Chiaroscuro

~*~

i gave my heart and soul to the one...

we spend all of our lives

going out of our minds

looking back to our birth

forward to our demise

~~ Live, "They Stood Up for Love"

~*~

"That's it. Just step onto the mat. The door will open on its own."

Remus murmurs quietly in my ear as I hesitate before the 'automatic door,' as he calls it, of the Muggle shopping market. With a gentle nudge upon my back, he urges me forward, mindful of the crowd of Muggles steadily expanding behind us as they seek to enter the building. My shoulders stiffen, yet I know enough to stifle my gasp of surprise, as I step upon the black mat, and the door opens of its own volition.

"This is queer, Remus. Very queer," I grumble in a hushed voice, walking swiftly through the door and glaring at it suspiciously behind me.

"Just follow my lead," he repeats for what seems like the fiftieth time today.

A stack of red basket-like crates sits in a pile just beyond the 'automatic door,' and Remus grabs one from the top of the stack and hands it to me. For a moment, I stare at the odd metallic handles, wondering exactly how I'm going to carry this thing, and then I sling it upon my shoulder as if I were holding a box.

With a quiet laugh, Remus gently pulls my hand forward, so I am carrying the red crate by the handles before me. "It's a basket," he intones in a hushed voice, his eyes darting to the Muggles who have turned to look at us questioningly. "Hold it by the handles, like that."

"I shouldn't have come," I mutter with steadily mounting impatience. The flow of Muggles around me as they stream through the plaza makes me twitchy. They're already staring at us like some sort of oddity in the Magical Creatures division. Although Remus has had some experience in dealing with the Muggle world, he still isn't completely versed; and the ill-fitting 'jeans' and 'tee-shirts' we wear somehow don't match for men our age among Muggles. I pull at the collar of my 'tee-shirt' -- emblazoned with an unnaturally unmoving portrait of some 'punk music band' -- feeling constricted and itchy all at once.

"No, you should know how to do this. There's no telling how long you'll be staying with me, and you may have to do this for yourself," he says calmly, though also somewhat distantly.

"You make it sound like a prison sentence," I grouse.

"Now, stop that, Sirius --"

"Don't call me that when we're in public!" My fingers suddenly circle Remus' slender arm and squeeze hard. I'll give the man credit -- he neither winces nor voices any pain I might be causing him, and only stares at me hard in return.

"And you'll want to let go of my arm, unless you want even more attention drawn to yourself," he says evenly, although there is a hint of sternness in his tone. "There may be no Ministry wizards about for miles, but if you cause a scene, we may have to answer to Muggle authorities."

My eyes darting about me swiftly, I release Remus' arm as I realize that several more Muggles have paused in their shopping to stare.

"I'm sorry," Remus says quietly, shrugging off my anger. "That was careless of me."

The corners of my lips twitch faintly upward, and I follow him with the basket as he leads the way down an aisle packed with food -- food that we must find for ourselves, like primitive gatherers. "You're forgiven. And I apologize for my temper."

"I've forgiven you for your temper years ago, my friend," Remus says, again smiling easily. How he recovers so quickly is astounding. I might not have forgiven myself quite so easily if I were in his place.

I follow fast on Remus' heels as he strides with more confidence than I had thought possible for a wizard down the unfamiliar and claustrophobic aisles of the Muggle market. Periodically, he stops and places a can of food or a loaf of bread into the basket in my hands. Though frowning in concentration, I don't stop to question his actions -- everything appears fairly self-explanatory, if unfamiliar -- the cans of peas have unmoving pictures of peas on them; the bags of rice are emblazoned with the word 'RICE' across the front.

"Say, Remus," I ask as he pauses at a stand filled with what appears to be cheese. "How do you intend to pay for this?"

Remus flushes, and he busies himself with placing a pre-wrapped block of cheddar into the basket and avoiding my eyes. "It will be paid for. Not to worry."

I lift an unconvinced eyebrow, yet speak no more on the matter as he completes his shopping quickly, just as eager as myself to leave the market and disappear from the mass of Muggles entirely. Remus skirts down aisles, picks out apples, dried pasta, jars of red and white sauce, water in see-through bottles. After an eternity of weaving through impatient Muggles with oversized baskets on wheels, Remus heads to the front of the market and, after standing uncomfortably in a Muggle-filled queue, places the food from the basket onto a platform that again startles me as it moves on its own.

But Remus is unconcerned with the whirring apparition that the Muggles use in place of magic. As our 'groceries' slide down the moving belt, he places them in thin, crinkling bags. And when the Muggle 'cashier' demands payment -- in an unfamiliar denomination called 'pounds' -- Remus pulls from his pocket several colorful, folded strips of paper and hands them over.

