yes."

"The towels?"

Remus smiles helplessly.

"Of course, to the towels. I'll go get them. And yes. We could move in together." Silence. Remus's fingers jump. "That is, it's an entirely plausible scenario." He's late on his rent this week. "Though my flat's rather small, it would hardly hold your things and mine." Sirius is just looking at him. "Were you serious? You weren't serious, were you." Sirius is just looking at him still, but his expression has changed. It's sort of funny. Remus has been to Sirius's new flat once. It's also small, but not as small as Remus's, and it has two bathrooms. "I'll go get the." He stops. Sirius is taking his hand calmly off the doorknob, giving it an uncomfortable but friendly pat, and dropping it at Remus's side. Sirius's right hand moves awkwardly; the knuckles are pink, puffed, and swollen, a horizontal cut stretching across them.

"Couldn't get in, you know, with your arm in the way like that," Sirius explains, tucking his hands quickly into his pockets, and trots into the living room. "My flat's too small, too. We'll have to get a bigger one." He stops for a moment, shrugs. "We can keep that couch. I've always liked that couch. Don't like that chair though, I like mine better." Remus closes the door behind him, turning and pressing his back against it. He watches Sirius look the room over, from the stuffed bookshelf to the old coffee table to the sagging armchair and the relatively new sofa, which folds out into a guest bed. He watches Sirius study the lamp in the corner of the room, casting feeble light onto the depressed armchair. He watches Sirius scratch the side of his cheek. He thinks, I'm not going to be able to afford a bigger flat, even if I am paying only half the rent. He thinks he does not want Sirius to know. He realizes Sirius is talking, and stops watching Sirius, and tries to stop thinking. "If I remember, you make a damn good cheese sandwich, Moony." Remus's fingers shake, but he's more grateful for Sirius's bottomless stomach than he's ever had reason to be, before.

"Sandwiches are in the kitchen," he says. How long has it been since he's heard Sirius call him that? And how long has it been since he flipped the first sandwich in the pan? "Burning," he adds, because now he can smell it, the ruined, smoky cheese fat and charred bread. "I'll have to make more. Towels are in the bathroom." Sirius sniffs and makes a face, pushing hair out of his eyes.

"That way?" he asks, pointing. He remembers where the bathroom is. It just seems there needs to be some sort of excuse to escape in that direction. Remus nods.

They hurry in opposite directions, Sirius towards the tiny bathroom just off Remus's bedroom, and Remus to the kitchen, where the melted cheese sandwich looks like rubber and ash and the smell is revolting. He turns the stove off and scoops the sandwich out into the trash with a spatula. He puts the pan into the sink and runs hot water over it. It sizzles, a low sound that covers the roar of thought and nonsense crashing between his ears. He is still scrubbing the pan when Sirius comes in, lingering first in the doorway to survey the small kitchen, and the back of Remus's bobbing head.

"I did something you aren't going to like," he says, stepping through to the kitchen at last. "I'll slice the bread." Remus is quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of Sirius arranging the bread and searching for a knife in the drawers beneath the counter.

"What did you do?" He dries the pan off with a damp towel, setting it back on the stove. He slices off another pat of butter and begins heating it in the pan. Behind him, the pattern of Sirius's silverware jingling pauses.

"I broke Snape's nose," Sirius admits in a mumble.

"You what?" Remus's hands still.

"I told you you wouldn't like it." The sound of cutlery being disturbed picks up again. Remus stares at the butter in the pan, dancing across the surface and bubbling at the heat. So that was where Sirius had been all day. Not surprisingly, Remus finds that Tibet would have been far preferable. "I mean, I don't actually know if I broke it. I think I did, though. If my hand is anything to go by. I," he stumbles for a moment, cutting a few slices of bread with a vengeance, "lost my temper. But, Moony, Snape? I mean, you can't blame me. Can you?" Remus picks up the remaining sandwich and drops it in the pan.

"Who should I blame, then?" he asks. He sounds very calm. Sirius begins to worry.

"No one," he states, trying to sound sure of himself. "It isn't like we're in school anymore. I'm not going to get in any trouble for it. Look, Moony, it had to be done. Don't you understand that? Just to show him, he's not. He's not." Sirius falters.

"He's not what?" Remus's voice still has that dull, flat tone, words echoing hollowly over the self-conscious background noise of cheese melting and bread crisping.

"You don't fancy him anymore, anyway. You said that much," Sirius points out, crossly. "So I don't see why it should matter at all to you."

