this is how the modern stay scared

remus lupin ( he / him )

[rcmus-blog]

unbearablyblack‌:

“Alright,” Sirius repeats, their voice barely audible. The whole thing feels terribly anti-climactic, their long and once-happy relationship boiled down to just these few last words. Surely there are more things both Sirius and Remus would like to say, but Sirius has already admitted to more here than they have in months. To say more feels unbearable, their exhaustion and sorrow a combined weight on their chest that they can’t lift.

The selfish part of them wants to reach out to Remus, to rise from the chair they’ve planted themself in, to wrap their arms around his neck and pull him close and keep him there, but the rest of them– the larger part– can’t bring themself to do it. It’s the same feeling Sirius has been fighting since James died, the desire– the need– to keep Remus close, yet being physically unable to do so.

Sirius is tired of fighting it. They suppose they don’t have to, anymore. In a moment Remus will walk through the door and that will be that; Sirius and Remus will no longer be Sirius and Remus, but two separate people who failed at maintaining their happiness. This is who I am now, Sirius thinks, for the second time today. It rings truer this time.

Sirius has nothing left to say. It’s too late to ask Remus not to go; I love you won’t fix the problem, I’ll try is a lie they’ll both recognize. They can’t touch him, not anymore, can’t convince him to stay, won’t, anyway, but they can’t watch him leave, either. It would only add to Sirius’ pain. Instead they turn away, shielding their face from Remus, staring at the blurry parchment spread out across the little table. The mission seems hardly important anymore, but it’s the only distraction Sirius has left. 

Remus is gone.

[rcmus-blog]

beealight‌:

Charity listened quietly aching with sympathy at the clear notes of exhaustion and heartache in Remus’ voice. It was hard for any of them to live like this. Hidden amongst the dead shrouded in tragedy and secrets. It was no wonder they were coming apart at the seams divisions sprouting like mushrooms on a shallow grave. And some of them were so young, it wasn’t fair that they were only just barely surviving when they ought to have been able to be living free from the weight of it all. 

Charity remembered being twenty four and in love. She also remembered being twenty four and watching her world crumble before her eyes but at least then the Order had been a solid foundation to turn to. Now it felt like even that was falling apart. She could hardly blame Remus for needing to at least try to put himself first for once. He was already sacrificing so much for all of them, he couldn’t be expected to set himself on fire to keep his love from freezing too. She nodded when he finished her eyes tender with understanding.

“Holding yourself together is more than enough, especially now, if they love you’ll they’ll understand that… if not now, eventually. You’re doing the best you can for all of us already, you deserve to be able to do what is best for you too.”

She followed his gaze to the sky her eyes tracing familiar constellations and remembering the nights that Althea would pull her from bed to sit wrapped up in blankets and each other’s arms and stare up at the wonder of the starry sky. So much in their world was changing, so many endings and too few beginnings, but at least the stars remained. She picked up her thermos from where Remus had sat it and ran her fingers over the charmed rune on the side watching as tea from the pot she’d left back at her cottage trickled in to refill it and sipped at it content to wax into a comfortable silence alongside Remus. 

[rcmus-blog]

amosisnotahero‌:

Routines are a double-edged sword in Amos’ opinion. He used to crave it: routines were the sign of stability, the indication that the family was getting used to you, wanted you to stay. Routines meant you were safe. And for a long time, all Amos ever wanted to be was safe.

(He’d had it, even, for a while. Routines with Nora, with Mum as she became, watering plants and cooking and spending hours with her learning Ancient Runes or astronomy or whatever hobby struck her that month. He’d never not felt safe, with her.)

Routines and safety meant you were lucky, now. Meant something in your life exempted you from the horrors raining down on others who hadn’t stumbled into your kind of luck. Amos was lucky: chosen by a pureblood mother to be raised as her son, blood status covered up by her pristine surname. Lucky to be clad in green-and-silver when the time came, lucky to have befriended the children who would turn to acts beyond mischief come adulthood. Lucky to be stupid enough not to realize what they were doing, to keep his head down and his nose in his work, self-preservation and wishful thinking keeping him safe. He’d only just started endangering himself, because he was lucky to have the privilege of choosing to.

Nobody’d told Remus if you want, you can pretend none of this is going on, you can ignore it and be happy. Remus hadn’t had that choice. You can die, he’d been told (the universe had decided), or you can fight.

Amos’ guilt was that the first voice had spoken those words to him, more or less, and it had taken him far too long to say no.

“Yeah,” he answers Remus absently, staring a little too long, a little too wrapped up in watching the ways emotions play across Remus’ expression. “Being Division, these last four years or so. Big step up from the Ghoul Task Force.” 

     ‘It’s just, my-- erm, my da. He works in the Spirit division. You might know him.’

It’s been so long since Remus had more than a passing thought about his father. Since he let himself. Lyall was more than happy to keep his routine, to remain ignorant to the worst of the war. A good job with the Ministry, magic running through his veins, his muggle wife several years dead of a mundane illness, he had nothing to fear from Voldemort or the Death Eaters. Remus had left because he didn’t want to burden him.

No, that wasn’t right. Remus had left because he didn’t want to feel like a burden in the first place.

He’d spent all these years assuming that everyone in the Department of the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures was much like his father, had the same way of seeing the world. That they all would have turned cold and practical had their own sons turned to werewolves as children, would have isolated them and kept them secret, would have let out heavy sighs, would have quietly complained to their wives about the cost of the destruction their child had unwittlingly caused. Would have been more than happy to ship them off to somewhere safer. 

