Midnight Conversation #6, #7, and #8

And even as I'm climbing up
The stairs I know there's
Heaven there and then
Empty arms that comes
With the Morning Star

--Tori Amos, “Mrs Jesus”

#6

October, 1978

Remus put his ear to the door and listened. He’d been right; Sirius was doing it again. He’d probably stop once he realised Remus had finished his bath, but for the moment he seemed oblivious. Remus smiled at the sight he could only imagine, even as he winced at the mangled chords that came to him through the closed bathroom door.

It was very pleasant, Remus Lupin thought, on crisp October nights like this one--and with the full moon only just past--to have a warm bed to slump into, and a warm body to cuddle up against. A year ago he hadn’t been so sure he’d have either after leaving Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. That he should, despite all that had arisen between last autumn and tonight, he supposed should be accepted as grace--or as close to grace as he was ever likely to come.

Not that he was settling, he thought with a small, wry smile. He loved Sirius, and Sirius loved him. Sirius’ was the greater love, he knew, and it worried him at times that he still had reservations about this relationship when his lover so clearly did not. They’d never really talked about it because that would have necessitated reopening wounds inflicted the night of the Prank and during the long months leading to their rocky reconciliation, so he was not sure if Sirius even suspected. Most likely he did not. When Sirius was happy, he assumed everyone was, and when he was hurt he assumed everyone was--or ought to be.

Remus was happy. He had no right not to be, he told himself, then shook his head because that was not right. He was an eighteen-year-old werewolf with an excellent education, one loving and supportive parent (one more than Sirius had, and at least his father had lived to see him finish at Hogwarts), a vocation of sorts (tutoring, but it was something at least), a cause, several good friends, a pleasant and affordable flat, and a lover who treated him well and knew just how to buoy his spirits when they began to sink. All in all, he had it better than many. He certainly had it far better than most werewolves. His unease, he supposed, had to do with the escalating conflict (the war, he reminded himself), and with his father’s death in July.

He dropped his head against the door. Sirius heard. He stopped what he was doing and called out, “Oi, Moony, you all right in there? Need a hand?”

“Mmfine,” Remus mumbled. He peeled himself off the door, shook himself again, hoped he didn’t look as though he’d been brooding, opened the door, and walked into the bedroom.

Sirius was in bed--and taking up most of it, as usual--with his long legs spread out in front of him, and his beloved guitar cradled in his arms. “Good bath?” he asked, glancing up, the pale blue eyes twinkling from behind the heavy black fringe.

“I almost fell asleep.”

“You look knackered.”

Remus shrugged, and the shrug became a vast yawn. “Shove over, love.”

Sirius shifted a few inches to the right, and pushed back the duvet. “Did you hear me playing?” he asked as Remus slumped into bed beside him.

“Unfortunately, yes. Thank you--” Sirius had put the guitar aside and was tucking the duvet carefully around his shoulders. Remus smiled up at him sleepily. “I think I almost recognised what you were trying to play.”

Sirius stared at him. “I was composing,” he said in a deeply wounded tone.

Remus tried not to let his smile widen, but it did despite his efforts. “Paddy,” he said, amused, “most people have to learn all the chords before they start composing.”

“I’m hardly most people,” Sirius pointed out.

“Still…”

“Well, does it sound any better?”

“Better since when?”

“Since the last time.”

“That was only yesterday.”

“So?”

“ ‘So?’” Remus closed his eyes. “So, you only bought the thing Monday.”

“I could be a prodigy.”

“No, Padfoot.”

“I could.”

“Love, you’re many things. I don’t think you’re a musical genius.” He opened his eyes again, because he wanted to know if Sirius’ pout was really as perfect as he suspected. It was.

But it lasted only a second or two longer. “Let me play for you,” Sirius said, leaning eagerly toward the guitar.

Remus forced his sluggish brain into action, but all he could think to say was, “No, please don’t--” and grasp vaguely at Sirius’ wrist. “My head aches,” he said lamely, when Sirius looked back down at him, eyebrows raised. “Everything aches. Let’s just go to sleep. Or--talk. Talking’s fine,” he murmured. “I just…please, no serenades. Not tonight.”