"He shouldn't have his nose broken because I happened, foolishly, to tell you this morning I fancied him, once, in third year. For Merlin's sake, Sirius, how did you manage to come to the conclusion that it was his fault I fancied him?" Remus flips the sandwich, his hands remaining calm even as his voice raises in tone and heightens its implications. Not so much mad as he is baffled and shocked, Remus wonders if Sirius really has broken Severus's nose. If so, while it is not directly Remus's fault, it is certainly in direct correlation to something Remus had said. The smell of butter and melting cheese begins to override the acridity of the smoke and char still lingering on the air. Remus takes a deep breath in, steadying himself.

"I couldn't very well break your nose." Sirius moves on to cutting off hunks of cheese, doing so with a dangerous fervor. It is quite possible the cheese is representative of something - someone - else, whose nose has just recently been rearranged. If not, Sirius is displaying an unprecedented and murderous grudge towards this particular wedge of cheddar.

"That would have made far more sense." Remus reaches up to a cupboard, opens it, and takes out two plates. He sets them down on the countertop by the stove and tips out the first sandwich. Sirius hands him a second, which he presses down in the butter-slick pan with the spatula. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. How would it have made more sense? It wouldn't have made any sense at all. I didn't want to break your nose, I wanted to break Snape's nose." Sirius assembles a third sandwich. It's hard to work with his rapidly stiffening right hand, fingers not moving properly at all, but it keeps him busy. He presses himself against the pain which he is also intent on ignoring. Any wince of his will detract from the satisfaction of why he is wincing.

"And you did. That was excellent planning, Sirius, thought through incredibly well, just like the Willow--"

"Don't," Sirius snaps. Silence fills the kitchen. They haven't mentioned that once since Remus forgave Sirius for it. Though Remus is right - the same destructive impulse drove Sirius to both actions - there's no damn need for him to point that out. "It isn't the same," Sirius adds, calmer, as the tension in Remus's kitchen crushes the air out of his lungs. "It isn't the same at all." Remus says nothing, turning the second sandwich in the pan. "What do you want me to do, send him get-well flowers? Or do you want to do that yourself?" The edge to Sirius's voice surprises even Sirius, who winces at it. "I don't see why you're so upset about it. That's all. It's Snape. It's Snape's huge, ugly nose, he'll probably fix it up right away, good as new, while my hand--"

"Shut up, Sirius." Remus slides the second sandwich out onto the second plate. "Are you going to want two sandwiches?"

"Yes," Sirius answers, muted. He turns, dropping his second sandwich onto the pan. Remus notes for the second time the bruises on the knuckles of Sirius's right hand. Remus's brow furrows.

"Have you done anything about that?"

"Done anything about what?" Sirius has turned away again, his back facing Remus. "Do you want a second sandwich?"

"No. I don't. Have you done anything about your hand, I meant. Here, put some ice on it." The valiant but ancient Muggle refrigerator-freezer in the corner at least manages to keep ice frozen. Remus opens the freezer door and scoops a handful of ice into a dish towel. Twisting it expertly into a pouch, he proffers it to Sirius. "That should do, until the ice melts. If you wait a moment, I'll charm it so it keeps cold." Sirius mumbles his thanks. He doesn't like feeling young, not this sort of young; that is, he doesn't like how childish Remus can make him feel, just by looking at him so narrowly.

"The sandwich," he says, uncomfortably, nodding his head towards the stove. It takes Remus a moment to realize what he's trying to indicate before he hurries back to the stove and manages to flip it just in time to its other side. One burnt sandwich, Remus has decided, is more than enough for one evening. The smell of it won't fade from the kitchen for a while now, the main reminder of a day Remus would rather not be reminded of, thank you. Sirius lingers near the kitchen doorway, holding the ice to his knuckles and looking hangdog. "I could make tea," he offers.

"No, thank you," Remus says. "You could wait in the living room."

"Right," Sirius agrees, and trots out. Maybe, he thinks, coming back was a really bad idea. Maybe, he thinks, asking Remus to live with him was also a really bad idea. Maybe, he thinks, breaking Snape's nose was the worst idea of all, but at least it was gratifying. The ice he holds to his swollen knuckles is unpleasantly cold. He sits down on the couch and leans back, sinking into it, trying to pretend he is somewhat comfortable. From the kitchen, he hears Remus opening cupboard doors, taking out cups for tea, no doubt, and the teapot. It is a particularly homely teapot, an odd, squat shape glazed a dull gray color. However, the idea of tea and cheese sandwiches makes Sirius's stomach growl again. It smells good in Remus's flat, like cheese sandwiches fresh out of the pan and buttered far too much, just the way Remus likes to make them, and Sirius to eat them.

