Three Weeks Outside Time

Chapter Five

First, the Knight Bus stopped in London, in Diagon Alley. Sirius considered getting off there, but Remus had told him to go back to Catriona, and he could not find it in him to disobey Remus. After London, the bus jumped to Bath. Then Tywyn. Then Glasgow. Then it jumped all the way up to Orkney, so a stooped old wizard could get off at Stromness. It was well past midnight when the bus screeched to a halt in the Market Square in Alnwick, and Sirius stumbled off, ill from lack of sleep, lack of food, and from the constant jostling of the bus. The moon, a breath away from full, was sinking toward the western horizon.

Leave him alone, Sirius thought warningly at the distant satellite, as he stumbled over the cobblestones in the direction of the medieval arch of Hotspur Tower, just visible against the slowly lightening sky. Leave him alone, just leave him alone.

Nothing was open this early. Even the pubs had been closed for hours, which was just as well, since he didn't fancy passing the hours until Catriona woke, in a dimly-lit, smoke-filled room full of strangers. He was hungry, but he supposed he would simply have to wait. He had no desire to wake Cat himself. For one thing, he did not know if her parents were back, yet, from Barcelona; and for another, he did not want to see her in her short silk pyjamas, her hair dishevelled, her face soft and free of makeup. It wasn't that he harboured any fear of falling for her again, if indeed he had ever fallen. He had found his haven, and if that haven rejected him, it did not stop it being his. All interaction with Catriona Lynton must, henceforth, be strictly casual. He had decided that on the bus. It was the only thing he had managed to decide.

It wasn't warm, yet, but neither was it too terribly cold. The jacket he had on was sufficient. The cobblestones were wet from the recent rain; water ran along the uneven curb, toward the gutter. The air tasted damp. Clammy. Well, Alnwick was just a few miles from the coast. For a brief moment, Sirius considered transforming and running off to the shore. It would be something to do, certainly. He usually enjoyed frightening seagulls, and the feel of sand beneath his paws. He decided against it, though. He would only have to come back, and he would stumble up the Lyntons' walkway, starving, exhausted, and covered with sand.

He ended up crouching in the arch's shadow, his collar turned up around his jaw, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette between his teeth, his gaze on the fading stars. There were a few still visible above the western horizon, now that the moon had set completely. Good. Stay away. We don't need you. Just leave him alone.

A salt-laced breeze swept through the street, gathering and spilling his fringe over his forehead, rippling the surfaces of the puddles around him. He shivered lightly.

I will build my love a bower
By yon clear and crystal fountain...

What the hell was a bower? Sirius wondered. A bed, most likely. He thought about Remus' bed in the Shrieking Shack. A magnificent bed, to be sure, though Merlin knew why Dumbledore had bothered. Remus never spent more than half an hour in it, each month. The sheets were cleaned, magically, after every use. Sirius had first seen the bed his second year. Remus had given all his friends a tour of the Shrieking Shack, his cage, after they'd discovered his secret--and convinced him they still wanted to be his friend. Peter, winded from the long walk to the Whomping Willow, had plopped down on the edge of the bed. Remus had not gone near it, had stood in a corner and looked at everything, it had seemed, except for the bed and the faces of his three friends. Sirius had not seen the bloodstains until after he'd become an Animagus...

How nice would it be, he thought, to build a bed for Remus Lupin, that had no associations with pain or blood or loneliness? A splendid four-poster, with silk sheets, or maybe flannel for winter, a duvet stuffed with softest down, and roomy enough for two.

I will build my love a bower...

I'll one-up you, Sirius challenged silently, and blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth. I'll build my love a house. The grandest palace in the world couldn't contain what I feel, so this'll be a modest house, with enough room for that gorgeous bed, and all his books. With enormous windows facing east, so he'll always have sunlight on his cheek when he wakes. It'll be far away from any villages, this house, maybe on a tropical island in the middle of some southern sea, with enough land surrounding it for a wolf and a dog to run until they tire, under the moonlight.

And on it I will pile
all the flowers of the mountain...

What sort of flowers did boys give each other? Did boys even give each other flowers? For the first time since his revelation, it occurred to Sirius that he did not know the first thing about being gay. Naturally, some of the blokes at Hogwarts were poofs. It stood to reason. He'd never given them much thought, though. They had, he realised with chagrin, been rather beneath his notice. Until Remus' announcement, he hadn't even known he'd had any gay friends. He didn't feel any different, except for this sudden, all-consuming desire to cast himself at the feet of his male friend--whom he hoped was still his friend. He certainly had no intention of trading his black leather jacket for something petal pink.

