Note: Thank you all for sticking with the story until the end – well, I say end. I think by the end of this you'll know that I'm terrible at ending things. Writing this was fun, and rewarding, and, at times, creepy (there were two days that I spent in the head of Walburga Black, and let me just say I hope it was worth it!).

If you read this far, I'd be happy to hear what you think – the good and the bad :)

They're Hiding Inside Me, part 8/8

It's been a long day. So much has happened that it should have been over at least three times already: First Regulus, then the telephone cell, then Andromeda in London, then Sirius's madcap expedition to Grimmauld Place. Then, during dinner, Professor McGonagall turns up unexpectedly for a long, serious discussion with James's parents (which the friends find themselves comically unable to eavesdrop on), and then somehow everyone scatters and does their own thing.

But there's still a bit left of the day, and Remus borrows James's owl and writes a note to his parents. It takes him a while, and it's still a fairly short note, because it'll have to be either that or a novel.

Dear Mum and Dad

You'll be happy to know that our poshest friend has managed to sort himself out to his satisfaction. I'm staying on for a couple of days to see if it holds.

He says thank you.

See you soon,

R.

There's a number of things he would like to add to the letter, but doesn't know how to word. Things like, I know we've had rotten luck in the past, but we seem to be doing okay, don't we? Things like, I've come to really appreciate the fact that you're not crazy. He'll have to find a way to tell them when he gets the chance. In writing, it sounds stupid.

Unbelievably, it's still bright and warm when he steps outside. As he watches the owl flutter off into the sunset, someone comes up behind him.

"Evening, Professor," he says, without turning around.

"You realise it's a bit disconcerting when you do that," says Minerva McGonagall, stepping into his field of view. Even on this stifling summer evening, she is still dressed in tartan robes that may have well been a royal ermine coat, with no hairpin out of place.

Seeing professors out of school is always a bit weird, Remus thinks. Like sighting an alien, or a celebrity. He resists the urge to ask her for a photo.

"Apologies, Professor," he says. "All sorted out, then?"

"Not much left," says McGonagall. "Your friend burned his bridges very thoroughly."

"Good for him," says Remus softly. He should have guessed that, even in the absence of a legal Armageddon, there is still an official side to this thing, involving school representatives and flustered Ministry officials and signatures here, here, and here.

McGonagall regards him for a moment. "Agreed," she says finally.

"A question, Professor?" he says.

She inclines her head regally.

"How did you know to come here? We were going to owl Professor Dumbledore," eventually, he thinks, "but we never got around to it."

"Mr and Mrs Potter, of course," says McGonagall, "and I know you didn't."

His objection to her slightly reproachful tone seems to show up on his face, because she adds, "Mr Black was very clear about his reasons to not involve the authorities. And I am sorry to say that, in the current political climate, I do not disagree with his assessment of the… volatility of the situation."

Remus studies her as intently as he dares without arousing suspicion. How much does she know? If his own father can identify the Imperius on a couple of wedding photographs, then surely Dumbledore or McGonagall will be able to. Do they even read Witch Weekly?

Her face gives nothing away.

"Well then, Mr Lupin," she says, "I must return to my work. I hope you are having a good summer regardless."

He nods. "And you."

Even the Crack when she Disapparates sounds dignified.

In some corner of his brain, he is curious what work is so important that McGonagall – a teacher - can't wait to return to it in the middle of her summer holidays. But figuring that one out will have to wait for another day, he decides, because it's the middle of his summer holidays, too, and the day has been long enough.

It's the music that draws him into the garden. Acoustic guitar and a soft, knowing, young voice, like nothing he's ever heard before. Certainly not from his friends. He's not even sure they know that guitars come in any other variant than electric and distorted.

He walks towards it, and there's Sirius, next to the dog roses, kneeling in front of his motorbike with a spanner and a vexed expression. He has the Potters' enchanted gramophone propped up on a chair, and a record is spinning. Next to it lies the Jammie Dodgers family pack, severely depleted by now.

"What has evil James done to you," Sirius mutters under his breath. "You poor, beautiful thing."

"Not the soundtrack I'd have chosen for motorcycle repair," says Remus.

"It's not The Stooges, no," says Sirius. "But I'm not repairing, am I? Repairing would imply I'd get somewhere. Eventually." His hands and forearms are black with motor oil.

"Who is that?" says Remus, gesturing to the spinning record.

"Nick Drake," says Sirius. "Album's called Pink Moon. Evans recommended it once when, according to her, I was moping."