Sirius regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. Then he leaned forward and kissed him chastely on the forehead. “Fine,” he said softly. “No serenades. What do you want to talk about, then?”

“I don’t care. Anything. Tell me about your day.”

Sirius slid down under the covers, twisted onto his side, and propped his cheek up on his knuckles. “Boring as hell…” But not quite boring enough to preclude a ramble, Remus thought, smiling again, as Sirius’ words washed over him and his fingers--with those broad, callused, wonderfully knowing tips--slipped under the flannel of his pyjamas, sought the still-sore muscles, and stroked them until he felt malleable as warm wax.

Their mattress was very comfortable, the duvet thick and down-filled. His skin felt soft and fresh from his soak in the tub, and even the dull aches in his joints were not entirely unpleasant just then. Sprawled beside Sirius, melting under his caresses and lulled by the steady current of his words, Remus felt like something that had been worn down by much loving. It was easy at such times to forget his lingering uncertainty, easy to believe this could last, could endure despite Sirius’ thoughtlessness and Remus’ reserve, despite the war.

Remus was nearly asleep when Sirius said, casually, “Bloke got outed, today.”

“Whuh--huh?” Remus opened his eyes. “ ‘Outed’?” he echoed. “You mean--oh. As a poof or a werewolf?”

“Werewolf,” said Sirius, eyebrows raised. “It was in the Prophet. You didn’t see the article?”

“I was asleep most of the day.” Remus felt a pinprick of cold in his belly. Licking his lips, “May I see it now?” he said.

“Right now?” “Yeah. I think--yeah.” He struggled to rise. Sirius helped him, rolled him gently onto his back and propped pillows behind him, before Summoning the newspaper with his wand.

“Can you read it, even?” he snickered as Remus took the paper and spread it in front of him.

“Yes,” said Remus. Then, after squinting at the small black print for a full thirty seconds, “No,” he admitted, and flopped back against the pillows.

Sirius looped an arm around his shoulder and hauled him closer. “Cully O‘Brien,” he read. “The bloke who spoke out against the Ministry for backing that experimental potion. Remember? He had that article in the Quibbler, accusing the Ministry of all kinds of shit?”

“Poisoning werewolves,” said Remus wearily. “Of course I remember. I sent him an owl about the article. He never wrote back. I always wondered why they never solicited me,” he added.

“They did,” Sirius said absently. “They sent an owl. I binned it. What?” when Remus stared at him. “Well, you wouldn’t have done it, would you? Anyway, it turned out to be rubbish.”

Remus tried to muster the anger, but it wouldn’t come. He was too tired, it was too late, and Sirius was frowning at him with such obvious puzzlement that he decided to let it pass, at least for the moment. A choice in the matter would have been nice, would have earned him at best a blank stare, followed possibly by an impatient, But you’d have binned the damn thing, too, which he’d then have had to allow as very likely. “What else happened?” he demanded weakly.

Sirius turned back to the newspaper. “So, this bloke. Obviously he’s been using a false identity. His real name is Fenn Mac Tíre. Says he killed a bloke in Dublin, fifteen years ago. The werewolf who bit him. Wonder why they just solved that one, now.”

“Because the victim was a werewolf?” Remus suggested dryly. “Who cares if a man murders a werewolf? If a werewolf murders a werewolf--that’s serious.”

“That’s the bitch who did the outing,” Sirius said, folding the newspaper and pushing it back into Remus’ hands. He jabbed a finger at the large photograph beside the article. “Right crone she is, don’t you think?”

Remus stared at the black and white photograph. The woman Sirius had indicated did look faintly familiar, and his unkind appraisal was certainly apt. Her heavy jowls, thick, stubby fingers, and wide, almost vacuous smile made him think at first of a slow-moving animal, but then he saw the watchful way her small eyes darted, and the word that slipped into his mind was predator. He felt a shock of recognition, like an explosion in his belly, and he pushed the newspaper away because he was quite certain he would be ill if that dark, invasive glance locked with his. “I know her,” he said shortly, when Sirius looked at him questioningly. “I know of her, rather. We met…once.”