Maybe, he thinks, asking Remus to live with him was a really bad idea, but at least he will have cheese sandwiches.

*

Sirius spends the night on the fold-out couch, sprawled out and snoring. Remus retires to his bedroom with his hot cocoa at last, and does something he has never before wanted to do. He locks the door. He locks it with the purpose not of keeping Sirius out but of keeping himself in, of drawing a clear dividing line between where he is sleeping, and where Sirius is. After all, he does not want to let his impulses get the better of him in the night, and kill Sirius Black where he lies. It would be unfortunate to do so, as Remus's anger will calm once morning comes, and he has decided what should be done about things.

Remus lets his head rest against the wall, sagging into it. He feels tired, down to his bones. Somewhere inside him is a meshwork of dust and cobwebs, the source of all his shadows and grayness.

He has agreed to live with Sirius. While this option is a better one than seeing him as little as he feared he would, it is both terrifying and miserable. Sirius's life for the first time so obviously separate from his own. Sirius, still doing incredibly stupid things, such as driving halfway across London just to break Severus Snape's nose on impulse. Sirius, having jumped headfirst into playing an active role in a highly confidential plan of Albus Dumbledore's, post-graduation, along with James.

While Remus, not trusting himself enough in terms of consistency to do much else than working part-time in a bookshop, now specializes in selling rare and magical volumes for four days of the week.

He wonders how long he will be able to hold onto this job, with the usual monthly disappearances. Still, he is determined not to be any more of a burden to his parents. He does not, by that logic, want to be a burden to Sirius, either. It could hardly be helpful to Sirius to have him around all the time; could hardly be helpful to Sirius to share a flat with an unregistered werewolf who can't allow himself a full-time job, for all that he will lose it within a few months.

And then there is the matter of Severus Snape, who is out there, somewhere, with his nose broken, because Remus took it into his head that morning to say every last thing he now knows he shouldn't ever have said at all. Much less all in one go. Remus feels the sudden urge to knock his head up against the wall for a while, but Sirius is asleep in the living room. He quells the desire. He can at least let Sirius, with his swollen hand and his finally-dry hair and his sandwich-cheered eyes, have his sleep. After all, it's the least he can do, considering certain circumstances saw to it he could not have his breakfast.

*

Sirius can't sleep.

He would prefer it if he could, as it would allow him not to think at all. Not that being awake necessarily means he is thinking at all. Today - now yesterday, he realizes - is ample proof of that. However, if he could fall asleep, he could stop dwelling. That's a better word, he decides. Not thinking is one of his problems. Not dwelling is one of the solutions.

Sirius lies on the folded out mattress for a while, staring up at Remus's ceiling, watching the occasional shadow amble into different positions. He shifts often. He tosses his arms behind his head, stretches his legs out in front of him, gets tangled up in the comforter tossed over him, until he kicks it off. Then, he finds that he is cold, and unwilling to grope around on the living room floor to find the comforter again. He is tired, absolutely worn out from the day and its trials, absolutely worn out in general, and yet he cannot stop thinking about Remus.

More specifically, he cannot stop thinking about Remus using the distraction technique of saying, so simply, 'Well, you can't help whom you fancy. Actually, you know, I once fancied Severus Snape.' Of course, it had gotten the desired result. It had been very distracting. It had been so distracting that Sirius had gone off to break Snape's nose about it. However, what with Remus's panicked expression after saying it, it had been quite clear he had been telling the truth.

And that is not acceptable, not acceptable at all.

It brings Sirius slight cheer to remember his favorite nickname for Snape. Snivellus was a stroke of genius on James's part, Sirius feels, for it so encompassed his personality that even those one might have considered Snape's friends took to calling him that. Spending far too much time in libraries and on potions, and far too little time remembering to bathe himself, the very idea of Snape is still repulsive. To Sirius, in any case. Apparently not to Remus.

Who fancied him.