Remus considers this from all sides. "And did she mean for you to stop moping by throwing yourself off the Astronomy Tower?"

Sirius gives him a tired smile. "It's not sad. It's thoughtful."

"It's hypnotic," tries Remus.

"He's dead."

Silence.

Remus considers walking away. He is getting the distinct impression Sirius is not in the mood for company, and really, no-one would be, he thinks, after spending every second in company for three days, being looked after like a child who couldn't be trusted not to poke a fork into the sockets.

But he decides, for once in his life, to be annoying, because Sirius is out here on his own and he's listening to acoustic guitar music played by dead young people who don't sound a day older than Sirius himself.

He sits down in the grass, watching Sirius, who is still glaring at the motorbike as if it might break down and tell him what's wrong.

"Minnie sorted you out good and proper, then?" Remus says.

"Not much left," he says. "She went and talked to my parents. Very brief conversation, she said. Hold these for me."

He deposits a number of screws and nuts in Remus's hand before carefully putting back a side panel.

"And?" says Remus.

"Well," says Sirius. "I'm disowned. Properly, officially disowned. Burned-off-the-tapestry disowned, like Andromeda was."

"Andromeda seems to be dealing just fine," says Remus carefully. Watching Sirius working with his hands is a wildly different sight than watching him do magic, but no less fascinating. There is so much concentration and care in every movement. So much forethought. With magic, it's as if he's always in the moment, always fighting.

"Right? It's gonna be great! But that's not even the best bit." He snaps his fingers and Remus hands him back the screws, one by one. "I also lost my designated plot in the Black mausoleum –"

"I suppose you will be able to live with that –"

"- and I'm banned from the Gringotts vault."

"Ouch," says Remus.

"Yep," says Sirius. "And here I am, with exactly two Sickles and nine Knuts in my trousers. But Minnie says Hogwarts has a fund for disadvantaged children. For school supplies and stuff. Can you believe that?"

"I definitely can," says Remus quietly.

"I told her I'd just leech off James," says Sirius offhandedly. And that is just so typical of rich kids, thinks Remus. Even when they hit financial rock bottom, they expect to fall softly. And the annoying thing is, they often do.

"Oh, and they've signed a thing that they're giving up custody, thank God," says Sirius, "so James's parents have agreed to step in for all official purposes, and you know them, they can't say no to me."

"Okay, I bet that doesn't sound as alarming to you as it does to me," says Remus. "Really, though, isn't it a bit gratuitous at this point? You're seventeen in a few months."

"See, I told Minnie as much," says Sirius, "but I have been informed that this is the twentieth century, and not even the Blacks can just leave their underage heir to starve on the streets, that's considered archaic for some reason. It was either the Potters or the Ministry."

"And are you happy with how it turned out?" says Remus carefully.

"Happy?" says Sirius. "Lupin, I'm over the moon." He catches his friend's expression and winks. "Figure of speech," he adds.

The truth is, Remus has seen him happier.

Sirius returns his full concentration to the motorbike, so Remus takes out the three special editions of Witch Weekly, because there's something he's been meaning to check.

Why has he never wondered how wizarding photographs work? Who are the tiny people waving in these pictures? And where do they go when they leave their frames?

Because, as expected, Sirius has left – has been made to leave? - all the photographs he was in. Bellatrix is left standing still in the middle of a frenzied ballroom, a terrifying smile on her face. Regulus is watching the fireworks on his own, his expression unreadable. And on the group photo, the gap left by Sirius has simply closed up, with Orion and Walburga Black trapping their younger son between them.

It is done, he realises. They have banished him, a clean, quick break, and you'd never notice the fault lines except if you knew where to look. Gone, too, is any evidence of the Imperius that could be picked up by people like Lyall Lupin or Albus Dumbledore. Clever Blacks.

Remus startles when Sirius throws first the spanner and then the screwdriver against the wall of the house, then retrieves both and continues to glower at the motorbike.

"What's wrong with it?" says Remus.

"Nothing," says Sirius. "I've replaced the spark plugs and reattached the petrol line and checked the wiring and everything is absolutely a hundred per cent where it's supposed to be. It just won't start."

He wipes his face, leaves a long dark streak of motor oil on his forehead.

"I thought it flew with magic," says Remus carefully. To be fair, he knows nothing about this motorcycle and very little about motorcycles in general.

"It flies with magic," says Sirius. "Everything else is Muggle technology. I was going to present it for my Muggle Studies end of year project, but James pointed out it's highly illegal to charm a Muggle artefact. Spoilsport."