Hurrying from the store, each of us carrying several bags of food in those painfully thin bags, I lean over and whisper to Remus, "Where did you get Muggle money?"

"I didn't," Remus remarks guiltily. "It's just parchment, enchanted to look like Muggle money. The spell will fade in about a week."

Blinking in surprise, I say, "Why haven't you used that spell before? Why live the way you do, with nothing to eat in your house, if you can conjure money?"

"I can't conjure money, that's the thing," he says as we hurry through the parking lot, the bags of food hanging heavily in our arms. "I don't like to cheat the Muggles, even if they are gullible, if I can help it. It's not right."

"But somehow today is different?"

"Today I have a guest who needs to eat much more than I do," Remus says softly.

"I beg to differ. I have my way of...catching food as the need arises as Padfoot. When was the last time you had a decent meal?" I demand, looking to his hollowed cheeks, the steady discoloring of his hair so it is now, despite his young age, almost completely grey.

"A full meal? Tonight will be the first time in a while," he responds in a calm tone. "I do, however, eat when I can."

As I open my mouth to respond, the sarcastic comment fades in mid-thought as the glimmer of chrome catches my eye. Passing a well-kept motorcycle in the market's parking lot, my thoughts turn from Remus to my own bike that I was forced to leave behind in the flight to fulfill my duty to Dumbledore. The motorcycle is merely a common Muggle vehicle, and it would take an immense amount of charm-work to make it fly, but the temptation of the sun glittering off the chrome and the memory of the wind ripping through my hair is almost too much to bear.

"Well, Remus, what do you think?" I ask, turning to my companion. "This will beat walking the distance back to your house any day."

"I think your fascination with Muggle vehicles is disquieting," he says. The lines on his forehead deepen, and he adds, "You're not thinking of taking this motorcycle, are you?"

"Why is there such a problem? You steal all the time, from what I saw back at the Muggle market."

"It's one thing when it's a matter of getting the next meal on the table. But when it comes to items of extravagance, it's not right to be taking from innocent Muggles."

"These creatures are hardly innocent, dear Moony," I return, casting a dark gaze towards the tangle of Muggles mobbing in and out of the shopping center like ants to a carcass. "Besides, what if it is a matter of survival? We may well need something less conspicuous -- and dare I say, less alive -- where we're to be sent. Buckbeak might not cut it as transportation."

"I have a broomstick--"

"But I don't," I interrupt, snapping an annoyed look to Remus. "You don't expect two grown men to squeeze onto a second-rate broomstick and have it leave the ground, much less reach where we need to go?"

Remus laces his arms across his chest, nonplussed by the stream of insults directed towards him. "Then Hagrid has not given you back your old motorcycle?"

"Yes, yes," I say impatiently, resting my hand upon the leather seat of the Muggle motorcycle. "But I couldn't take both with me. It was either the motorcycle or Buckbeak, and I certainly couldn't leave Buckbeak on his own. He's a fugitive as well."

"I suppose you didn't think of needing 'unliving' transportation for wherever Dumbledore sends us next when you made that decision?"

Smirking very faintly, I sling my leg over the seat and clasp the handlebars with familiarity. "No, I can't say I did," I say with a shrug. "Come on, Remus. Hop aboard. We'll be home before you can say 'alohomora.'"

But Remus shakes his head with a vague smile. "I prefer to walk. I'll meet you back at the house." Shifting the heavy bags of groceries in his hands, he turns from me and begins walking away.

Remus' action is like a shot of cold water to my face, more stinging than if he'd slapped me. For a moment, I sit quietly atop the seat of a motorcycle that isn't mine. The Muggle owner would certainly miss such a prized possession, one obviously kept in immaculate condition. I feel a momentary surge of regret as I turn my eyes towards Remus as he quietly turns his back to my actions -- he's right, as was often the case when we were young. Stealing food is one matter, while stealing a motorcycle is another issue entirely.

With reluctance, I dismount from the shiny motorcycle, dimly thinking that the Muggle owner had better take good care of it, and dash to catch up with Remus at the edge of the parking lot where we begin our plodding trek towards home.

"I suppose," I say after several blocks of grudging silence, "if we needed the motorcycle that badly, we could both fly out on Buckbeak to where it's hidden. You could ride Buckbeak home, while I take the bike."

Remus merely smiles, murmuring, "Yes, I suppose we could do that." His grin is an easy one, gentle, with a warmth that almost seems to radiate through my time-frozen heart.