“Right bitch, was she?” Cautiously.

“Yes.”

“Want me to read the rest to you?”

“No, I’ve changed my mind. I just want to go to sleep,” he said, closing his eyes again, and sinking back against the pillows. “You can stay up, if you want.” He was grateful, though, when just a moment later, he heard the flutter of pages and Sirius’ whispered, “Nox”. Then Sirius slid down beside him and laid his head close to Remus’ on the pillow they shared. He shivered at the warm breath fanning the nape of his neck, and at the big warm hand once more at his back.

“I’d just turned six,” he murmured. “I had no idea what was happening. I’d been bitten that summer, so I’d transformed two times already, but I didn’t really understand what was happening. My parents tried to explain, but I didn’t really understand that I became a monster once a month. Did I tell you this before?”

“That bit, yeah,” said Sirius softly. “Tell me again. Why did you think they locked you in the shed?”

Remus shrugged. “I knew something terrible happened. I thought they were trying to protect me. I thought that once a month the wolf came back to get me. I think I even tried explaining to them once that the shed didn’t work; it always found me. It took me a while to realise I was the wolf and they locked me in the shed to keep me from ripping our neighbours’ throats out. Even then, I didn’t really understand. I never hated any of our neighbours. I couldn’t figure out why the wolf would want to hurt them.” Sirius continued to stroke his back. “Anyway,” Remus went on, “when I was six, my dad took me to the Werewolf Registry’s office. I filled out my forms, had my picture taken. The woman who took my form told my father he should have put me away when he had the chance. Dad was so angry. I’ll never forget that.”

“I’m angry,” Sirius snarled, deepening his strokes. “You never told me this part. Fecking bitch. I’d’ve killed her.”

“You’d have been six, too,” Remus reminded him, amused despite the memory. As ever, Sirius was utterly sincere; Remus knew, without even having to ask, that his lover was imagining himself--at eighteen, not six--exacting vengeance on a woman he did not know, for an act of cruelty committed twelve years ago upon a child he had not known. Now, the idea of six-year-old Sirius charging into that office and attacking Dolores Umbridge… That was enough to make him smile, to make him roll over onto Sirius and rest his head on his shoulder. Sirius made a small throaty sound of mingled surprise and pleasure, and went on stroking.

“I’d seen my dad angry before, of course,” Remus said, “but I’d never seen him look at anyone like that. He hated her.”

“I’d’ve done more than look at her,” Sirius muttered darkly.

“Would you have taken me for ice cream afterward?”

“Um, sure,” said Sirius. “If that’s what you’d’ve wanted. That what your dad did?”

Remus nodded. “He took me to Florian Fortescue’s. I had a mint fudge sundae. I didn’t really want it, but I didn’t want him to know how scared I was, so I tried to eat all of it as quickly as I could. I got the worst headache and a bellyache. I asked him what ‘put away’ meant. I wasn’t stupid, I could guess, but I wanted him to tell me I was wrong, so I pretended not to know. I said, ‘But don’t you and Mummy put me away in the shed every month?’”

Sirius drew a tattered breath, and let it out slowly. He kissed the top of Remus’ head. “What did he say?”

“Nothing,” said Remus. “Just my name. And he looked at me. No one’s ever looked at me that way since, and you know, I don’t think I could bear it if anyone did.” The hand that had been sifting slowly through his hair paused, and Remus was certain Sirius was looking at him. He couldn’t meet his gaze, though he knew he would never see that ocean of pity, self-blame, and fearful love in this man’s eyes. He was simply too tired.

At length, Sirius said, “So, what happened then?”

“I threw up,” said Remus. “Everyone looked at me then and I thought--they knew. They had to know. I was terrified. But old Florian Fortescue was wonderful. He made me another sundae to take home because he said I’d only borrowed the first one. Then Dad took me home. I had a bath and went to bed, even though it was still pretty early. Dad told me later--he and Mum--that ‘put away’ means ‘give up on.’ Which isn’t entirely a lie, I suppose. They never gave up on me, my mum and dad.”

