Chiaroscuro

now I'm relieved to hear

that you've been to some far-out places

it's hard to carry on when you feel all alone

now I've swung back down again,

it's worse than it was before

if I hadn't seen such riches

i could live with being poor

* * * * *

Despite the dark swirl of thoughts that race through my head, I feel as if I may have found the very 'heaven' that Muggles speak of in their search for enlightenment. Even as I race against time to complete my mission, I simply cannot help but savor the sensation of the wind whipping the hair from my face as I ride atop the broad, firm back of Buckbeak the Hippogriff. This is true freedom, and it is mine.

But I cannot let myself become distracted -- the coming days threaten the lives of us all in the wizarding community, and this meeting is indeed one of the most critical if Albus Dumbledore's plan is to come to fruition. My instructions had been simple: alert the "old crowd." Lie low at Remus Lupin's. Await further direction.

I have already sent word to Arabella Figg and Mundungus Fletcher, part of the "old crowd" that Dumbledore spoke of. As I contemplate the actions I must take in the near-term future, I absently finger the parchment concealed within the folds of my cloak, feeling the rough paper and the hardened wax seal charmed so that only one man may open it. Dumbledore's instructions to Remus, himself.

Buckbeak spies the small cottage, hidden through weak Muggle-warding spells in the shire of Nottingham, before I do, and I grab twin fistfuls of feathers in my hands as he dives quite suddenly beneath the thick evening fog cover. Instinctively, apprehension rises in me as we spiral into plain view; yet I know enough of Hippogriffs and of Buckbeak's own temperament that to question his actions would be horribly offensive to him. I close my eyes, huddle fast against the Hippogriff's back, making myself as small as possible against the great creature, and praying against all odds that we are not seen.

Upon landing, I find that my fears are unwarranted, as Remus' abode is miles from the nearest village, Muggle or otherwise, set deep within an alcove of Nottingham's forest. The house is small, painfully small, and appearing to be nothing but a shamble of loose siding and a crumbling roof. Secluded, inconspicuous, much like the Remus I'd known years ago at Hogwart's. Yet the windows glow with a welcoming magical light from the inside, providing an easy view of an impeccably kept interior.

Dismounting from Buckbeak, I give him the last of the rationed meat that Dumbledore has sent along with me as appeasement for having to tether him to a nearby tree. I rest my hand against Buckbeak's flank in silent thanks, and the Hippogriff glares impassively at me as he tears into the meat with his sharp beak.

I make my way towards the house on silent feet, and through a warmly lit window I spot a gaunt figure within -- a slip of a man clad in fraying brown robes, sitting in an aging chair with a tortoiseshell cat in his lap and a leather-bound book in his hand. For a moment, I stand at the base of the porch stairs and stare at this silent peace, knowing that it may be one of the last quiet moments for this man.

Moony, it's been too long. And I hate to have to do this to you...

With a sad shake of my head, I dash up the stairs. I have no time for hesitation -- pushing aside all regrets and fears, I give three loud knocks upon the door.

For several moments, nothing but a chilling silence reaches my ears. I am about to knock again when the firm voice of Remus Lupin demands, "Who's there?"

"Remus, it's me." I pause for a moment, debating whether or not to give him my true name. Ultimately deciding to err on the side of caution, even in the middle of nowhere, I reluctantly add, "Padfoot."

Another stretch of silence on the other end, and I lace my arms across my chest as I try to keep the impatience at bay. Finally, Remus' voice again filters through the door. "You have to knock the secret knock."

I don't know whether to laugh or break down the door. I settle upon biting my lower lip to stifle either chuckles or obscenities from my lips, and I curl my fingers into a fist once again and rap my knuckles against the door in a series of long and short knocks. It is a code we'd created for ourselves while we were student's at Hogwart's -- mad Marauders with a penchant for mischief and a need for childlike secrecy.

Halfway through the sequence I pause mid-knock and realize with frustration that there's no way in hell I'm remembering a secret code created aeons ago.

"I forget the secret knock," I growl. "Let me in already, Remus. It's cold out here!"

A series of locks spring open, and the door opens inward, revealing the inside of Remus Lupin's home, just as small on the inside as it is on the outside but also just as cozy and welcoming. He stands on the other side of the door, his wand at the ready. I don't blame him for his caution. These are rough times, indeed. As I enter and he can discern that it's truly me, he slips his wand back into his robes and shuts the door against the cold.

"I probably wouldn't have opened the lock if you had managed to remember," Remus says, smiling lightly and pulling me into a brotherly embrace.

"I'll bet you don't even remember the secret knock, yourself," I return mildly, bringing my frustration into check. Though I do slap him on the back hard enough to wind him. "Not to mention the fact that I'd blast the door off the hinges if you didn't let me in."