All in all, it is distressing. It is especially distressing to think Remus once thought anything other than what Sirius thought of Severus Snape. He couldn't have thought much of him, Sirius tries to soothe himself by remembering, or else he would have done something about the constant pranks Sirius and James were always playing. Grinning in fond reminiscence, Sirius forgets for a moment that this is a serious matter. Preserved forever as an invaluable member of their group of four, the Map's indelible Mssr. Moony, having helped to plan each grand hoax and every great escape, Remus's unexpected betrayal returns once more to the foreground in Sirius's thoughts. Along with it comes lingering doubt. Moony fancied a boy. Snape notwithstanding, Moony fancied a boy. Perhaps Remus was, and is, a bit more off his rocker than Sirius ever realized. Not that fancying a boy is anything Sirius would classify as crazy. He's just surprised he never knew, astounded that Remus never would have told them.

Considering your reaction, a nasty voice in the back of Sirius's brain pipes up, is it any wonder that he didn't?

Shut up, Sirius tells the nasty voice. (Which sounds, come to think of it, vaguely familiar; it reminds him of Remus, when Remus is being Right at him.)

Sirius turns his mind to another question. What now, then? What about Remus now? Is Remus fancying another boy, just as big-nosed and greasy-haired and sullen as Snape? Is Remus fancying another boy who isn't just as big-nosed and greasy-haired and sullen as Snape, but rather a vast improvement on the original? The latter, Sirius hopes uneasily, is no doubt more likely. A bloke can't go through life having only fancied Snape for a bit, in third year. Take Sirius, for example. Sirius fancied that Abbott girl, for a while. And then he fancied that friend of Lily's, whose name he's forgotten now but whose face he remembers, as she happened to look a little like Remus. And then there were others. Sirius thinks. Anyway, there had to have been. Just because James was louder and stupider about Lily all that time doesn't mean Sirius wasn't being amply loud and stupid, as well.

But Remus was never loud and stupid about anything. So what if there had been others?

The thought makes Sirius's bad fist clench, and he winces, too tired to stop himself. (Snape's nose, Sirius thinks savagely, should be considered a weapon.) Sirius assumes without questioning the assumption that Remus should have told him everything, should tell him everything now.

Right now.

At this very minute.

Which happens to be a quarter past twelve, but the details don't matter.

Sirius nearly trips over the tangle of comforter as he leaps from the couch and stumbles through the dark - ow, coffee table, won't make that mistake again - and down past the bathroom, towards Remus's bedroom door. Without thinking to knock, he tries to open it. He nearly slams headfirst into the door, which would be called 'the hard way' to find out it is locked.

This new information gives Sirius pause. Why would Moony lock the door when it's just him and Sirius in the flat? Perhaps he has his reasons. He always has been secretive. Perhaps he locked the door by accident. Perhaps he's got the light on and didn't want to bother Sirius with it. Perhaps he's naked.

For the first time in his life, Sirius has to knock to get somewhere Remus is. He forgets his right hand is swollen, and smashes it up against the hard wood twice before the pain filters in to his senses.

"Ow!" he says. Loudly. "Owfuck."

"Sirius? Is that you?" Remus sounds very awake, at least. Somewhere, through the throbbing of his hand, Sirius feels heartened to know he hasn't woken him. From the other side of the door, Sirius can hear Remus stumble to his feet, the rustling of comforter and sheets and the padding rhythm of Remus hurrying to unlock the door. It opens. Remus stands there, looking slightly dazed, hair falling into his eyes. He's wearing a sweatshirt and underwear. Sirius scratches the back of his head.

"Yeah. It's me. I had a question."

Remus turns to look back over his shoulder, at the clock on his bedside table. It reads twelve-twenty. When Remus turns back to Sirius, he looks significantly more perplexed.

"Now?" he asks, incredulously.

"Now," Sirius verifies. "I had a question. And you're up, and I'm up, and who else have you fancied, besides Snape?" Remus runs his fingers through his hair, pushing a few loose waves of brown back from his forehead. He rubs the bridge of his nose, then pinches it at the top, brow furrowing. Sirius recognizes that look. It's the one Remus always wears, when he's trying to give full concentration to answer a question, or, more likely, to figure out a question's motives. Sirius feels a little stupid. Scratch that; Sirius feels a lot stupid. "I mean, I just wanted to know, because James was always going on and on about Evans - Lily," he amends, for the second time that day, "and I was never private, not like James but not private, and even Peter talked about whatever it was he fancied more than you." Sirius runs his fingers through his hair, feeling both messy and rude as Remus rubs his brow with the hem of his sweater's sleeve.

"Oh," Remus says, still displaying utter confusion. "I don't know. I didn't really spend a lot of time fancying anyone." Vague. Too vague, Moony. "Did you hurt your hand again? Knocking?"

"But you fancied Snape," Sirius presses. As always, when he says it out loud, he feels near to throwing up at the sheer ridiculousness of the very prospect.