~*~

Perhaps we cannot completely afford to, but for one evening, Remus and I make certain to eat well, vowing to be more frugal after a single extravagant meal. Remus lets me nowhere near the kitchen as he conjures a feast reminiscent of old times at Hogwart's, and so as he busies himself preparing pasta and sauce, bread and salad, I make my way down the porch to where Buckbeak is tethered. Bowing low to him, I give him a great chunk of raw steak, bought specifically for him at the Muggle-mart. At first he eyes it with imperial disdain, until I mutter to him beneath my breath.

"It's the most you've had in a while. It might not be a fresh kill, but it's meat. Don't turn your nose up at it -- it's rude."

Buckbeak glares at me coldly, but is soon tearing strips of flesh with his sharp beak and wolfing each piece down. I sit beside him and lean back against the trunk of the tree, content just to feel the wind on my cheeks and through my hair.

At some point, perhaps minutes later, perhaps hours, Remus emerges from the humble shack he calls home and falls to the ground beside me. Cracking open my eyes, I see that he's since changed out of those horrid Muggle rags and has again dressed in a proper robe. For a moment, it's enough to see the evening threads of fading sunlight filtering through his hair, and the quiet smile upon his face. But then the scent of the supper he's brought out in a basket with him reaches me, and my heart nearly shatters with joy. I deserve none of this -- the companionship, the great meal, the fine shelter. With a wave of his wand, Remus brings a plate of pasta and sausage, thick bread and butter, to me, and again -- alarmingly -- I feel the maddening urge to weep.

"Are you going to sit there staring at your food all evening?" Remus whispers conspiratorially. "You should eat, before it gets cold."

"I believe I had better eat," I return, shaking out of the daze of thoughts. "You might end up trying to steal from my plate when you're done with yours."

For a time, dining together with Remus beneath the setting sun, I forget myself, all thoughts of the impending danger against the entire wizarding community, all concerns for my godson Harry pushed far into the back into my mind. I even manage, briefly, to laugh.

As we finish our meal, each of us making completely certain to leave nothing behind, even for Buckbeak, we lapse from casual conversation to silence. And, watching the sun begin its descent into darkness, the melancholy that seems to surround Remus like a blanket grows all the more pronounced. The immense contentedness fades into concern, especially as I find the once-companionable glitter in Remus' grey eyes has grown chilly and distant as he gazes towards the horizon.

"Hey," I awkwardly interject into the silence. "You're preoccupied."

Remus raises his brows and attempts a smile. "Perhaps just a little."

"What gives?"

"Sirius," he murmurs, reluctantly, "do you know what tomorrow night is?"

I frown a little in confusion, and shake my head.

"Tomorrow night's the full moon." His voice is barely audible, filled with regret, and an overwhelming hesitation.

"So soon? I thought we had at least one more night before..."

"You never did follow your Astronomy charts very well," Remus says with a wry laugh and a grin that doesn't reach his grey eyes.

"What does this mean?" I ask. In our conversations since I arrived yesterday, he has never once mentioned the current state of his lycanthropy, nor how he has handled it over the years.

"You'll probably want to leave for a time. I usually lock myself in the storm cellar, but I want to be on the safe side." He laughs once, a harsh sound like a bark from his chest. "I've not the skill to brew the Wolfsbane potion, and Severus was not quite so generous as to leave me with an extra cauldron of it."

For a moment, I stare at him with all incredulousness. "I don't believe what I'm hearing from you, Remus. Do you really think I will leave you to your transformation alone?"

"I... didn't know," he replies thinly, as if he were holding his breath. "I didn't feel it was my place to ask. It has been over thirteen--"

"Who needs some slimy potion from that big-nosed traitor, anyway?" I interrupt, more than a little bitterly as I change the subject. "He was probably just trying to poison you."

"It was helpful," Remus admits. "The Wolfsbane potion is a recent development. It helps me keep the dementia at bay. Tonight, I won't be safe. I won't have my mind."

"Remus," I state, more seriously now, holding his gaze level with my own, "I kept my mind for thirteen years in Azkaban. I have more than enough will to hold you together for three mere evenings. You don't need any potion, especially from Snape."

"Will you run with me tomorrow?" Remus whispers.

"What did I just tell you?" I say with a very faint smirk and a roll of my eyes. "Of course I'll run with you."

"It's been so long," he says wistfully. "Moony and Padfoot, together again." Leaning across to close the distance between us, he rests a hand upon my shoulder, and his smile widens. "Thank you."

