Chapter Nine: The Wounded Air Roared In

Chapter Nine: The Wounded Air Roared In

"...walking in the dark and the wind over broken earth

walking with you but so far from you...."

-Denise Levertov, From the Roof

For a moment, all Remus can do is look helplessly at Sirius.

The smothering guilt in his face is too close to the depths that Remus himself has been drowning in recently, and he isn't sure if the ache in his chest is caused by Sirius's pain or by his own. It would be far too easy for them to both get lost in sorrow and fury. Remus understands Sirius's apparent desire to die for the sake of vengeance. He understands it a bit too well for his own comfort. Both he and Sirius tend towards despair, though Remus has always been more controlled out of sheer necessity.

Now, there is no James to animate Cockroach Clusters and throw them at Sirius until he breaks down and starts fighting back. There is no Peter to quietly offer some sly piece of humour aptly timed to break a dark mood. There is no balance left. There are only Remus and Sirius and the combined weight of their guilt and grief, which will drag them both under if they let it.

Remus is tired of everything crumbling apart around him. He is resolved to salvage what he can from the ashes of everything they used to be. The quiet rage that seems to have settled into his bones since James's and Lily's deaths have drawn him down to a fine, sharp focus that clarifies thought and action. His next words are chosen deliberately.

"Don't be stupid, Sirius," he says sharply.

Sirius's head comes up as though he had been slapped. His eyes are hot with wounded resentment.

"Are you a Death Eater, Sirius? Did you betray Lily and James to Voldemort?" Remus keeps his voice hard and demanding.

"No!"

"Did you know that Peter was a Death Eater?" Remus asks implacably.

"I should have –"

"Answer the question."

"No," Sirius says, almost sullenly. He seems to have become suddenly fascinated by his shoes.

"Why did you switch Secret Keepers?" Remus pushes.

"Iwastryingtoprotectthem," Sirius tells his shoes.

"What?" Remus asks pleasantly. Sirius, he knows, can hear the steel in his voice. "I'm sorry, I couldn't hear you."

"I was trying to protect them!" Sirius half-shouts, glaring furiously at Remus. He closes his eyes, despair washing back over his face like a breaking wave.

"I was trying to protect them," he says again, "and it's my fault, Moony, it's all my fault!"

He's crying now, fighting the tears back even as they start to fall, repressed sobs wrenching at his shoulders as his hands come up to cover his face. Remus has seen Sirius cry once before, from sheer, frustrated rage that had nothing in common with these tears. Sirius is curved around himself as though he is afraid that he will shatter, back bent with the weight of his misery, and Remus feels helpless in the face it.

"I'm sorry," Sirius says, "I'm so sorry."

Remus reaches for him, because he cannot do anything else. Sirius folds into his arms, his hands wrapping themselves in Remus's shirt and clinging desperately, his body shuddering finally into the tears he has been fighting off for too long.

"It's all right," Remus murmurs uselessly into his hair. "It's all right, Pads."

***

It isn't long before the comfort becomes unbearable.

"Sorry," Sirius mutters dully, pulling away. Remus's arms tighten around him so briefly that Sirius is certain he imagined it; then he lets go, and Sirius straightens, wiping at his face.

"Your shirt will never be the same again," Sirius says, trying for some semblance of normalcy.

"It'll wash," Remus says.

Sirius hopes that he doesn't look as broken as he feels. He wants nothing more than to curl back up in Remus's arms and hide until everything is somehow miraculously better again. He wants someone to fix everything, and no one will ever fix anything for him ever again.

Remus is looking at him, wearing the same calm, unshakeable expression that Sirius has been clinging to like a lifeline all afternoon.

"It will be all right, Sirius," Remus says. "It will never be the same, but it will be all right."

In the pale light from the sconces, his eyes have taken on the peculiar amber tint that always makes Sirius think of trapped secrets. His face is solemn; he looks both old and young at the same time and terribly knowing.

Remus probably knows better than anyone the secrets of making things be all right – or at least tolerable – even after they have been broken beyond repair. He can probably tell Sirius all sorts of ways to lighten the crushing grief that rides along his neck and shoulders, to ease the guilt. Still, for a long moment, the only thing Sirius can think of is how very much he would like to kiss Remus until neither of them needs that knowledge any longer.

"We'll catch Peter," Remus continues. The guilt comes crashing down on Sirius all over again with the force of a house collapsing. "He can't hide forever, not from us, and then we'll turn him over to Shacklebolt and clear your name."

"I don't care about my name," Sirius says.