"Well, yes, but luckily, I have you, here, now, to show me the error of my ways, and to break his nose for my honor, so now we can stop dwelling on it and get some sleep."

"You weren't sleeping," Sirius points out bluntly. "You were awake."

"Yes, but I was lying down." Remus's voice is wry. "I was resting, at least."

"There hasn't been anyone?" Sirius's voice displays a moment of desperation. "Not anyone at all besides Snape?" The desperation turns towards thinly veiled disgust, as he says the name 'Snape' as anyone else would say the word 'cesspool.' Remus winces, but it's small enough to remain unnoticed. He shakes his head, in consternation rather than as an actual answer, and then shrugs.

"It's really not your business at all," he points out, a grand display of pragmatism. Sirius feels a little offended, ruffling up at the mere suggestion. "It's true," Remus continues, softening. "Just because you and James feel the need to let everyone know what you're on about doesn't mean I've ever wanted to. Look, I told you already. I fancied Snape for about two weeks because he'd said something absolutely brilliant about a potion I'd been trying not to ruin. I got my best grade ever that time around. That's all it was." Remus watches Sirius put this information together, watches him scramble to add in the right variables so as to come out with a passable solution. At last, he seems to manage it.

"And that was it?" he asks, relaxing, leaning against the doorframe.

"That was it," Remus assures him.

"Didn't ever think about running off with him into the sunset?" Sirius presses, looking amused by himself.

"Only once," Remus replies dryly, "it was this fantasy about Spain, you see."

"You're sick." Sirius makes a face. "Stop right there, I don't want to know anymore about it. Barring details - you're sure," he peers a little closer, "that was it?" Remus's eyes blink up owlishly at him. Then, Remus raises a skeptical brow, and they shutter.

"I'm sure," he says flatly, "that was it."

"Then we've got to get you," Sirius replies, voice just as flat, "someone to fancy. Because, I don't know, Moony, don't you think that's a little sad for someone your age?" He grins, mischief flooding the expression. It's an attractive enough grin, for all that Remus knows the ramifications of such patented mischief. It's not so much the grin itself that is attractive, or the mischief itself, or the mussed hair that falls around Sirius's face while he is grinning, but a combination of all three, and then some. Remus pinches the flesh on the inside of his elbow to ground himself, leaning on the opposite side of the doorframe from Sirius. "Don't want to tell you how to live your life, of course not," Sirius continues, puffing up a bit, and Remus can't help but crack a smile. "But sometimes a friend has to give another friend a nudge in the right direction. And he does it all out of the kindness of his own heart." Tapping his chest with his fist, Sirius half-bows, mocking, and Remus shakes his head. He almost laughs. A soft sound passes his lips, like a puff and a sigh, but there's a smile behind it. Sirius feels satisfied, accomplished.

"I appreciate the effort," Remus says. "Really."

"Also," Sirius adds, "you need a haircut."

"So do you," Remus retaliates, grateful for the sudden change in topics. Luckily, Sirius spends as little time on serious conversation as possible, leaving him all that excess time for flying off the handle. Remus doesn't mind, of course. Remus is the epitome of patience. Remus is a long-suffering martyr of the modern age. Remus is a saint in wolf's clothing.

Remus is still smiling.

*

The swelling in Severus's nose has gone down. He is, unfortunately, no less livid for it. However copiously he is bleeding is by no means indicative of his mood, though one can assume that when he is bleeding copiously his mood could definitely be improved. The fact that he had been bleeding copiously for a very long period of time, earlier, has served to ruin all his chances for a good mood during the next few weeks.

It is impossible for even Severus to fathom just how deeply he loathes Sirius Black.

*

They end up having hot cocoa until three in the morning on the couch, only the couch is at this point a fold-out bed. So, in actuality, they end up having hot cocoa until three in the morning on the fold-out bed, which smells of Sirius and store-brand detergent.

"You should talk to Dumbledore," Sirius says into his mug. "Like James and Lily and Peter and me. And a bunch of others. You remember Caradoc, that Dearborn bloke James always used to make fun of. Unfortunate name. Nothing to be done but to make fun of it. And Benjy Fenwick. Did a project with him once for Divination, made up every result we got. Passed with flying colors. And Gideon Prewett, too, and loads of others. Only I'm not really supposed to talk about it." Sirius messes with his hair, looking faintly embarrassed. "Not that I don't trust you. It's just how things are. But if you saw Dumbledore, he finishes hopefully, "then we could talk about it. Not that we know much yet. It's mostly a sort of - training." Remus listens carefully and attentively, nodding at all the right places. In the air there is a smell of poison and change, lingering with the memory of rain. He wonders at this secret project of Albus Dumbledore's, and his friends' future roles in it. "You have to join, Moony," Sirius is insisting. "It can't be - just three of us, without you."

