Hallelujah

I've heard there was a secret chord

That David played and it pleased the Lord

But you don't really care for music, do you?

It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth,

The minor fall, the major lift

The baffled king composing Hallelujah

***

At first, when Sirius tells me to stop playing the piano, I don't think to question him. It's late, I know, nearly half past three in the morning and Sirius, after all, has more than likely been sleeping. The white sheet draped around his waist and the hazy look in his eyes would indeed suggest this to be true.

I am also aware--and how could I help but be?--that being in Grimmauld Place once again has done nothing for Sirius' mood. I remember the horror stories from our childhood. I remember seeing the bruises on Sirius' limbs when we'd return to Hogwarts after holiday. I remember the night when, in tears, he came to James' house, swearing he would never go back to the hellhole he'd suffered in for seventeen years.

And here he is.

I never thought I'd say this, but God damn Albus Dumbledore.

And so, I close up the piano and don't think for a moment to rebut Sirius, until he turns his back on me and says, "How can you even think of playing that song, Remus?"

Oh. Moonlight Sonata. That song.

"Did it really upset you that much?" I ask quietly.

Sirius snorts. "Well, until last night, I'd forgotten. It'd been a while since I had to watch you transform, to go through all that pain. So yeah, sorry, it really did upset me that much."

I should have known, should have remembered his panicked expression when I told him it was time for the transformation. But as thankful as Moony was to have Padfoot by his side once again, I cannot understand how Sirius can hate the moon more than I do.

"It's my life, Sirius," I mutter. "I'm a werewolf, in case you've forgotten. That's what you've come home to. That's what you make love to. That's what your in love with. A werewolf."

"I know what you are, Remus."

He moves toward the door, black hair spilling over his emaciated shoulders. He'll be back to good in no time at all, says a voice inside my head, a voice that sounds remarkably like Albus Dumbledore. I tell it to shut up.

Sirius will never be back to good.

***

Your faith was strong, but you needed proof

You saw him bathing on the roof

His beauty in the moonlight overthrew you

He tied you to a kitchen chair

He broke your throne, he cut your hair

And from your lips he drew the Hallelujah

***

I'll never be back to good.

And I can't stand that. To be honest, it has so little to do with being back at Grimmauld Place. Sure, I hate being here, but the place itself has no bearing on who I am or what I've become. Dumbledore can pack as many of the Order in here next week as he wants, and I'll still be more alone than I ever felt before Azkaban. There's loneliness in me now that nothing will fix.

Remus would do anything to help, and I wish he could help. He loves me more than I deserve. And I love him, too. Especially now, when I'm sitting out here in the garden and he's there on the balcony, gazing up at the silvery orb that rules his fate. How did I ever forget how terrible it is to watch him transform? You'd never know how much it hurt him. He never lets on; he's staring at the moon now, for crying out loud, as if it were the most glorious thing in the world rather than his worst enemy.

Gods, when did he become so beautiful? He was always beautiful, of course, but it's different now. There's a touch of gray in his hair, sure, and lines of age and sorrow marking his handsome face, but it's beautiful in a way I never thought possible.

I want to give him everything he deserves, but how can I? And why does he still think I can? He would do anything in his power to restore me to my former self, but I'm not me anymore. I'm someone else. I'm not the boy I used to be. That boy could've weathered anything, but the man I am now has weathered too much to be any good to anyone, especially Remus. He expects the old Sirius to kiss him and make love to him and tell him how much he means to him, but the old Sirius is dead, and the dead don't come back to life.

No matter how much they love the living.

I'm hurting him. I know it. And I'll continue to hurt him as long as he clings the memory of what we used to have, what we used to be.

And that's all it is now. Just a memory.

***

Maybe I have been here before

I know this room, I've walked this floor

I used to live alone before I knew you

I've seen your flag on the marble arch

Love is not a victory march

It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

***

"Just a memory?"

I can't help but wince. I can forgive his reaction to Moony last night. I can forgive his unhappiness for being back at Grimmauld Place. But for him to say that all that once was is just a memory? No, I can't accept that.