I don't precisely know why I do it -- some way, somehow, it just feels right -- but I place my hand atop his own as it touches my shoulder. His fingers are as rough and callused as mine with the weight and wear of years. Remus appears briefly surprised, but relaxes against my touch...and my sudden need, after so many years secluded in blackness, to be close to someone.

As the silence stretches in leagues between us, I draw Remus to me and slip my arm about his shoulders. He says not a word, but instead just settles quietly into the crook of my arm as if he were made to fit there. I hold him, resting my chin against the top of his head, feeling the greying hairs tickle my cheeks as the wind rifles through it. And in those moments, the world again seems well, even if just for a few fleeting moments.

Tomorrow night, together, we run, my friend.

~*~

The next day passes with relative calm. After morning coffee, Remus and I untether Buckbeak and lead him about the woods, even though the Hippogriff clearly longs to fly. Conversation grows gradually easier, as we avoid painful topics such as Voldemort, the potential plans of Dumbledore, the dangers that follow fast on the heels of Harry Potter and his friends. But most of all, we steer fully clear of any conversation that hints at the night ahead of us, and the impending full moon.

He cooks, and I do the dishes. I take great care not to disturb the boggart under the sink.

Yet as night draws near, Remus steadily becomes all the more distant, despite my awkward attempts to distract him. After a coldly silent evening meal, he lies down upon the couch in an attempt to rest before the rising of the moon, and I clean up the remnants of supper in the cramped, Muggle-style kitchen. Yet after the last dried plate has been put away carefully into his well-ordered cabinets, I emerge from the kitchen to discover that the faded, threadbare couch is empty, Remus nowhere to be found.

After a brief, quiet search of the house, I eventually find him standing at the bottom of the stairs leading from the front porch, his arms crossed before him within his shabby, overly darned robes. The gathering fog of evening, rolling through the Nottingham forest and spreading across the land, has begun to gather in his hair like a net of fine mist, making it appear almost completely silver. He does not turn as I join his side, but the barely audible hiss of breath makes it evident that he is aware of my approach.

I rest a hand upon his shoulder, and he relaxes into my grasp. "Remus. It's getting chilly out. Come inside."

"I'm not cold," he says, even though I can feel his shoulders shivering beneath my hand.

"It's no use brooding. The moon will rise whether you wait for it or not."

"Yes, Padfoot. I know."

"Moony..."

He turns to me, and the mist that has gathered in his hair spreads, spills down the curling ends in several tear-like droplets. Grey in his hair, grey in his eyes as they tilt up to mine. Suddenly, anything and everything I might have said is lost upon my lips, dashed free from my mind with the strength of a memory-eradicating charm. And I know that, beneath a gaze both questioning and in full understanding, I need not say anything more.

Before I know it, my lips are upon his, meeting with his warmth and sweetness. I feel his chest flutter against mine as he draws a shuddering breath, and I slide my arm around his back to bring him closer. It is all that I want now, to be so close to Remus, to feed upon his very tenderness and to make it mine. Remus slides his left hand to the base of my neck, and I part my lips to his lightly probing tongue, his almost deceptive gentleness.

Slowly, I draw away from him, sealing the gesture with a last, swift peck upon his lips. I realize as I gather him into my arms that his shivering has ceased, and beneath the mist gathering as the evening threatens to give way to night, and to the zenith of the full moon, we hold each other in quiet sympathy.

"What was that for?" Remus finally asks, voice nothing more than a whisper.

"I -- I don't know."

"Oh."

I pull away from him, brushing a strand of hair from his face as he looks up at me. The water spills from my fingertips, and although I find the right words in my mind, they refuse to push past my stubborn, stammering lips.

Because it kills me to see you so sad, Moony. Just knowing that you face tonight with such fear... I had to find some way to tell you that it's okay to be afraid. Because I know no other way to tell you...

Remus smiles, and, as if reading the very thoughts that circle through my mind, he says, "I understand."

"Do you mind?" I whisper roughly. "I -- really don't know what this means."

"Ssh," he whispers, fingers gently urging my head to his shoulder, as the tables unexpectedly turn, and he keeps my own trembling at bay beneath the golden halo of the setting sun.

~*~

Remus sits upon the battered mattress situated in the dank storm cellar, pale and pensive. The room has very obviously fallen victim to his violent transformations -- as in the Shrieking Shack of years ago, it bears the telltale signs of clawing upon the furniture, the dents upon the bedframe from where it had been flung in rage, the blood upon the mattress and spattered in the corners. I dimly wonder if the blood belongs to Remus or to some other creature -- either option makes me feel nauseous.