Did he walk like a poof? No one had ever said anything, and you would think someone--a Slytherin someone--would have, if he did. Remus didn't. Remus' wrists weren't limp. Sirius held his own out before him and studied them. They seemed sturdy enough. Naturally, they would. They'd been swinging Beater clubs for years.

He tilted his head back against the arch and closed his eyes. If he liked boys--a boy--then, he was a poof. If he was a poof, then, by society's standards, he was a freak. The thing was--

His cigarette had burnt to a stub. He dropped it onto the cobblestones, pulled out another, and lit it.

The thing was...it was Remus. And he did not understand--he tried, but he simply did not understand--how it could ever be freakish to care for Remus. For anyone to care for Remus.

And on it I will pile
All the flowers of the mountain...

What sort of flowers could one gather for Remus Lupin? Thistles, of course, for Scotland. Also, because they were nice to look at, but prickly to touch. A single rose, perhaps, for England, should he ever be so lucky as to win his way back into Remus' good graces. (He would think of the how, later, after he'd had some sleep.) Thyme, which was not a flower, but it had been in Mr Lupin's song, and it grew wild. Purple heather, for the same reasons. Cotton grass, for the Henderson clan, with which the Lupins had distant ties. Yellow gorse, because of the way the sunlight had flashed off the droplets of water that clung to Remus' skin as he'd emerged from Loch Trool. Bluebells, because they grew on the far side of the lake at Hogwarts, and that was where he and Remus observed Electra Black's birthday, every May. Night-blooming cereus, because the name amused him.

All of these, he thought blearily, I will gather and pile on my love's bower, in the house I'm going to build for him. If he takes me back. If he ever comes to see me as something more than a friend. If he still sees me as a friend, at all.

How was it Remus had managed to be gay for so long, right under their noses? It had taken them slightly more than a year to figure out that he was a werewolf, but there had been clues for them to piece together: the monthly disappearances, the scars, the avoidance of all things silver. This time, he'd given them none. Sirius' memory raced back across the past year, but he could recall no accidental mention of a boyfriend, no sidelong glances at other blokes. There had never been any mention of a girlfriend, or any ogling of any girls, either, he realised, with a slight jolt. Well, it made sense for Remus not to have a girlfriend. James and Sirius had discussed the matter, once, and the conclusion they'd reached was that Remus would have worried about a girlfriend discovering his secret as his mates had done. That made sense. But not to look at all? Toward James and Sirius' various girlfriends, Remus had always seemed completely neutral. This one was pretty, that one had made an interesting point in their last Charms class. And, full of themselves and their conquests, they'd accepted that as they'd accepted Peter's fawning adoration.

Why hadn't he told them? They hadn't abandoned him when, cornered, he'd admitted, finally, that he was a werewolf. Sirius told himself firmly that he and James and Peter would have been just as understanding had Remus come to them and informed them that he fancied blokes.

Unless, of course...

Well, unless he fancied one of them. They'd still have been accepting, probably, but...it would have rendered the situation considerably dodgier. Sirius could understand his reluctance, in that case. Merlin, he'd felt the same way.

All right, then. Who? Not Peter, he thought immediately. Remus had always been kinder to Peter than either James or Sirius, but the thought of them together... No, he thought, when he'd wiped the image from his mind, it had to be either him or James.

James, Remus had said softly, when Sirius had admitted to him that he'd been getting off, lately, by thinking about a bloke. Of course Remus would assume it was James, but had there been any jealousy in his tone when he'd said that? Sirius had not been looking at his face, then, had not seen his expression. Had there been relief when Sirius had informed him that it wasn't James?

He couldn't think about that. He couldn't recall every time he'd spotted James and Remus together and compare it with all the times he had been with Remus. If he tried, he'd end up hating James, and he could not, he thought wretchedly, afford to hate James, even for Remus' sake.

He couldn't think.

He turned his head, slightly, so he could watch the dawn, which was breaking, slowly. In the east, the sky was rose-coloured, and becoming lighter. He was so tired. His neck was trembling with the effort of keeping his head up. Perhaps Catriona would let him sleep on her sofa, just for a few hours. If she didn't...he didn't know where he would go. Not to London, not back to his parents' house. To an inn, perhaps. He had money. Even if it was not enough, there were few wizard-run inns that could afford to turn away even an empty-pocketed Black.