"I wish it weren't so," he whispers. "But that's what it is, and you know it. I'm a different person, Remus."

I shake my head at him. "And you think I haven't changed?" I cry out, tightening my grip on the balcony railing. "Sirius, look at me! I know you've been through a lot these past thirteen years, but so have I. I've suffered, too."

Why do I expect him to accept these words, to come and cling to me now, to shed tears with me? And why am I so surprised when, instead, he moves to the door?

"I can't be who you need me to be," he says softly, turning to look at me over his shoulder. There's so much unmistakable sadness in his eyes that I should be able to anticipate his next words. And yet, somehow I'm taken aback when he says to me, "Maybe this was a bad idea."

A bad idea. Right. That would be fine, except...except this is Sirius Black, and I am Remus Lupin, and one cannot exist without the other. That's how it has always been. So why don't I fight him?

"Alright," I hear myself say, hardly aware of the words I speak. "If that's what you want, I understand. It's not like I'm not used to being alone."

Behind me, Sirius gives a heavy sigh. I can feel as he moves closer, and I know the precise place his hand will rest upon my shoulder before it ever does. "Remus, I didn't mean--"

"Yes," I interrupt, turning to face him, "you did. But listen to me. You think I need this perfect, glorious, life-affirming romance from you, with trumpets and fireworks and all of that. But that's not love, Sirius. That's not what love really is."

Sirius stares at me blankly, waiting for me to go on, but I'll die before I go another moment without feeling him. Without an ounce of control or rationality to speak of, I rush headlong toward him, burying my sobbing eyes against his shoulder. Only tentatively do his arms enfold me, as if he were doing no more than giving into an inevitable gesture.

"This is love, Sirius," I say to him, taking his face in both my hands. "It's me standing here, after all these years, weeping because, no matter what's happened, no matter how much we've both changed, I can't let go of how much I love you, how much I've always loved you."

Sirius gives me a weak smile as gently he pulls my hands from his face and places them against his chest. Beneath his thin cotton shirt, I can feel the jutting bones and the steady rhythm of his heart. Back to normal. The thought is still to funny to hurt, and too painfully impossible to laugh about.

"You don't know how broken I am," he says, shaking his head. "You don't know what they took from me in Azkaban. Every happy memory, Remus. Every one!"

He pauses momentarily and, eyes closed, bows his head against mine.

"When you talk to me," he continues, "about the things we used to do, the way we used to feel...I can remember that I was happy, but not what it felt like. It's as if I'm listening to the story of something that happened to someone else. I don't remember it."

But it wasn't someone else. It was him. It is him. I know it's him, the same Sirius, no matter what he says, with the same heart inside him. He doesn't remember, he says?

"Then let me remind you," I whisper, smiling sadly as I reach to caress his cheek. At first touch, Sirius gasps and recoils, and then his expression becomes almost apologetic suddenly, and he goes lax again, allowing the caress.

And before I know it, his lips are meeting mine in the softest of kisses. I feel his hands clutching my shoulders, pulling me dangerously and desirously close. Some things don't change...the words enter my mind, arousing so much need in me as I taste the salt of my own tears flowing down my face and past my parted lips. But Sirius is hungrily devouring these tears, his mouth working in rhythm with mine as if to swallow all my pain and all my burdens. And this--this kiss, this love--is more than just a memory.

It is real.

***

There was a time when you let me know

What's real and going on below

But now you never show it to me, do you?

And remember when I moved in you?

The holy dark was moving, too

And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

***

It is real.

And no matter what I say to the contrary, Remus is right. It's more than just a memory. There's no denying that. It is love, and it is real.

That doesn't take away from what it isn't, though. It isn't perfect, not like it used to be, or so I'm constantly reminded. It isn't carefree, because we're thirty-five now, no longer twenty. It isn't easy. And it never will be. Too much time has passed for that.