“Neither would I,” said Sirius fiercely. “Ever. And I hate that bitch.”

“You don’t even know her.”

“She made you lose your sundae. She has to die.”

Remus smiled again, tiredly. “Anyway,” he said, “she was the first person who made me feel like a beast and not a being.”

And, “I was the second,” Sirius said unexpectedly.

“Yes, you were,” Remus agreed, not unkindly. “But you didn’t mean to. You just fucked up phenomenally.”

“You could also say she was just cruel, but I betrayed you.”

“Let’s not talk about that.” He did not want to think about the Prank now, did not want to see again in his mind his own mangled arms and hands, the grave concern in Albus Dumbledore’s eyes or the pure loathing in Severus Snape’s. That had been a nightmare three months long. Waking one June morning in Sirius’ bed, with Sirius asleep in his arms, and studying for what seemed like hours the deathly pale face and the black lashes crusted with dried tears was one of the few lucid memories he had of that time, and the one to which he now clung, to keep the others at bay.

Sirius was silent for so long that Remus would have thought him asleep if not for the fingers still combing slowly through his hair and the occasional kiss pressed gently against his forehead. When finally he did speak again, Remus was nearly asleep himself and for a moment thought the words were a part of his dream:

“I love you more than anything in the world. I know you don’t love me as much as I love you, but that’s all right. I think we both know you could do better. But…thanks for toughing it out with me. I appreciate it.”

Something about the words and the tone carried Remus back two summers, to the night he’d finally forgiven Sirius his betrayal, the night he’d realised he knew no one in greater need of protection than Sirius Black. There are two people in this world that I really love, he’d said, standing over Remus’ bed. I love James, and I love you. James is my brother, and you’re my--I don’t know. Something in his tone--his sincerity perhaps or his bleak acceptance of Remus’ rejection, or both--had caught Remus by the heart, and he’d been unable to remain angry. He’d tried, had lashed out at Sirius and hurt him deeply, but he’d come to his senses in time.

Or maybe, Remus thought now, as wordlessly he nudged one leg between Sirius’ and wrapped his arms around his slim waist, he’d finally let go of his senses. He wondered idly where they’d gone, but he did not miss them.

Sirius whispered, “I thought you were asleep.”

“You were kissing me,” said Remus. “I couldn’t sleep while you were kissing me. And I do love you, a lot.”

“It’s all right.”

“I do,” Remus insisted, clawing his way back from the brink of sleep. “I do. Maybe I could do better, maybe you could, but I’m happy enough here. We’re both happy. The two people you love ought to love you back.”

“I don’t want to be pitied.”

This again. “I don’t pity you any more than you pity me.”

“I never pitied you.”

Silence again, and Remus became aware, gradually, of the tree branches outside their bedroom window, rattling together in the crisp October wind. They sounded like bones, he thought, and the rustling leaves like cloaks sweeping along long echoing corridors. Sirius began to sing, creakily, above the sounds of night,

“That’s Noyes,” Remus murmured, when he trailed off.

“Thanks,” said Sirius dryly.

“Idiot, Noyes,” he repeated, elongating the syllables of the name, “not noise.”

“Oh, right. Anyway, I was trying to make up a song around those lines. That’s what I was doing while you were in the bath. Only, it’s not going so well, on account of I’m not a musical genius.” Remus heard the wry bemusement in his tone. “But…I dunno. I wanted to give it to you, anyway. I mean it. I wouldn’t give up on you, ever. I’ll be with you. ‘Though hell should bar the way’, and all. I promise.”

Remus shivered, and thought it was because he was so tired, though in his heart he knew it might have been due to something else. He clutched Sirius and whispered, “I love you, too. More than anything.” It was a lie, and with the last of his strength he thought about the things he loved more: his sense of himself, his dignity, his integrity. How pallid and inconsequential they seemed as he lay in Sirius’ protective embrace. They would fall away, he knew suddenly. Not tonight, but some day, so long as things continued as they were. They would fall away, give way to a love that would sear to his very soul, burn away all his careful pretences and leave him wholly Sirius’, as Sirius was wholly his. The knowledge frightened him more than anything.