"What about mine?" Remus asks sharply, the anger resurfacing in his face. "You said yourself that the Aurors will be after me, too. The only way they won't hunt me down is if we prove you innocent."

"You could go home right now," Sirius counters, though he knows Remus will never agree to go. He himself is torn between blind fury at being outmanoeuvred and a near-overwhelming sense of relief that he is no longer alone.

"And do what? Sit on my hands in my flat while you get yourself killed? Never happen, Pads," Remus says, each syllable as hard as his eyes. The look on his face is a warning, but Sirius has never been any good at being warned.

"It's better than having you die right along with me!"

"Why are you so determined to self-immolate?" Remus demands savagely. "If you feel so fucking guilty, Sirius, try living with the consequences."

Sirius opens his mouth to speak, but Remus rolls right over him, his rage nearly palpable in the still air between them.

"Have you thought about anything at all but your own misery?" Remus demands. "You have responsibilities. Have you thought about Harry? He's living with Lily's cow of a sister! Do you really think that's what Lily and James would have wanted for their son? Is that what you want for your godson?"

"I killed his parents! I don't get to decide what happens to him!"

"Voldemort killed them!" Remus snarls. "You self-centred, arrogant bastard! This isn't your personal tragedy!!"

Sirius has never seen him this angry. It is more than a little frightening. The wards are flaring wildly along Sirius's nerves, screaming warning, warning, warning, and it requires an almost physical effort to keep the house's defences from activating.

In the sudden silence that descends, he can hear his own ragged breathing keeping time with Remus's.

"All right," Sirius says, looking away. "All right. You can stay. I'm sorry, all right?" He forces himself to look up again, to meet Remus's furious, injured gaze.

"I'm sorry," he says again. It occurs to him that he has apologised more frequently in the past hour than he has in the past five years. "It's just – I thought it was you, Remus. I thought I'd lost you, I thought you were the traitor, and it nearly killed me. And then you weren't, but James was dead and Peter was gone, and you were the only thing I hadn't ruined. I can't lose you, too. I can't. I'd rather you hate me than have you die."

"I'm not going anywhere," Remus says forcefully. His eyes are still angry, but the wards have calmed. "I'm not going to die, I'm not going back to London, and I certainly don't hate you. You are an absolute idiot, Padfoot. I'm more than capable of making my own decisions, and I have as much right to vengeance as you do."

"Well, thank Merlin that at least one of you has something approaching a brain."

The drawling, sarcastic voice nearly makes Remus jump out of his skin, one hand reaching for his wand with war-trained reflexes. Sirius, who is becoming accustomed to Phineas Nigellus' sarcastic entrances, fights back the urge to answer the portrait with a well-aimed Incendio.

Instead, he gives his painted ancestor the best sneer he can muster.

"What do you want?" he asks, knowing that he sounds ungracious, but unable to bring himself to care. He's more than a little glad to have someone that he can snap at without consequence. Remus frowns slightly at him in reproach.

Phineas Nigellus returns his sneer with interest.

"I see that manners are yet another thing that your mother failed to teach you," he says

"I'm as well-mannered as anyone else in this cursed family," Sirius growls. "I just have differing ideas as to who deserves civility."

"A Black through and through," Phineas says. Sirius isn't certain which is worse; the man's sarcasm or the hint of approval in his voice. As for the reason I'm here – Bagnold is in talks with le Ministre. She's trying to get him to let the Dementors cross the Channel."

"Into France?" Remus asks. Sirius can hear the dismay in his voice. "Why?"

"Because of you," Phineas tells him bluntly. "That lovely Registry tattoo of yours was charmed to set off all sorts of alarms in the Ministry as soon as you crossed the border. Crouch apparently added a Tracking Charm as well, so you'll need to deal with that before you go anywhere."

"Wait," Sirius interrupts. "If they have a Tracking Charm on Remus, why are they talking to the French Minister? He went off the map here, in Cologne."

"This house is still registered in Pollux's name," Phineas says impatiently. "Walburga let it slide, most likely to avoid paying taxes on it. It's not on the Ministry's master list of Black Family property. The house in Alsace-Lorraine is. Crouch has got Bagnold convinced that Lupin here slipped over the border to meet you, and she is currently convincing Ministre Girard in turn.

"It gives you some time, but not much. Once they think to check the property list at Gringotts, they'll know where you are -- and they'll be coming for you."

***

Author's Notes: As always, a big thank you to my wonderful beta readers -- particularly konishi_zen, who saved this chapter on no less than two separate occasions. Title borrowed without permission from Czeslaw Milosz's Child of Europe.

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