Remus has always known that Sirius can be absolutely brilliant at times, but it's usually so hidden in the madness that he can't help but be amazed whenever the brilliance crops up.

Sirius sits back on his heels, pondering. For a while there's no sound but the music from the still-spinning record, that lonely guitar and the voice, so bright and so dark at the same time.

That music must really be getting to Remus, because he asks, "Something on your mind?"

"A number of things, yes," says Sirius thoughtfully. He looks at Remus, and his face betrays nothing. "Do you fancy guys, Moony?" he asks.

It's probably a fair question under the circumstances, but Remus hasn't expected him to bring this up so soon. Or at all. He is still scrambling for an answer when Sirius adds, "Sorry, guess I should have lead with that last night, huh?"

Remus laughs. "Yeah, well, we established timing's not your forte."

"So do you?"

Some rigid little habit inside Remus advocates strongly to keep this secret, because he is so used to keeping secrets, and admittedly also because Sirius knows most of them anyway, and it can be unsettling to be known so thoroughly. But then, Sirius has held his hand and kissed him on the mouth. It is not like he is going to run screeching into the woods.

Still. It's a surprisingly hard question to answer. "Little bit," Remus concedes after much deliberation.

"Little bit?" says Sirius. "How can you fancy guys a little bit?"

"It's not fancying guys," says Remus, scratching his head. If he absolutely has to explain this, it may as well be accurate. "It's not like I fantasise about Ludo Bagman changing out of his sweaty Quidditch robes or anything," he adds. "I don't really think about it."

Sirius laughs. "You've got to fancy something, Moony. So what is it? Guys? Girls? I don't know, books? Chocolate? Cups of tea? Biscuits? I'm not judging, mind."

"Let's not bring up biscuits in this context ever again," says Remus.

"You've got to have given this some thought," says Sirius, "you think about everything."

But it's true, Remus wants to argue. This is one of the few things in life he hasn't even attempted to over-analyse. Whatever it is that attracts him in other people seems to crop up in boys as often as it does in girls, and that's it.

Maybe it's to do with changing into a great big animal every month, he supposes: Next to that, subtler lines just blur. Others appear unexpectedly. Viewed purely from a point of attraction, he sees much less difference between Sirius and his stunning cousin Bellatrix than between Sirius and, say, Peter.

He'll be damned if he tells Sirius that, though. "It's just people," he says instead. "The grand majority of whom I don't fancy."

"Because they dog-ear library books and can't brew a good cuppa?"

"Oh, I don't know," says Remus lightly. "I do like a rebel sometimes."

And that, he thinks, is probably as bold as Remus J. Lupin is ever going to be. It has Sirius temporarily shut up, at least.

Remus takes a peak into the package of Jammie Dodgers to see if it's worth stealing one. There's two left, and he does. "How about you?" he says.

"How about me –" says Sirius. "You heard it all. Were you not paying attention?"

"I heard your mother," says Remus. "I wasn't going to take her word for it." He separates the two halves of the biscuit, then eats them separately, saving the jam part for last, like he's always done. Only now he feels self-conscious about it. Thanks, James.

"Probably for the best," says Sirius. He sighs. "I thought I had it figured out, you know, but – listen, Moony, have you ever –"

Remus gives it a few seconds, but even then, that sentence isn't any closer to completion. Sirius, meanwhile, is turning the spanner in his hands.

"Have I ever what?" Remus prompts.

"James I'd know instantly," says Sirius, eyes on the spanner and his hands, "because he is very fond of oversharing, but apparently he's saving himself for Evans and I don't see that happening any time soon, do you?"

"Not in a million years," says Remus, who is starting to get a glimpse of what this is about.

"Peter I'd be willing to guess no," says Sirius with a cruel smile. "But you. You are such a bloody puzzle sometimes. I really don't know what you're up to when we're not there to keep watch."

"Oh," says Remus. Yes, it's definitely that. "Oh. Sorry to disappoint, but the answer is, again, little bit."

"Oh, you have got to be pulling my leg," says Sirius incredulously. "How can you have had sex a little bit?"

Remus shrugs. "Okay, mostly no, if you're going to be technical about it."

"That's even worse," says Sirius.

"Sorry."

"Remus John Lupin," says Sirius. "It's a simple question. Have you, or have you not, been naked with another person?"

"I have not," says Remus, and Sirius grins with what seems to be some sort of embarrassed relief.

"Been naked," Remus clarifies after a moment.

"Good Lord," says Sirius. "… Why not?"

Remus shrugs. "Scars," he says.