Amos, he thinks, doesn’t seem like the type who would have done that. And again, not for the first time, Amos is making him feel like maybe he’s deserved better than everything he’s gotten so far in this life.

     ‘Lyall. Lyall Lupin.’

[rcmus-blog]

unbearablyblack‌:

Sirius nods but says nothing. It’s one of the many unbecoming habits they’ve adopted since James died, one that they’ve grown far too comfortable with. It’s unlike them to give up so easily, to not even try– or it used to be. Not even Sirius can look in the mirror and recognize the face that stares blankly back anymore, their eyes tired, their face lined with their grief. James may be dead, but it’s Sirius who is the ghost, a shell of the person they once were. It’s only a matter of time before they disappear completely, before their grief consumes them and they’re stuck like this, hollow and angry and bitter.

It’s unfair. To Sirius, to Remus, to Harry and Lily and even James, who would hate to see what’s become of his friends, but Sirius has already admitted they don’t know what else to do. They’ve tried their best, and for once, it wasn’t enough. It used to be enough, but things are different now. Life is different, Sirius and Remus are both different. They’ve both experienced far too much hurt, at the hands of one another as much as everything else, for it to be enough.

Sirius’ eyes are still on Remus, taking in the image of the man they love like it’s the last time. It very well may be. The realization hits them like a punch to the gut, and the tears that have been threatening to fall for so long finally do, hot and slow down their cheeks. Still, they don’t reach out for Remus; they’ve lost that privilege. And oh, what a privilege it was.

“I can’t,” Sirius says, finally, breaking the agonizing silence that has fallen over them. Their voice is hoarse through their tears. “I’m sorry.” They make an attempt to wipe them away with the palm of their hand, but it proves as useless as their apologies. They continue to fall freely.

There’s nowhere else to go from here, their near-decade long romance having finally met its tragic end, and with it Sirius doesn’t know what to say. They never thought they’d have to say anything. Instead, they repeat the apology, as woefully unhelpful as it is, their voice faint. It’d be easier to look away from Remus, but they can’t seem to pull their eyes away; despite it all, they don’t want him to leave. They still need him.

“I’m sorry.”

He listens, quiet and patient, for the last time. Listens to Sirius apologize, and steels himself. It’ll take a small miracle to stop Remus from going to him, kissing him again, holding him, promising to set everything else aside to help him work through this. This is how they have always been: time and grief have only exaggerated the patterns that were always there. This is the breaking point; this is where they need a clean break so they can start again fresh, clear out the rubble and start to rebuild. 

     ‘You don’t have to be,’ he answers, after a moment. ‘I get it, I do. Just... try to take care of yourself. You won’t do anyone any favors by dying. James included.’

He lowers his head, for a moment -- he’s not invoking James to be cruel, not trying to use him as a trump card or anything like that. But if Sirius won’t stay alive for Sirius, and won’t stay alive for him, well-- James and Harry may be the only reasons they’ve got left. Maybe it’ll be good enough. Maybe it won’t, and Remus will be stuck mourning someone else he was too cowardly to save.

But it’s not doing him any good, standing here and trying to put Sirius’ pieces together again with shaking hands. 

     ‘Look, you know where to find me, alright?’ If you need me, if you change your mind, if you manage to work through it... This isn’t the end, he thinks. This is just a stalemate. This is just something he needs to work through on his own. He gives Sirius one last look, one last nod, and then turns to go.

[rcmus-blog]

hollowedlilies‌:

How many times have they completed this puzzle? Twelve or thirteen, likely; she sees it in her sleep, when she closes her eyes. Sometimes she sees James, and sometimes Harry, and, rarely, both. Her boys. She used to have more of them. It used to be four. Now she is down, it feels, to two.

Sirius is still there, in physicality but little else. He doesn’t feel like he’s one of hers anymore. She hates it, the sudden, embarrassing knowledge that she has placed more value in her friendship with Remus than Sirius. Lily always expected them to be a couple, never to have to place weight on one over the other. She cringes to wonder what James would think of her. This isn’t what I wanted, she pleads with his memory, his ghost in her mind. Please don’t hate me for it.

If she held up photos of her Harry to James’ baby pictures, she thinks, it would be impossible not to determine the resemblance. But he has her eyes, she thinks desperately. Her hair. Is it enough, she wonders, to help her through the rest of his life? The rest of hers? Will she ever stop seeing James in him?

She reaches one hand up, touching the back of her head, imagining she could feel James’ lips there, the way she used to whenever he felt the need to comfort her. Lily is certain it is a figment of her imagination. You’re in too deep, Evans. Get your mind out of the past.

Harry looks up at her–smiling, so happy, so stable–and though Lily has never been particularly religious, she’s sent a quick prayer Heavenward before she thinks too much about it.

Remus smiles a little too quick. Maybe there’s something more to him and Amos than she originally thought. It seems quick to develop a crush, after the breakup, but maybe he’s not aware, yet, of his budding affection. All she can trust, right now, is this: Remus is smiling, and when she searches his smile, it feels brighter than any other smile she’s seen from him since James’ death.

“Drinking tea with him made you happy,” she points out, not quite matching his tone for jest. “There’s so little joy in the world these days. Take the happiness you can find, Remus, and if you discover a sudden fondness for gardening along the way–well, stranger things have happened, and they usually do.”