There were seagulls all around him. He had not noticed them in the darkness. They were drinking from the puddles or rummaging for scraps in the gutters. One of them, lulled, apparently, by his stillness, ventured quite close to one booted foot. He waited until it was within pecking distance. Then he transformed and lunged, sending the seagull and many of its brethren, screeching indignantly, into the air.

The sudden movement snapped him from his stupor. The rest of the town was waking. Soon there would be cars, pedestrians, and other dogs.

It was time to see Cat. Time, finally, to do one thing right.

The Lyntons had a beautiful, old house, about a mile outside Alnwick. A walkway, shaded by pear trees, led up to the main gate, which, it being summer, was nearly invisible behind a wall of climbing roses in full bloom. It was there that Catriona found him, his back to one of the ancient trees, his head on his shoulder, some hours later. He woke when she said his name, and, blinking the sleep from his eyes, gazed up at her, mutely.

The afternoon sunlight fell through the pale green leaves, onto her strawberry-blond hair, which spilled over her shoulders and down her back like a silken veil. Her skin, in the shade, was the colour of limestone, and as smooth. Her white, suede bellbottoms clung to her legs, and her linen peasant blouse left little to the imagination. She was at once, he thought, impossibly beautiful, and wholly undesirable.

“'Lo, Cat,” he mumbled.

“Hello,” she replied carefully. Her sculpted features betrayed neither delight at his appearance, nor dismay. Her eyes were shadowed by her long, fair lashes.

Best to do it quickly, he thought. Before he got himself caught in any more quagmires. He did not think she would be too put out. She was the one, after all, who had sent him away in the first place.

To Remus, who, in one night, had changed his life--or else made him understand it, finally--and then sent him back.

He opened his mouth again, but no sound came from it. He sat there for a long moment, just like that, as though, at any second, he expected the words to leap to his lips. They did not. He was at a loss, and he felt incredibly stupid. Really, this should be the easy part. He'd done it often enough in the past. True, the circumstances were now very different, but Cat did not have to know that. He hadn't come here to tell her he was gay. Just to tell her they were no longer the hope of their two ancient and noble families.

Fortunately, she was not a Ravenclaw--as all the Lyntons had been--for nothing. She said, without emotion, “I told you before you left that it wasn't working. I think you're here to tell me it's not going to work.”

Grateful, he nodded.

“I see. Well, I should like to know why.” Now her voice shook--but only slightly. She was either deeply upset--which he doubted--and struggling to hide it, or, she was only mildly upset, and taking no pains at all to disguise the fact.

He ought to feel something, he thought. Regret, perhaps. It would have been nice if it could have worked between them. There was nothing really wrong with Catriona Lynton. She simply was not what he wanted or needed. Which was not her fault. So, she deserved some kind of explanation.

“I met someone else,” he said, and waited for her reaction.

But, “I see,” was all she said. Then, a little too quickly, “You'll get grass stains, sitting there. Won't you come in? You look horrid--I mean, tired. Are you hungry? I can have our House Elf make you something. You can sleep--” She broke off abruptly.

“It's not your fault,” Sirius told her. He felt behind him, with one hand, for the tree trunk, and, finding it, used it to push himself up. “Honestly, Cat, it's not you,” he said, more emphatically, when he was standing and looking down at her. “It's me. And this other person.”

“I see,” she said again. “Someone you met in Scotland?”

“Yes.” That was not a lie. Remus had, in a way, become a new person to him.

“Not someone I know?”

“Not really.” She'd never gotten to know his friends, after all. None of his girlfriends had, except for Maddin, but that had only been because she'd played Quidditch with him and James.

“A pureblood?”

“No.”

“Is she--is she prettier than I am? I know how that sounds, but really, I only wonder--”

He cut her off: “No, Cat.” He ought, he knew, to take her by the shoulders and either shake her or kiss her forehead reassuringly. He shouldn't leave her like this. But it was all he could do. “This person--” He had to stop, think for just a moment, then begin again. “There's nothing for you to wonder about. You're not lacking anything. There's no competition between the two of you. And I don't mean that as an insult, in any way. To you or them. You're just--different.” If you knew how different... “You are one of the most beautiful girls I've ever met. And you're smart. And--nice.”