We've stumbled blindly back through the balcony door and into the bedroom, and Remus' hands are tugging frantically at the hem of my shirt, exposing inch by inch the worn and battered flesh that lies beneath. And after I divest him of his own clothes, my fingers make a study of every scar I never learned, so many new scars, several of them self-inflicted, I'm sure. Not that Remus would ever mean to hurt himself, but as a werewolf, self-mutilation seems to come with the territory; that's one unhappy memory the Dementors were kind enough to leave me with.

"Beautiful," I sigh, bending to run my mouth over a long scar that slashes across his collarbone. I can feel him shudder as he tangles his fingers in my hair and pulls me off of him.

"They're not beautiful," he hisses, screwing his eyes shut as he collapses onto the bed. He wraps both arms protectively around himself, as if to shield his body from vision. "They're scars, Sirius. They're signs of pain, of suffering, and there's nothing beautiful about suffering."

With more resolve than I've been able to muster in this long year since my escape from Azkaban, I take my rightful place on the bed beside him.

"Yes, there is," I say to him, using a gentle hand to smooth his golden hair, which is splayed magnificently across the duvet. "Suffering has made both of us wiser and stronger, and there is nothing more beautiful than strength or wisdom."

Without even opening his eyes to look at me, Remus shakes his head. "Not stronger," he whimpers. "Suffering has weakened me. I'm weak, Sirius."

"Liar," I whisper, smiling. I raise myself on one elbow and lean forward to place a kiss on his forehead. "You're the strongest man I know, Remus Lupin."

I grow slightly fearful when he doesn't move. What have I said to hurt him? I don't pretend to know. My hands reach for his, pulling his arms away from his body, unfolding him as if he were the most splendid gift I've ever received which, of course, he is.

"Don't hide yourself from me."

His eyes open then, burning amber in the moonlight. I press my body down onto his and feel him arch up against me as he lets fly an unabashed cry of desperation. And before either of us know what's coming, there begins a glorious, undeniably essential procession of kisses and touches.

I'm near to weeping when Remus' hands twine between our legs, when he grabs hold of the most long-neglected part of me, when he raises himself up against me, when I slide seamlessly inside of him. His body is melding to mine and mine to his, as if no time has passed to change the way we fit together. We belong together.

"Remember this?" he murmurs into my ear.

And I do. And it's sacred. And it's spiritual. And it isn't perfect, but it's as close to perfect as it can be.

And nothing could ever be more right.

***

Maybe there's a God above

And all I ever learned from love

Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you

And it's not a cry you can hear at night

It's not somebody who's seen the light

It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

***

Nothing could ever be more right.

I know that now, lying here, spent and contented, wrapped in all the warmth that is Sirius. And there is warmth in him still, no matter what he might believe. Azkaban took so much, but all that was good and inherent in him was far too powerful to be dissipated by any force, earthly or unearthly. Dementors be damned, his soul must have said, and for that reason, I cannot help but love him tenfold.

So much lies ahead for us, as all my kith and kin know already. The Dark Lord has returned, and that can mean only chaos and turmoil for the wizarding world as we know it. Somewhere, he is most assuredly assessing what must be done to regain power. And somewhere, Albus Dumbledore is doing all that is in his power to stop him. And somewhere, Harry Potter dreams of a graveyard and of Death Eaters and of the tragic death of an innocent boy.

And thank Merlin somewhere is not here.

Here, I lay my head for the evening. Here, I find true peace and calm, if only for this single moment in time. And here, I belong to Sirius, just as I always have and always shall.

Never again do I wish to think back on thirteen years spent without him. I died the night they took him to Azkaban, and until this very moment, I wasn't sure I'd ever know what it was to feel alive again. And it didn't take the perfect, glorious, life-affirming trumpets and fireworks. It didn't take any glaring light at the end of a tunnel. It didn't take miraculous revelations.

All I ever needed was to have Sirius sleeping here next to me, to feel so many cold and broken sighs like hallelujahs against my skin, breathing the life back into me.

FIN