It’s the closest to lighthearted she can manage in her current state. It’s the only way she can think to tell him be selfish, for once in your damn life. Put yourself first.

     ‘Well he’s, you know. Nice. It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t spend all their time in this village. We’ve all gotten to be at each other’s throats all the time, stuck here. Can’t really blame myself for enjoying a little sanity and perspective.’

He’s not sure why he feels the need to defend himself -- it isn’t to Lily that he’s doing it either; she doesn’t seem to mind. She seems encouraging, of his making new friends, talking to more people, getting out of the house, even if out just means on the front step. It’s as if he’s defending himself to the air around them, to the house itself, apologizing for needing to get out of it, to get away. Apologizing to the place that he picked to be a home for one thing, but that’s become something else altogether. 

He sits back a little, lets Harry push himself up off of Remus lap and back over for another puzzle piece, this one half of a panda next to Lily’s knee, and he watches as Harry picks it up, squints at it, and decides he doesn’t know where the other half is. Harry hands it to her and then climbs up into her lap, nestled between her knees, head on her chest, puzzle abandoned. Merlin, he thinks, watching: how nice it would be to be able to do that. Give up the second you don’t know what to do and go rest your head on someone else for comfort. 

     ‘Actually, I was talking to Emmeline the other day, and... I had a thought. Something to do, to keep me busy.’

[rcmus-blog]

amosisnotahero‌:

Cheers, really, that’s all Remus has to say? Something whirrs inside his mind, putting pieces together, re-evaluating his impression of this man. A few possibilities: first, that the kind words are unwelcome, and Amos is overstepping, assuming a friendship that does not exist; second, that Remus is entirely unaccustomed to being held in any sort of estimation that isn’t profoundly negative and has no idea how to respond. He hazards a guess that if the first were true, Remus would find a reason to go inside or end the conversation here, and that hasn’t happened–he’s closed his eyes, asked a question, seems relaxed. Looks for all the world like he’d be happy to sit here for a while, not even in a rush to drink his tea, but expects that the universe won’t allow that to happen.

If he thinks of Remus as unused to complimentary words, he can decode a bit more of his body language. Puzzle pieces slotting into place once the border is completed. He can’t be sure he’s right–but the assumption can’t be that far off base, if he thinks back to the first time he met Remus’ eye, in a crowded room with everyone’s name but Remus’ on display, after words jumped from his throat in defense of a man he knew virtually nothing about. He hadn’t been able to tell, in that moment, what the expression was, but he’s starting to figure it out now.

He shifts, all angles and limbs, to lean back against the foundation of the house, facing Remus now with his tea cradled in one hand. The other hand goes up to muss through his hair, a practiced gesture that puts in mind distracted nonchalance. Sometimes that’s actually what it is. “It’s, ah–pretty much the same.” Somehow, that fact is more depressing than anything else he could have said. All the horrors that have transpired, and everything is just…business as usual. People mourned and moved on.

“I work at the Ministry, but nowhere near all the important stuff. I don’t really know what goes on behind the scenes, so I can’t speak for that. I know there hasn’t been any public Death Eater activity lately. The average people–I mean, the ones who aren’t directly involved in the war, aren’t aware of the Order at all–they’re all trying to relax. Some of them really believe that the war is over, or close to it. They’re trying to get back to their regular lives. Can’t blame them. Some semblance of routine is comforting.”

It’s more depressing to hear about the outside world than he thought it would be, even couched in Amos’ soft voice, his kind tone, his attempts to make things not sound so bad, somehow, all without sugarcoating anything. It’s hard to imagine anything ever returning to normal, hard to even remember what normal was. Maybe because he’s never had a normal that wasn’t, in its own way, sort of awful, never had a normal the way people uninvolved with all of this can have.

He imagines, for a moment, a life where he went to Hogwarts, got a job, maybe had a family and settled down. One where he wasn’t a werewolf, one where he hadn’t known Lily or James or Sirius or Peter. What would it have looked like, to him? A couple of terrorist attacks, and then a long period of quiet. Maybe he’d think things were back to normal then, too. But he’s never had the luxury, in this life; he’s never lived an adult life unhaunted by this war. He’s been a soldier of sorts for longer than he cares to remember.

     ‘Routine,’ he repeats, instead, choosing to focus on a different word, one he knows so much more about. Because everything’s always been a routine for him. This tea he’s drinking is a routine. His full moons are a routine. The way he’s spent his whole life pretending that everything around him was justified was a routine.

Amos has broken his routine, just a little bit. He doesn’t quite miss the comfort of it.

     ‘Wonder what that’s like,’ he half-jokes, and then takes a sip of tea. And then, sometimes occurs to him, at Amos’ mention of the Ministry-- ‘You, er, you word for the Department of the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures, yeah?’

[pandarenwrites]

for @chrysalis-writes; Amos/Remus palm kisses and a surprise kiss from this meme.

The thing about magic is that it soaks into anything, given enough of a chance. Take a house: fill it with arcane artifacts, books with magical properties, potions with cork stoppers. Spill those potions on the countertop when you bottle them; clean the mess with a quick spell. Summon your slippers at five o'clock each evening and always forget to use a bookmark.

Fill the house with the detritus of a thousand incantations. Eventually, the slippers jump across the floor without prompting; books fall open to the right page every time.