“I know who I am,” she said, sounding tired. “This--” and with a brisk wave of her hand she summed herself up-- “didn't just happen.”

“All right. Well--” He shook his head. “This isn't about you. Really. This other person-- I think I'm falling in love with this person.” The shadowed eyes widened. He hurried on, “I know it sounds mad. You probably think I'm barking. It is a bit mad. It has nothing to do with you. It's about me, and who I am, and this other person--”

“This other person,” Catriona interrupted. “Does she-- Do you think she loves you, too?”

The air hurt his lungs. “No,” he managed to say. “Well, I don't really know. It doesn't matter. I mean, it does, of course, but what this person feels...doesn't really change what I feel. This person could hate me--they might, actually--and it still wouldn't change the fact that we're not going to work. You and me. I'm sorry, Cat.”

“I suppose I should be grateful,” she said, “that you're telling me at all.”

Her words stung, but he accepted them.

He accepted it, too, when she said, her fingers twisting together in front of her, “I never loved you. I don't mean to hurt you by saying that. I just want you to know I was never using you. I wasn't going to say it until I meant it, if I ever did.” She did not need to say unlike some. “I liked you. You can be a bit of a berk, but I liked you best of all the boys my parents have approved of, so far. We had fun.”

There was no reason to disagree.

“So,” she said, with a resigned sigh, “are you going to go, now? I mean, where are you going to go? Back to Lupin?”

He started.

“Well,” she went on, frowning at him, “aren't you going to go back so you can see this other person, whoever she is? I thought you met her in Scotland, while you were with Lupin. He knows about her. I mean, why else would he send me this note?” And before his bewildered gaze, she slipped one hand into the pocket of her trousers and drew out a small, folded piece of parchment. She passed it to Sirius, who took it with trembling fingers and unfolded it, slowly. “An owl brought it, this morning. That was how I knew you'd be coming. And how I was able to guess why. I came out here to look for you. Didn't you wonder?”

He'd stopped hearing her some time before she'd ceased speaking. On the parchment, were three terse lines in Remus' neat handwriting:

I am sending him to you. He should be there by mid-morning, at the latest. Whatever he says to you, please be kind to him. -R. Lupin

*

He was back on the Knight Bus in under an hour. It had taken him that long to find a rucksack--Cat had leant him one--and to fill it with healing potions and bandages from the Lyntons' cabinets. Cat had tried to force some food upon him, and to get him to sit down and if not rest for a moment then at least explain things to her, but he had refused. He'd left her standing in the middle of the tree-lined path leading up to her house, and had not looked back.

The bus was packed with witches and wizards. It being day, there were no brass beds, so he had to contain himself in a seat, sandwiched between two plump, elderly witches who spent the entire ride from Manchester to Dover chattering about their grandchildren and the outrageous price of powdered bat dung. Some time after Dover they noticed Sirius, with his uncombed hair, his low-slung bellbottoms, and his scowl. It was a very long ride to Buxton, where they finally exited--after one last trenchant remark, each, about his general appearance and generation.

After that, it was a long ride to Nottingham, and then a long ride to Pembroke.

It seemed a long ride to everywhere.

When, at last, the bus came to a screeching halt outside Waverley Station in Edinburgh, it was nearly dark and Sirius had lost all patience. He bolted from the bus, ignoring the conductor's protest that there were still three more stops before Melrose, and, as soon as his boots touched pavement, he began to run.

He ran until he'd left the tall buildings of the city behind and entered a neighbourhood dominated by concrete houses surrounded by wrought iron fences. There he halted and, leaning heavily against a lit streetlamp, tried to catch his breath and assess his situation.

By now it was dark, and the moon was close to rising. He could see, when he looked east, toward Holyrood Park and Arthur's Seat, a faint silver glow outlining the distant crags. He would never make it in time for Remus' transformation. The admission sickened him, but there was nothing he could do. If he had known how Apparate, he would have done so, gladly, and risked all the consequences. All he could do was take one last gulp of air, glance round quickly to make sure he was alone on the street, transform, and make for Melrose and Remus as quickly as possible.

He had never run so far, or so swiftly, not even that night--unbelievably, only four nights ago--when he'd been desperate to outrun his heart. As it had that night, the horizon seemed to stretch away from him, so that no matter how many hills he crested or streams he forded, he seemed no closer to his destination than he had been in Edinburgh. He only knew that time was passing and that the moon had risen when, while leaping over a stream, he happened to glance down and saw that the water was luminous with moonlight. As his paws touched the earth on the other side, a howl ripped from his throat.