The tiny, mildewy cellar holds a single window, one obviously scratched at fruitlessly during one or more of Remus' transformations, and the blinds remain firmly drawn atop them. Through the gaps, I can see the darkness beyond, and the silvery beams of light from a moon that Remus so detests.

"It's time, Moony. We can't delay the inevitable."

Remus closes his eyes, deep wrinkles of worry and shame lining his forehead. I swallow the urge to kiss them away, knowing that, even with the shades drawn, the lure of the moon can bring out the beast at any volatile moment.

"You'll forgive me, of course, if I don't hold your hand?" I ask instead with a wry smirk.

"I won't," Remus says, though with a shaky grin. "But I suppose I will have to cope."

"Seriously, though, Moony," I add, my expression sobering as I reach for the shuttered blinds. "Are you ready?"

Remus takes a deep breath, and when his eyes re-open, their grey depths betray a cold determination and an inherent strength to see himself through yet another wrenching transformation. "Yes, Padfoot. Open the blinds."

"Remember, Moony, I'll still be here when you wake up."

"I know," Remus whispers through clenched teeth.

With a swift yank, I pull the shades to the side in a clatter of blinds, allowing the silvery glow of a brilliant full moon to cascade through the secluded room. Remus cries out almost immediately, a sharp wail as the moonlight tears into his thin frame and wrenches out the agony of shapeshifting. I hear his bones snapping, the ripping of sinew, and his keening cry drops and deepens into a wolfish howl within seconds.

You don't deserve this, old friend. I would take all of your pain upon myself in an instant if I only could.

I drop to my knees, swiftly muttering an awkward incantation beneath my breath, and I feel the familiar melting of my skin, the sprouting of hair where none grew before and the reforming of my bones as I'm forced onto four feet. My transformation into Padfoot is never as agonizing as Remus' shapeshifting, and my guilt grows more exacting as, through sharp eyes and pricked ears, I experience his invariably horrifying change for the first time in many years.

When his howls have dwindled to mere whimpers in the back of his throat, a great wolf stands before me, his sides shivering as he pants from the exertion of shapeshifting, yet he holds his tail erect. As ever, he is instantly recognizable, if a little greyer in the pelt, and I know that he recognizes me. He bristles momentarily, a low growl building in the back of his throat, until I lower my back and ears, slinking closer to the ground in an age-old indication of submission before nuzzling my nose against his muzzle.

Moony. Padfoot. Together again.

My tail begins to wag at an apparent acceptance, and I lean forward in an awkward sort of bow. Moony crouches low before springing towards me with a yelp from the back of his throat, and together we roll atop each other, nipping gently at each other's pelts. Although the weight of years and the wasting apathy of Azkaban has slowed me immensely, I chase him in circles, and he dashes after me in return. As the sole surviving Marauder of old, it is my sworn duty to keep the wolf at bay, a responsibility I accept without question or doubt.

And in this small, cramped storm cellar in the countryside of Nottingham, we play -- Moony and Padfoot, together -- circling the small room in a game left unplayed for years, until hours later we are spent with exhaustion. Together, two great canine beasts, we curl up beside each other and fall into a slumbering, warm sleep.

I dream of green fields, and running, running, a rabbit before me and a great grey wolf beside me. Running.

~*~

I awaken only once near the crack of dawn, as the light of day staves off the terror of the full moon, and a persistent sniffling pulls me from dreams. Remus lies sprawled upon his side, naked and human once more, his back shivering with pain. I melt back into the gangly, weary form of Sirius Black, and carefully slip my arm around his bare chest.

"Ssh," I whisper as his hands flutter to his face, and he struggles weakly to pull away. The exquisite pain of the transformation has driven him to tears. "Sleep, Moony."

"I'm so cold..."

Taking great care not to hurt him further, I wrap myself, warm and secure, around his chilled body and press a gentle kiss to his wet cheek. "I'm here."

It takes a long while, but the tears upon his cheeks eventually dry, and his trembling trails off into sporadic shudders before ceasing entirely. Dimly, even as sleep begins to grab hold of me again, I wonder how I managed to survive thirteen long, arduous years at Azkaban. I wonder how Remus survived thirteen long years of believing his best friend a traitor to his own kind. I wonder how we had ever gotten along without closeness, without companionship, without even a single reassurance or truthful word.

And as sleep claims me once again, I nestle my face against Remus' shoulder, knowing that I cannot bear to be parted now that we've come so close to completion.

It might not be enough, and it might not be the answer, but for the first time in over thirteen years, I know for certain that it's a start.

...owari...