The house, you might think, learns. The house has habits and memory and imagination.

Look, then: here is a cottage that dreams of being a library.

Keep reading

[amosisnotahero]

@rcmus

[rcmus-blog]

hollowedlilies‌:

She used to have a pretty clear idea of what her future might be. Several kids–Harry was just the start–raised in their house on Godric’s Hollow, James the Auror, Lily moving into whatever career suited her after the kids were old enough–maybe nursing, like her aunt, or something new and tailored to a magical life. Lunches with Remus, dropping the kids off at the place he shared with Sirius, arguing good-naturedly with Sirius about what did and did not constitute appropriate gifts for young children. Maybe, someday, making up with Petunia and meeting her nephew. Living long enough to see Harry married, laugh as her grandchildren learned to speak. Lily has never seen her future as anything different, because she knows it is exactly what James wanted, and no part of her has ever acknowledged the possibility of wanting anything inconsistent with James’ dearest desires.

 There’s no James, now, no Sirius-and-Remus, no charming uncles’ flat for her children to go to when they’re tired of Mum and Dad. Maybe she will live long enough to see Harry grown. First she has to make sure Harry can survive outside of a heavily-protected refugee camp. First she has to make sure the world is something he can live in. She has Harry, for now; she has Remus. The future yawns in the distance, empty and terrifying, and she knows no option except to stride forward into it with her jaw clenched and holding tight to everything she has left.

Everything they thought could be forever was ending. They’re still here, though, moving into their own personal futures. She watches Harry with Remus and thinks about the boy she met on the train to Hogwarts, smiling nervously, experiencing all of this with the same disbelieving awe she felt. She can think about a future where maybe it’s Remus beside her on the platform to see Harry off to his first day at Hogwarts. She can be okay with that.

For herself, maybe. Not for Remus. Remus, she has always felt, deserves to have someone who can dedicate themself to him, no holds barred. She casts about for ideas, thinks about what friends Remus has here, what recreation might possibly be available in this godforsaken place.

“Is there anything you want to do?” she presses, leaning back on her palms, smiling at Harry as he looks up at her, looking for validation. He’s getting better at not being around her for long stretches of time, but still asks for James now and then, still bursts into tears without clear reason. “I know you’ve been helping Pandora with her potions, but maybe…” She hums a bit. “Gardening? Painting? Or just…spending time with people who aren’t…you know.” Lily gestures a bit, unsure of a delicate way to say it. Not Sirius. Not friends with Sirius. “Amos Diggory, you know, he was here doing some gardening the other day and I saw you talking.” And I saw you clean out the kitchen to bring him tea, had to drink mine without sugar, saw your face when you came back inside. He could be good for you, maybe.

He nearly laughs, a bit, at her suggestions of gardening and painting. Hobbies. It’s been so long since he had the space to think about luxuries like hobbies. He doesn’t even know what he likes to do anymore, has never been the type to see himself sitting around and knitting exactly. The things he liked as a boy -- reading muggle novels and playing pranks with his friends and watching quidditch on the lawn -- they seem so distant, far-away things, pieces of a life long left behind. The things he liked as a man -- cigarettes and drinks at the pub and sex with Sirius, patchworked around a life already lived at war... even those feel like luxuries now he can hardly afford. 

He opens his mouth, though, at the mention of Amos-- the man’s name a surprise in her voice, when he’d just been hearing it in his own, in his head. He’d already apologized for the bit with the sugar, when she’d been sitting at the table drinking plain tea when he finally came back inside. Maybe she’s right: maybe he ought to spend time with new people, start to fill the holes in his life with newer things. He’s been, a bit-- tea with Xeno, working with Pandora, night-time conversations with Charity and Arabella. Maybe Amos couldn’t hurt anything.

Harry plops down into his lap, suddenly, tiny fingers fumbling to put another puzzle piece into place, his mess of curly hair brushing the underside of Remus’ chin. Lily’s hair, but cut short and still baby-soft. Lily’s hair atop an expression of concentration that he’s seen on James’ face a thousand times as they studied for OWLs or NEWTs late into the night by the firelight of the Gryffindor common room. He rests a hand on Harry’s back, steadying him in place as he shifts a little to sit more comfortably on the floor.

     ‘What, you think I ought to go round the village gardening with Amos Diggory?’

He says it with a smile, like it’s a bit of a joke. He doesn’t say: gardening’s not exactly my style, but you’re not wrong about the company. He doesn’t say: then who will be here to look after you?

[rcmus-blog]

xenosechoes‌:

It was a curious thing to suddenly care about the way someone might perceive them. Even when they were a child, the whispers behind their back had not mattered so much because of the cruelty, but because people were wrong. They had learned fast enough once they left the strange protection of even their shattered home that everyone closed off enough would see the same thing in them. Cruel whispers, with fear of something they couldn’t understand hidden behind the teasing laughter. No, Xenophilius only cared insomuch that people were wrong.

And yet, they worried what the outright admission might mean now, somehow. That perhaps telling him so clearly of the voices that plagued them, even louder after the disagreement, would make him see that Sirius Black was correct in their concern. Friend was not a familiar word to them, and yet here they were, fearing that could keep it that way.