Remus laughs faintly as he releases me, running a hand through his hair -- once a light shade of brown, now almost completely shot through with grey. "You should have sent an owl ahead to let me know you were coming."

"There was no time, and I couldn't secure a proper owl. This is to you, from Dumbledore. It probably explains the situation," I say, the joking tone fading into one much more serious as I reach inside my cloak and hand him the scroll sealed in magic and wax with Albus Dumbledore's insignia. "It's started again, Remus."

Remus slides his left thumb beneath the seal and carefully skims over the neat calligraphy from Hogwart's headmaster. As I watch the steel grey of his eyes flicker across the page, the bags beneath his eyes seem to deepen, the hollows in his cheeks appearing almost gaunter. If he'd been worse for wear in his time as Defense Against Dark Arts professor at Hogwart's, the subsequent year has harrowed him even further.

But the trepidation brought by Dumbledore's letter is quickly bottled and replaced with a quiet acceptance typical of my old friend. Giving no indication of what the old headmaster may have told him, nor the extent of the message's urgency, Remus rolls the parchment back into a neat tube, and his eyes again flash up to meet with mine. "Well, then. You're cold. Would you like some tea?"

"Do you have anything stronger? I think we both need it," I say with a light snort.

An odd expression clouds over Remus' face, brows furrowing and lips tightening as if he were in pain. The confusion must be evident in my own expression, as he whispers, quickly and dismissively, "Some things never change." Clearing his throat, he adds, "I might have some whiskey, but I can't guarantee anything."

I place my hands within pockets in the folds of my cloak and merely grunt as Remus turns and leads the way down a narrow hallway. At the end of the hallway is a kitchen -- claustrophobic, stuffy, and crawling with useless Muggle artifacts. Uncomfortably, I stand in the doorway and stare at Remus' back as he busies himself with preparing our drinks.

"Of course you're welcome to stay." Remus rustles through the cabinet topping the rusted Muggle stove, and produces a slender flask filled a quarter of the way with an amber liquid. "Though it probably would have been more polite if Professor Dumbledore had asked me first."

Incredulously wondering how he can remain so calm, so impassive, I snap, "You don't understand, Remus. The war is most likely starting all over again. Voldemort again has form! There's no telling what will happen to Harry now that --"

"Easy, Sirius, easy," he says with a strained smile at the mention of the Dark Lord. A casual flick of the slim rowan wand in his left hand, and two mugs find their way before him. "You know as well as I do that Harry is in good hands with Dumbledore. And I certainly don't take offense to his asking that you remain for a while here. It will be nice," he adds softly, pouring a small amount of the flask's contents into each mug, "to catch up with you on less stressful terms."

Closing my eyes, I can merely nod as I recall the last meeting with my old friend Remus Lupin, when we'd each been forced to come to terms with the betrayal not of each other -- as we'd both thought for the past thirteen years -- but of Peter Pettigrew. The night ended badly beneath the full moon, with Remus fallen slave to the moon's lure, Peter escaping to rejoin his Dark Master, and myself nearly thrown to the wiles of the Azkaban Dementors. Hardly a joyous reunion, to say the least.

Yet now, with the return of Voldemort to power, the assassination of an innocent Hufflepuff boy and the near-death of my godson Harry Potter, and a situation so dire that I must work in peace with that greasy traitor Severus Snape, I wonder if my future meetings with Remus Lupin are to be forever cursed to misery.

"I wouldn't say these terms are any less stressful," I grumble.

"Yes, but they are, for the time being, less urgent. Now, if you're going to be staying here, you have to promise me one thing, at the very least," Remus says absently as he moves to sit at a small table settled in a corner of the kitchen.

"What's that?" I ask, almost suspiciously, pulling out the chair directly across from him and arching an eyebrow.

He turns to me for a brief second, and suddenly the strained grin upon his lips softens into an easy one. "Don't open the cabinet beneath the sink. I have a boggart taking up residence there, and it wouldn't do to have you startling him."

"I know how to handle a boggart," I say defensively.

"Sirius." The grin fades from Remus' face. "I've built up a lot of trust with that boggart, and I don't want him turning into a Dementor -- or worse -- in my house. At least when he changes for me, he's controllable in the shape of the moon."

"Yes, well," I mutter, turning my eyes towards the mug. By the smell of it, it isn't whiskey inside, although it probably packs just as strong a punch. "It's your house."

Remus chuckles faintly, either oblivious to or completely ignoring my ill ease, and nudges his mug towards mine. "To old friends, eh, Sirius?"

"To trusted friends," I return, touching the rim of my mug to his.