No! Leave him alone! Leave him alone!

He could not yet smell the wolf.

So, he ran on, over major roads, dodging traffic, across fields, over fences, past houses. He'd been running out of time all day. Now there was no time. Now, if he was to make it to Remus in the nick of time, he would have to be the knife, nicking time, cutting time, slicing through it with all his energy, all his spirit, all his desire. Above him, the constellations wheeled like a whirlpool. Beneath him, the earth turned. He could spare these things no thought. He was no longer a part of them. He was movement, he was speed, he was--

There. At the top of one hill, finally, he smelled him. The wolf. His wolf. It was not a good smell. It was redolent with pain, and fear, and irrational anger. But it was his.

The moon was still overhead, in the western part of the sky, but not yet setting.

Here was time. Not much of it, but enough, just enough, for what he had to do.

If he paused to think about the distance he had covered, he would collapse. Better not to let his body know, until after it had served its purpose. So, he did not think at all. He simply descended the hill, trotted up the narrow path to the small house, jumped over the low stone fence, and went round back to where the shed stood.

The dog heard nothing until he'd passed the invisible boundary of the Silencing charm. He knew the moment he had done so because of the howls that suddenly rent the air. Desperate, pain-filled howls. And the thump of a heavy body against a door that would not give. And the harsh drag of claws across wood.

It's all right. Stop that, now. I'm here. You know me. I'm here.

The dog whined reassuringly to the closed door, and from behind it, the wolf answered back, puzzled.

I'm here. I'm here. I'm here.

The wolf knew him, knew his scent, his sound. The savage howling broke off to be replaced with something new--a piteous keening that defied translation, but which the dog understood deep in his blood, and to which he could respond, without thought.

They remained like that, one on either side of the door, communicating in a way that the humans they became, as yet, could not. When, at moonset, the wolf became aware of the boy inside him, struggling to be free and gaining strength, and turned his terrible claws and teeth upon himself, the dog did not hesitate. He transformed, unbolted and threw open the shed door. He'd transformed again before he'd even crossed the threshold, before the wolf, mad with pain, and fighting to maintain his shape, became aware of his presence. Then he fell on top of the wolf and held him down, dodging flailing teeth and claws, enduring the howls of pain and betrayal, securing, reassuring--

no you don't, no you don't, stop it, stop it

--until the shape beneath him was not a wolf's, but a boy's, and the scent in his nostrils was not the one he'd chased tonight over field and stream, but the one he'd held in his memory like a talisman. Until the cries of pain choked off and the figure beneath him ceased thrashing and stilled, except for the occasional shudder. When those, too, had stopped, the dog backed away and transformed.

The feeble rays of dawn spilled through the shed's open door and onto Remus Lupin's pale, naked form. He lay on his side, with his legs tucked up beneath him, and one hand thrust in front of his face as though to protect it or rend it. Sweat darkened his hair, but he was shivering. There were scratches on his arms, his sides, and thighs. He looked like something the night had toyed with, and then discarded.

Now Sirius had to think, but now he found he could not, neither about what he had done nor what he had to do. Remus claimed all of his senses. The angry red streaks marring the white skin seared his vision. The scent of fear and blood choked him. The curling, delicate fingers hurt him more deeply than any curse or any lashing his mother had ever dealt him. So, in the end, it was instinct that guided Sirius' trembling hands to the rucksack he'd brought with him from Alnwick, that undid the clasp and withdrew the bandages and potions he'd taken when he'd still been capable of thought.

An invisible force brought him to his knees beside Remus, made him remove his own jacket and wrap it carefully around the other boy's shoulders. Made him take that one fragile hand between his own and clasp it to his chest.

His mouth moved. The words he was trying to say were, I'm here. I'm here. It's going to be all right. I'll take care of you. He never managed to produce them, but Remus seemed to have understood, anyway. The fair lashes twitched, then lifted, slowly. The brown eyes stared blindly for a moment, then focussed on his face.

“Go. M'parents...please...”

It was the ghost of a voice, but it belonged to Remus, so Sirius heard it and, finally, it was what broke him.

“I'm sorry,” he half-sobbed. “I'm so sorry. I lied before. It's you. It's you. I won't leave you now. I'm sorry I lied. I can't do it anymore. I can't pretend you don't mean more to me than anyone else in the world.”