“Yes; I suppose my presence has struck a nerve with them,” they muttered, finally looking back at him. It was a relief in a way, to hear his own surprise, clear in his voice, written on his face. It told them that this was not something to be expected, so perhaps, even if it took time, their mind could be changed. But that was hard to believe, knowing how they had spoken to them, so utterly certain and convinced in their distrust and hatred. The words they had said to them were true, war did such frightening things to people.

“You have no reason to apologize; their words are not yours. And I know that my…eccentricities have alienated others before. Worse, it seems, my neutrality does. You must understand, it is not with selfish intent; it is because I know that I’m a liability, as he seems to think. I’d never reject the offer to keep my family safe, but I do not have to put more people in danger,” they offered an explanation, even though they weren’t certain why they felt the need.

“Their poison has already seeped into my own mind, but I fear for the damage it could do to my Pandora’s safety, if they convince others the same fear is justified.”

He listened, for a moment, trying to put it all together in his head: Sirius lashing out at Xenophilius, calling them a liability, saying they were a danger...

It was fucking rich, coming from Sirius -- Sirius, who had spent years of the war neutral, refusing to join the battle because of their family, because they didn’t want to risk losing the approval of their literal blood supremacist parents. Xeno might not have been an official member of the Order, but Xeno was helping, Xeno was here. And Sirius thought it was their place to question Xeno’s right to be here?

The thought made him sick, for a moment. It wasn’t the first time: since he’d stepped back and told Sirius I need some space, there had been a handful of things -- rash actions, harsh words -- that had made him recoil at the though that the person he’d loved all this time was capable of such cruelty. Like closeness had blinded him to it. 

And all Xenophilius was worried about was that it might put Pandora in danger. As if anyone here could feasibly say a word against her, despite all of her generosity and kindness, her careful healing hands, the sacrifice that Benjy had made for the cause and the grief it had caused her... 

But, then again, there were still whispers about him, sometimes, sidelong glances whenever his own curse came up unbidden in polite conversation. Was it such a stretch to believe that bigotry could turn people against even the greatest of their own allies?

     ‘I won’t let that happen,’ he said, the words sudden and rushed, a little desperate. ‘I swear, Xeno, I won’t let a thing happen to you or to Pandora. I don’t care what Sirius says, or what anyone else things: I’m the person keeping this place safe, and that means the two of you, too. No matter what.’

[souvlakispac3station]

Cause I miss you the way that I miss nicotine If it makes me feel better, how bad could it be? Well I heard there’s a fix for everything Then why, then why, then why Then why not me?

[rcmus-blog]

emxxvance‌:

Emmeline nodded, the movement small and quick, an acknowledgement that almost seemed to want to avoid being acknowledged itself. They understood the sudden flash of adrenaline that came with thinking danger could be around the corner, and the minutes that felt like hours afterwards as the feeling leaked away, replaced by the worn-down lull of still being alive. It happened too often, and not often enough. 

“Hm, I’m glad this is the preferable situation. Very reasonable of you.” The words held a thread of irony in them, but nothing on their face implied anything but utter sincerity. 

Em followed Remus’ gaze to the books, skimming over the spines to quickly take in the titles. It only took a moment to establish that they wouldn’t be much help. Novels and fiction were all well and good, but not for Em’s intentions. “Not any title in particular, no. I’m just looking for things that could be useful- I brought a fair number of books here with me but I know other people had other things to prioritize, so I thought I’d try to rebuild our knowledge base as much as I can.” 

They shoved their hands into the pockets of their coat, nodding over at the books, “These don’t look ideal, but I’ve found a few interesting things.” 

It was the kind of strange, mismatched selection of books you could only find in someone’s home, a handful of worn-looking novels, a few that looked untouched, childrens’ books and a few that looked like maybe a parent had been preparing to start tutoring their child in the kind of basic magic theory some wix parents taught their kids before shipping them off to Hogwarts at eleven. Emmeline might not have found what they were looking for, but Remus reached over and picked a few of those off the shelf, tucking them into a pocket inside his coat.

     ‘I’ve been-- meaning to talk to Arthur,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘I don’t know what his plans are, with his kids, if they’ll be going to Hogwarts or...’ he trailed off for a moment, hating that there was even a question of that, of the safety of the handful of small red-haired kids causing harmless trouble in the abandoned houses if they left here and went to school. School, where Remus couldn’t protect them. Even if Dumbledore could. ‘But I figure it can’t hurt for them to get a head start.’

They’d gotten the wheels in his head turning. Rebuild our knowledge base. It was a good idea, especially if they could get Amos or Dorcas to bring some more in the next time they stopped by.

     ‘You know, there’s a house with a lot of bookshelves, just off the road. It’s in decent shape, too, not too much damage. I reckon we could fix it up, turn it into a library, if we found enough to put in it.’

[rcmus-blog]

unbearablyblack‌:

“Of course it isn’t,” Sirius replies, their voice tired. Despite their exhaustion, the truth seems to just tumble out of their mouth, like a leak they can’t fix. “But I don’t know what to do, Remus, I don’t know how to fix this.” With their arm resting on the back of the wooden chair, they gesture vaguely between the two of them. 

For once, Sirius makes no effort to close the gap that separates them, the distance a rare safety net. They know if they were a foot closer they’d try to reach out, grasp at what little bit of Remus they have left, but they can’t keep doing this. Neither of them can. They’re both exhausted, their wells run dry. Sirius can see it on Remus’ face, can feel it in their own bones.