Together, we down the shot of some alcoholic substance I cannot identify. It's almost cinnamony in flavor, with an aftertaste of lemon, and it warms me to my toes immediately. As it slides into my stomach, it reminds me of a similar need, as my aching belly rumbles with the hunger of a man forced to hunt rats and severely ration any proper human food for weeks.

"Listen, Remus, do you have anything to eat?" I ask.

Remus looks up quickly from his drink, eyes widening and a hint of color tingeing his cheeks. "Oh. Yes, of course I do."

Feeling briefly well enough to hazard a joking tone reminiscent of my childhood days, I remark, "Would you mind terribly if I were to raid your pantry?"

But Remus pushes back his chair and starts to his feet, almost dashing to the other side of the kitchen. "Let me," he says quickly. He throws open the door to his pantry, the hinges squeaking with rust. "Would you like some crackers with cheese, perhaps?"

"Do you have any meat?" I ask, watching him with a raised brow.

Remus pauses for a moment to think, and then emerges from his pantry with several thin slices of bread and what looks to be preserved ham. A swift wave of his wand is all it takes for him to create two sandwiches, which he brings to the table and pushes before me with a quickly murmured, "I have no mayonnaise. I remember you used to like the horrid stuff."

"That's no matter," I say, taking a large bite of one of the sandwiches. "It's been almost a day since I've eaten. Right now, anything is good."

"Yes," he says mildly. "I do know that feeling."

Even as I devour the sandwiches placed before me, the glimmer of sadness alighting in Remus' eyes as he watches me eat does not escape my attention, nor does the longing in his gaze as he periodically peeks to my rapidly disappearing supper.

* * * * *

I never turn down an invitation if it offers something I desire. Perhaps it's selfish of me, but I believe that, if presented, the invitation is genuine and not just noted out of politeness. So when Remus offers me the bed for the night, while he gathers sufficient blankets to pad the floor for himself, I do not refuse him.

I hadn't thought that the soft luxury of the warm duvet or the spring of an actual mattress would cause my back to ache and my skin to itch incessantly. As Remus sleeps peacefully in a huddle beside the bed, I lie awake listening to the sound of my heartbeat within my ears, twisting in an unfamiliar comfort when I know I deserve to shiver within a stone cave, or huddle in the damp leaves beneath a Muggle's porch.

But most of all, it is the darkness of the room that bothers me, the shadows lurking within the corners that coalesce into fearful shapes reminiscent of the hooded Dementors of Azkaban. Taking care not to tread upon Remus, I pad towards the window and slide open the vertical blinds. Outside, Buckbeak lies under the tree to which he is tethered, his head tucked beneath an oversized wing. I feel an irrepressible urge to join Buckbeak, lying huddled against him under the watch of a silvery moon almost completely full in its cycle.

"Sirius?"

I turn from the window towards the sleepy-voiced whisper, and see the reflection of the three-quarter moon shimmering within Remus' widened grey eyes. "What is it?"

"Would you mind closing the blinds?"

I lick my lips, remembering full well Remus' aversion to the moon, particularly as it grows steadily closer to full... Yet at the same time I struggle against my own tremors at shutting out all light completely, as his small room seems almost as black and confined as my former cell at Azkaban. "I don't want it to be totally dark," I finally grumble with a large degree of reluctance.

Remus pushes himself upright on his elbows and reaches across to the table beside his bed, where our wands sit side by side. His own wand of rowan finds its way into his hand almost instinctively, and he points it towards the ceiling. "Lumos," he murmurs gently, and ceiling illuminates in a muted, yellow light.

Immediately, the room seems almost to expand, the shadow of the Dementor in the corner instead revealed to be merely Remus' shabby robes strewn across a chair, the bars on the windows really just the silhouette of the vertical blinds. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, I close the shade and spare no further glance to the face of the moon.

"Is that better?" Remus murmurs, settling back within his nest of blankets upon the ground, curling his back to the hidden moon.

"Much," I say, and crawl back beneath the covers. "Thank you."

"Thank you," he responds thickly. By the sound of his voice, he's almost completely asleep once again.

Yet even with the extra light, I find sleep a long time in coming. For a time, I content myself with counting heartbeats, counting the cracks in the crumbling ceiling. Shifting onto my opposite side for the fifth time in as many minutes, I lean over the edge of the bed to gaze down at Remus -- his troubled face now relaxed, appearing almost innocent beneath the soft, magical light that dances across the ceiling.

I watch him for some time -- the faint breaths, the twitching of his eyelids in the throes of dreams, the strands of rapidly greying hair that fall atop his eyes -- before I finally thrust aside my blankets and vault to my feet. Circling the bed, I kneel at Remus' side, and, laying a hand upon his shoulder, I give him a gentle shake.

"Remus? Hey, Remus, wake up," I insist, finding him as hard to rouse now as he had been while we were together at school over ten years ago.