"I had considered it," Remus admits slowly. He leans back against a pillow, holding his mug of half-finished hot cocoa close. "But how can I? Once a month, Sirius, I--"

"Dumbledore doesn't give a blast-ended skrewt, you know that." Sirius's eyes flash, angry.

"--Wouldn't be reliable," Remus finishes firmly. "And therefore, would be not an asset, but rather a weakness." He stares down into depths of his cocoa, feeling far more awake than he ever has, but suddenly too weary to move. "Sirius, you have to be practical about these things."

"This doesn't involve practicality," Sirius says, voice adamant, "Dumbledore said so, himself. It involves who we are to one another. What we're fighting for."

"What we're fighting against," Remus adds. "How much do you know about that?"

"Enough." Sirius's look hardens, his jaw tensing. "Enough to know that we have to fight. Me. James. Peter. Lily, even, did you know that? And you. I would have thought out of all of us, Moony, you'd have been the first to - I didn't even know you hadn't. Dumbledore told me."

"You could have asked." Remus smiles humorlessly at his hands, tapping his fingers against the side of the mug. "I would have told you. You wouldn't have listened to my reasons, but I would have told you."

"Dumbledore can rely on you." There is petulance in Sirius's voice, and something else, too. Remus struggles to name it. "He would rely on you."

"He shouldn't have to. I shouldn't put him in that position."

"I don't know why you think that--"

"Sirius." Remus's eyes harden, finding Sirius's own in the darkness. "Sirius, this isn't like sneaking out to the Shack. Just because you trust me and you know me doesn't mean everyone else does. Or should, for that matter. It means they don't know what I am, and because of that--"

"Remus, shut up."

"--because of that, I could put any number of you in danger."

"But that's what this is about." Aggravation twists Sirius's face into sadness and defiance. "It's about being put into danger. We may not know everything that's going on but when you look at Dumbledore's face, you know. You just know. The details don't matter yet. Something's going on, something bigger than werewolves or, or weaknesses, or details. Dumbledore's said it himself - he needs the best. Moony, you're one of the best. That's what matters." Remus is reminded of D'Artagnan. He takes a sip of his cocoa.

"Did Dumbledore ask you to talk to me about this?" he asks suddenly, gaze intense. Sirius thinks for a moment he can see a forest fire inside Remus's eyes. That is the terrifying thing about Remus's eyes. They are a dark, deep brown, the color of bark and a glint of gold birch. Remus rarely allows them to display passion of any sort but when he cannot help it, or when it is necessary to express emotion, they light with an inferno too powerful to gauge its burning. Sirius looks away quickly.

"He asked me why you hadn't come to him. I didn't know," he continues, "so I thought I'd find out." It isn't like Sirius to let things go. It isn't like Sirius not to know why Remus hasn't or has done something. It isn't like Sirius to spend so much time apart from his friends. It isn't like Sirius to speak so gravely for such a long period of time. Sirius laughs, weakly.

"I'll talk to Dumbledore," Remus says.

"You'll what?" It's clear from Sirius's confusion that he wasn't expecting Remus to say that. At least, he wasn't expecting Remus to say that so soon after Sirius broached the topic. "I mean," he moves on, lamely, "that's good. You should at least talk to him. It isn't like you not to...uh.... research all possibilities. And, you know. I mean, right?" Remus gives Sirius an arch look. Sirius grins hopefully. "You don't have to do anything besides talk to him. But you're better at Defense than I ever was, good as James, if not better, so you should probably think more about it than you have."

"Let Dumbledore help me to think about it," Remus adds. "Isn't that it?"

"Well, you know Dumbledore." Sirius takes a big drink of his cocoa. "How's tomorrow morning for you?" Letting out a long and chocolate-laden sigh, Remus shrugs.

"Tomorrow morning's fine," he says.

"Do you know what it's called?" Sirius asks, relaxing and reclining. Remus can see the triumph in his eyes. "It's a fantastic name."

"What?" One day, Remus will regret asking.

With a slow, sly smile reminiscent of their schooldays, Sirius leans forward, into the excited space between them. The name is breathless and wonderful, a perfect secret. "The Order of the Phoenix."