“I can’t pull myself together,” Sirius continues. They’re speaking far too quickly, their voice desperate. “I tried, I really fucking tried, but I don’t–” they stumble over the words, their heart beating quickly, the only reminder that it is, in fact, still there– “I don’t feel anything except fucking miserable all the time. I thought joining the Order would help. I thought this mission would help, but I can’t–” Sirius pauses, tears stinging their eyes. They squeeze them shut, desperate for relief they know won’t come. Their hand, still outstretched, subconsciously reaches out for Remus. It’s shaking.

“I want to be there for you,” Sirius says after a prolonged pause. Their voice is calmer now, quieter. “But I can’t. Not the way you need me to be. I know it’s not fair.” They’ve known it for a while, but up until now they’ve chosen to ignore it. It’s another selfish thing to add to the growing list, but Sirius loves Remus. Just like their parents, just like James, they couldn’t– can’t– let him go.

“I love you.” Sirius’ words echo their thoughts. It presents itself as a statement of fact, not a confession nor a secret, but unchanging. The sky is blue. The grass is green. I love you. “I know that’s not enough. It shouldn’t be,” they look at Remus, searching the face they memorized years ago, “but that’s the best I can do.”

It’s the most words Sirius has strung together to talk about how they’re feeling since either of them got word that James had died. 

The problem is: they’re both lost in grief, selfish with it. The problem is: they have to be. There’s no way to cope with the loss of someone like James, and the circumstance surrounding it, the losing war, the missing friends, the rest of the dead-- Peter, Marlene, countless others without losing something. Remus has spent so long setting aside his own grief to try to help Sirius make it through theirs, more immediate, more perilous, worrying himself sick that they’d run off and get themself killed because their sense of self-preservation had died when James did.

But he is tired, now. And Sirius is right. They can’t be there for him the way he needs someone to be. It isn’t enough. And he can hope for a million somedays, space for them both to heal and cope and grow and then come back together again. But nothing will ever be the same as it was. They will always be changed, always altered. He will always love Sirius Black, but he is not sure he will ever recover from the scars on his heart that Sirius has left there lately. 

There are so many people, taking up space in his chest. A village of people to take care of, another to grieve. He is carrying so much with him, and no one, not a soul, has offered to help him carry that load. 

He thinks: I am owed better. 

     ‘I love you too,’ he says, almost too quiet to hear. It hurts, physically, like a curse slashing deep into his chest, to say it. He’s going to cry: this is not speculation, it is fact. He’s going to cry, but he needs to keep talking. ‘I always will. But I can’t take care of you. Not right now, not when you keep running away from me. Not if you can’t take care of me, too.’

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amosisnotahero‌:

Remus looks at him in a way that makes him feel flayed to his soul, and he doesn’t hate it, not really. Amos has never liked being heard, understood, read–not before he’s ready, not before he’s sure he’s arranged himself to be the kind of story they want to read. Amos is, has always been, too afraid to be seen for what he really is; he is an expert at making himself liked, just as he has always wanted to be. But the Order distrusts him for all the reasons he’s made up to be so very likable for so very long. He’s on the wrong foot, thrown off just enough so that when he sits here with Remus, he doesn’t know how to offer anything that isn’t unguarded.

He’s surprised and yet not, because who stands up for a werewolf, but also–why wouldn’t anyone stand up for the Remus he sees here, who actually looked hopeful when he learned he could be part of the Fidelius Charm, when everyone else looked apprehensive? Remus isn’t a martyr, no, he’s seen those types before and Remus is lacking the death wish that usually comes along with it. He can tell. It’s the look that he can read in Sirius’ eyes, but absent in Remus’. No wonder they ended up together.

He wants to take Remus’ hand, reassure him that Amos will always stand up for him, but that’s a ridiculous idea because they’ve only just met. It’s just that something about Remus feels like Alice. It’s just that he’s been mildly in love with Alice for a decade or so and–

He interrupts the thought with whatever pops into his head first: “None of us really do,” he admits. “We try, but–honestly, Remus, you seem like the kind of person worth standing up for, by my estimation.” He gives him an earnest sort of look, eyebrows drawn together, holding Remus’ eyes a moment longer than necessary, making sure his words stick.

There’s something warm, in his chest, despite the brittle February air. He cups his hands tighter around the mug, shoulders hunching a little around it, like he needs to shield himself from the way Amos is looking at him, the sincerity, the earnestness, nothing hidden or lurking behind the expression. It feels like it’s been so long since anyone was this honest with anyone else. 

     ‘Cheers,’ he says, to that, because he doesn’t know what else to say. Because there’s a lump caught in his throat and he’s not sure when it got there, and his voice is so quiet around it, almost a whisper, hanging in the air between the two of them. 

He closes his eyes, for a second. There is a strange and quiet peace, here on the front step: silence, but not the cold and tense kind that had filled the house for weeks, since he and Sirius stopped really speaking. He feels like he and Amos could sit here in silence for a while and he’d feel more relaxed on the other side of it, instead of worse. He finds he is, inexplicably, relaxed, some of the perpetual tension in his shoulders eased out. He finds, suddenly, startlingly in the absence of it, that he has head a headache, somewhere around the hinges of his jaw, for over a month. 

     ‘I--’ he starts, but he doesn’t know what to say, what to ask. Just knows he’d like Amos to keep talking until he has a chance to set his own head on straight. ‘What’s it like, out there? I hardly count my little full moon excursion as a chance to see what the world’s become, and I haven’t left aside from that.’