After a second, less-than-gentle shake, Remus makes a soft noise in the back of his throat and turns to me, his grey eyes cracking vaguely open, and he stares at me sleepily. "Is everything okay, Padfoot?"

"Take the bed, Remus. I'll be just as fine on the floor," I murmur, frowning at the nickname I'd sought to leave behind in Azkaban.

But Remus doesn't bother to move, and instead gives me a faint smile -- as if to say, 'I understand' -- lifting the edge of the covers beside him. I hesitate at first, before accepting his invitation and crawling beneath the blankets. The floor is hard, but the space beside Remus is warm. Companionable.

He turns from me and curls into a ball upon his right side, the way I'd always known him to do many years ago at Hogwart's. How he manages to sleep without an aching back had always astounded me. I close my eyes against a stinging familiarity, a swell of ache within my heart, and it is only Remus' gently breathing presence that keeps me from shouting, or worse, breaking into tears.

* * * * *

Opening my eyes to the haze of a shuttered, sleepy morning, I find myself lying uncomfortably on my side, my right arm pinned beneath me at an odd angle and numb to the touch. My other arm, to my surprise, has somehow looped itself around Remus' waist during the night, and he sleeps curled into a warm ball against me.

With a groan, I carefully extract my arm from around Remus and stretch out my back before sitting up. Remus stirs at the movement, and, shivering in the morning's cold, I settle the blankets atop him. As my arm begins to throb again, a prickling sensation returning in a hot flood, I rise to my feet and pad towards the door.

Although the air is cold, the morning sun is warm upon my face when I make my way outside. Buckbeak is still asleep, his head nestled beneath his wing, and I notice with a small degree of relief that he hasn't yet gnawed through the rope that tethers him to the great tree. For the moment contented, I close my eyes, lean back, and tilt my face towards the breaking sun and wait for either Remus or Buckbeak to awaken.

Perhaps half an hour passes when the door opens and Remus, clad in the same loose, linen pants he'd worn to bed, staggers out the front door with an audible yawn. Eyes half open, he falls heavily to the step beside me and passes me one of the two steaming mugs that he holds in his hands.

"If I'd known you were coming, I'd have bought cream and sugar," he murmurs, bringing his own mug of coffee to his lips as if it were a lifeline of sorts. "Sorry, you'll have to take it black."

"Pun not intended?" I ask. The corners of my lips twitch briefly upwards, as if attempting the beginnings of a smile that simply cannot bring itself to fruition.

"Mmh," is all he grumbles in response. Even as a Hogwart's student, Remus had never been much of a morning person, to put it nicely.

"You've become quite the addict, I see." There. A wry smirk manages to affix itself to my lips, and I cannot help but think it must be a scary sight indeed, given that I've barely cracked a smile in over thirteen years.

Remus either doesn't notice, or doesn't care either way. "There are certainly worse vices," he mutters from behind the rim of his mug.

"But why coffee, Remus? Whatever happened to the boy that couldn't start his morning without a proper cup of Earl Grey?"

"That boy grew up," he says groggily, leaning forward to scritch the head of the tortoiseshell cat purring at his ankles. "Yes, yes, Natasha. You'll be fed as soon as I've managed to wake up some."

"I'll feed her, Remus. It's the least I can do," I say, setting aside the unpalatable coffee and rising to my feet.

"Quite the spoiled little queen, are we?" Remus says with a soft, groggy laugh as his cat bounds towards my feet and rubs herself against my ankles. "She gets half a cup of the dry food. Don't let her trick you into giving her anything else."

The cat follows fast at my heels, her yellow eyes following me expectantly through the claustrophobic hallway into the deteriorating kitchen. As I scour through the sparsely laden pantry, I wonder how Remus might expect me to feed the cat anything other than that -- there's barely enough food within to feed a child, let alone two full grown men. I suddenly understand Remus' embarrassment last night when I'd asked for something to eat -- he'd virtually nothing to offer me. I understand why he seems to have grown gaunter since our last meeting, even when he had always been in the prime of health just prior to the full moon. He is almost as starving as I am.

After filling Natasha's dish with her breakfast and giving the madly purring creature a scritch behind the ears, I return to the outside stair and immediately pick up my mug of coffee, sugar or no sugar. Remus has been gracious enough to provide me with all that he has, and I refuse to be ungrateful for his hospitality.

Remus has awoken more fully, and he seems to have realized where he'd sent me while still too groggy to think straight. He stares at me, eyes wide and apologetic, as I sit beside him once again. "I -- I'm sorry," is all he can manage to murmur.

Stunned and saddened, I can find nothing to say to him in response, and instead I rest a hand upon his shoulder as he stares miserably into his mug of coffee.

...tbc...