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hollowedlilies‌:

Harry grins a dimpled smile as the pieces slot into place. “Fish,” he identifies, stabbing a finger at it, a cartoon image of a whale formed by the toddler-sized pieces. He stands up, moves to retrieve a new piece, and hands it to Remus before fetching a second one for himself. For all he is an only child, Harry has never been good at doing anything alone.

The loss of his warm weight in her lap keens deep in her soul, even as she knows she has to let go, has to let this darling thing that used to draw its life from hers live independently now. It comes in waves, this possessiveness; when it fades, she’ll be back to wanting to hand him off to anyone, anything to get the face that looks like James away from her so she can sit in the bathtub with her head between her knees and cry.

Deep breaths. One. Two. Her heart returns to a normal pattern. Harry and Remus continue with the puzzle.

She tries to imagine it: Sirius without Remus. Remus without Sirius. It seems impossible. They’ve been a thing, in her mind, for almost as long as she’s known them–longer than her and James, longer than Marlene and anyone. Lily has a hard time believing that this separation is permanent, yet she can’t ignore the finality in Remus’ voice. There’s no end date, here. This is just…done for now. Perhaps for ever.

“Have you tried–” she hesitates. Unsure if this is the right time for advice. She’s just too used to Remus coming to her for advice, especially where it comes to Sirius. “Not focusing, for once,” her voice soft, light, pleasant so it doesn’t tip Harry off to any conflict in the house. “I know you can’t go on vacation, not as such, but–Remus, you need something. You’ve taken on so much here, and I don’t want you to implode trying to keep it all in.”

She’s James and Lily both now, absorbed her husband’s essence on the moment of his death. Giving advice for the two of them. Hoping her voice carries as much weight as she needs it to.

She has no idea how James would react to the news that Sirius and Remus aren’t Sirius and Remus anymore. They are Sirius, full stop. Remus, full stop. The end of an era. Lily, full stop, too.

     ‘Yeah, buddy,’ he mutters quietly, affectionately, taking the new puzzle piece out of Harry’s hand as he toddles off to find another one. It’s habit, second nature, to respond to Harry in the middle of another sentence, doing whatever he can to affirm everything he does. He figured, pretty early on in his life, that he’d never be a father-- for such a wide variety of reasons that it never made any sense to question it-- but this, being an uncle, helping Lily to raise Harry, this child he finds himself loving more than he’s ever loved anything... it feels like a gift, so natural, worth every moment. ‘Fish, good work.’

He’s relieved, when Lily’s advice comes in the form of trying to talk him down from overworking himself, rather than trying to talk him down from whatever’s happening -- or isn’t happening, perhaps -- with Sirius. It’s not something he wants to talk about, not something he knows how to talk about. Or... maybe he does want to talk about it, but he wants to yell and scream and shout and cry and he isn’t ready to do any of that, certainly not with Harry picking up the rear half of a tiger off the floor and pressing it into his hand, next to its matching piece, saying Kitty! with a big, proud smile on his tiny little face. 

He’s been overworking himself since he was twelve: he knows how to handle this advice without breaking down. Not to mention he knows she’s right. 

     ‘No, you’re right,’ he says, and that’s easy. Admitting that Lily Evans-Potter is right about something is, often, the easiest thing in the world to do. ‘You know I’ve never been good at, er, relaxing, but...’

An image flashes into his mind, unbidden: Amos, knees in the dirt of their front garden, mug of tea steaming in his cupped hands. The chest-unfurling feeling Remus had had, the other day, talking to him, like he had, for a moment, just relaxed. 

Amos still baffles him. Amos is still, in some strange way, a mystery he’ll never unravel, a stranger he doesn’t understand. And what would it sound like, to say to Lily, who is still living with him and Sirius avoiding each other like the wrong-way-round poles of two magnets in her house, to hear well, I’ve been spending some time with Amos Diggory when she told him to take a bloody vacation? He’s not even sure why that’s the thing that occurred to him, honestly, can’t quite parse what it means through the fog of strain and stress and exhaustion.

     ‘I do promise I’m trying, Lil. It’s just that distracting myself is easier than anything else, and there’s not all that much to distract myself with.’

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unbearablyblack‌:

Remus says he doesn’t need Sirius to protect him, but all he hears is I don’t need you. Why would he? The rational part of his mind knows that all they’ve done since James’ death is cause each other pain, adding jabs to one another’s already-open wounds. Being in this cottage doesn’t help, where he and Remus ignore one another, where they live among the remnants of James and Lily’s once-happy home, where Sirius looks at Harry and sees only James: his smile, his nose, his laugh.

Sirius says nothing for a long time. He stares at the map on the little table in their room– his room, now, not theirs– not even really looking at it, just needing something else to focus on other than Remus. Not for the first time, he doesn’t know what to say. Even the truth, now that he’s finally dared to speak it, isn’t enough for Remus. He supposes it shouldn’t be. He knows he’s different now. Losing James broke him, but losing Remus, too, destroyed him completely. Sirius no longer feels anything but the gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be, James’ death carving it out of him. He could be heartless, before, but this is something else entirely. No longer can it be chalked up to teenage immaturity.

It’s permanent, Sirius thinks woefully, his own voice hollow in his mind. This is who I am now. This is all he has, now: dangerous missions the Order is ill-prepared for, arguments he’s bound to lose over and over again, constant thoughts of James that only make the pain worse. Sirius can’t feel anything but, his heartache backing him into a corner. He can’t help himself out of it. He shouldn’t expect Remus to do it for him. Sirius knows he won’t, not anymore, and it was selfish of him to think he would in the first place.

“Alright, then,” Sirius replies after a while. Though his voice is barely above a whisper, there’s a finality to it: ‘Alright, then. There’s nowhere else to go from here.’

Sirius looks at Remus, his face blank. He can feel the tears welling behind his eyes, but they don’t fall. It’s like he’s incapable. He sighs heavily, his breath shaky as he releases it. “I suppose that’s it.”

Leave it to Sirius Black to take even that -- a statement of fact, the closest Remus can get to a rational explanation of why he’s upset -- as a personal slight, a catastrophic statement. That’s it, like instead of calling Sirius out on the shite they were trying to pull, Remus had said I never want to see you, ever again. Like they’d heard what they wanted to hear and ignored the actual words coming out of Remus’ mouth.

And what is Remus meant to do, with that? What do you do, when someone refuses to listen? What is there left to salvage? 

He wants to say you’re being a bloody idiot, Sirius Black. Wants to shake them until it knocks some sense into their thick, beautiful head. Merlin, he wants to shout until he can force them to listen, wants to make them repeat his words back like he does when he’s trying to teach Harry the name for something new, just to ensure that Sirius is hearing him. 

But Sirius isn’t a bloody child. They’re meant to be his partner. They’re meant to care about what he says without being forced to do it. And sure, they were always a bit catastrophic, always taking everything to its extreme, but Remus is exhausted. He’s too exhausted to say what needs to be said, to say all you need to do is stay here and talk to me and we can work through this. He’s too exhausted to work through anything, anymore, after how many times it’s failed. 

So he doesn’t. Not this time.

     ‘If that’s what you want,’ he says, lingering in the doorway for a moment, some masochistic part of him hoping that Sirius will understand what he’s too exhausted to say, some more realistic part of him certain as the day that they won’t. 

[vosmaar]

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amosisnotahero‌:

The tea is refreshing, once it’s cooled off a little. He’s been out here working about an hour–not enough, he has plenty more hours to go, if not at this house than at others around the place–he likes to keep busy, though, make up for his lack of presence in Godric’s Hollow since the Order settled in. He’s fairly certain that half the Order would rather he stay out, given that his life, unlike theirs, has not been directly threatened. Hell, a few of them probably wonder if he, with his old friendships still marginally intact, is more a danger to them than a boon. He wonders if any of the Order ever thought the same of Remus. 

Amos takes a slow drink of tea to mull over how to best respond. It’s obvious what Remus is referring to. Still, Amos had never been sure if backing Remus as Secret Keeper had damned him or saved him. Remus was thanking him, so it must be a positive thing in his mind, and he wouldn’t have done it if he wasn’t willing–but Amos has heard what happened to the last Order Secret Keeper. He can only hope that they’ve protected Remus better than they protected Peter.

He hasn’t spent enough time around Remus to figure out what kind of man he is, and the grief that’s shattered this town has settled into the bones of all of its new residents, making it hard to read anyone unless he knows them already. He wants–rather desperately–for Remus to like him, but he hasn’t decided yet how to go about it. Amos has the vague suspicion that Remus is capable of knowing a lot about him just by learning how he takes his tea. He has a soul-searching way of looking at people.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Amos says finally. “I did what any decent person in my situation would have. No reason going around letting people act on misinformation.” There’s no shortage of it, and he’s never been surprised to hear the misconceptions tossed around, but with an actual werewolf in their midst–well. He’d been seized with the sudden desire to correct the bizarre misinformation they were spreading, spurred by the barest light of hope that had come onto Remus’ face when he spoke up. Sitting with him now, Amos stole a glance at Remus that was longer than it needed to be, wondering what it would take to make him smile again.

The way Amos explains it-- so matter of fact, so decent. The same say Pandora had asked do you have anything for the pain? As if it was something that should have occurred to him, as if he should have thought, all this time, that basic human decency was a thing he was owed. It’s shocking, in its own small way, the realization, all over again: the thought that Amos -- who doesn’t even know him, who’s never even had a conversation this long with him before today -- thought that standing up for him had been decent and not somehow the monumental thing Remus had believed it to be. 

He thinks Amos would listen, if he did. That’s the worst part. He thinks maybe Amos is the one person who would listen while he said all of this, and wasn’t that what his friends were meant to be for, all this time? Wasn’t that what Sirius had been supposed to do, what he’d wanted Sirius to do for weeks?

     ‘People don’t usually stand up for me like that, that’s all,’ he says, simply. It’s the easiest way to put it all into words without going into the immense baggage behind it all, without sitting here on the front step and pouring out his heart to Amos Diggory about the conversation they’d had when Lily and James had needed a Secret Keeper, or about any of the other things he had always thought about his curse and was beginning to question because of those simple words of Amos’ at the meeting.

A sea change, a reversal of what he’d thought he’d known his whole life, and the man who had caused them was acting like it had been nothing to write home about. Had no idea how profoundly he’d changed the way Remus thought, how much he’d been on Remus’ mind. 

     ‘I, er... supposed I don’t know as much about lycanthropy as I maybe ought to.’