Sirius sighs. "Sorry," he says, and that is perhaps the most surprising part of the day. But clearly he can't contain his curiosity for long, because he follows that up with, "Boy or girl?"

"Well…"

There's a whop and an undignified yelp from Remus as Sirius throws the last biscuit at his head. "I don't believe it!" Sirius says. "At the same time?"

Just for the confectionery attack, Remus delays his response for a few torturous seconds. "No," he admits finally.

"Well, that's a relief," says Sirius. "Still. How can I not know this?"

"Does it matter?" says Remus quietly, gathering his dignity while picking crumbs out of his hair.

"I don't know," say Sirius. "At the wedding, it felt like it should matter. Like it should matter a lot, actually, I mean –"

Sometimes Remus wishes he weren't quite such a quick thinker, because the horror of this thought unfolds with a swiftness that makes him nauseated. Day two, page twelve, he thinks. Disgraced heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black turns the heads of more than a few girls of Slytherin house while under the Imperius curse.

"Well, shit," he says. "Did you –" he starts, but no, that sounds wrong. "Did they –" he tries, but that's not much better, under the circumstances. "Did she –" and now that he's identified the culprit, he still can't bring himself to say it.

"It was just kissing behind the gazebo," says Sirius defensively. "Reggie crashed that party, remember?"

"Phew," says Remus, and then realises he's said it out loud.

"What?" Sirius adds. "Warm night, fireworks, and I suppose even a Slytherin girl can be quite charming outside her natural habitat. But I could see it, Moony. I could see where this was going, and it seemed inevitable, and I was all set to go along with it, if you catch my drift. What does this mean, Moony?"

"It means," says Remus, choosing his words very deliberately, "that I am going to drown your mother in a pond one of these days."

"Yeah, well, get in the queue," says Sirius darkly. "But seriously, what does it mean? I was fairly sure I was probably gay, and I was fine with it except it seemed to make some things needlessly complicated, but throw a girl at me and suddenly everything is easy. You're the clever one, Moony. Tell me."

"Well, first of all, she didn't throw a girl at you," says Remus. "She threw you at a girl."

"And a good time was had by all," says Sirius. "Impulse or Imperius?"

"A good time?" says Remus, and try as he might, he can't keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Sirius shrugs helplessly. "I don't know," he says. "It didn't feel like a bad time should feel."

"And do you usually have a good time around Slytherin girls?" asks Remus, feeling very, very out of his depth.

"How would I know?" says Sirius. "They usually call me blood traitor and I usually call them fat. That tends to nip romance in the bud, you know."

"That's very… mature, Sirius," says Remus. He feels he doesn't have the words for this, for any of this. Though his social worker mum probably does.

"That good time you had," he probes. "Was it still good when you found out?"

Sirius snorts. "I'm sure you love your mum, Moony," he says, "but would you want to find her hiding behind the curtains for your first kiss?"

"Hell no," says Remus quietly, as he watches Sirius's hand flies to his mouth, trying to choke back weird and unknown emotions he shouldn't even know. Sirius is not a crier, has never been. It's when he goes completely silent in the face of whatever darkness has him in its grip that they know it's all too much.

Pond, Remus thinks. Definitely a pond. Or a puddle. I'm not picky when it comes to drowning his mum. Because this isn't even his mum hiding between the curtains. This is his mum inviting herself along for the ride with a bold hand on the steering wheel for something that should have been special, and amazing, and private, oh god.

He looks at Sirius now, this confused miserable teen who kissed him on the mouth last night for reasons unknown, maybe for the sake of hanging on to scraps of an identity that lies crushed under the force of somebody else's will, maybe because he genuinely likes him that way. But now is not the moment to find that out, Remus tells himself. If they force this now, it could be both, or neither, but he's sure it will not last.

"Sirius," he says finally, if only because he has to say something. "It's the Imperius. People tend to discount it because it's not painful, and it doesn't kill you, but it's dark and it's damaging. It doesn't make you do things. It makes you want to do things, and maybe you wanted them anyway, but you can't know. And now even the things you want aren't yours anymore. And that makes it unforgivable."

"But how –"

"Time," says Remus gently.

Sirius looks as if he wants to protest, and god damn it, Remus wants him to. Already he has to channel that iron-strong, wolf-taming part of him, in order not to do the one easiest thing there is: To convince Sirius that one of his spurs of the moment is actually a really brilliant idea.

Sirius doesn't look at him, and his face is locked in that blank Noble and Most Ancient House of Black expression as he shifts his attention to the gramophone, which has stopped playing. He carefully turns the record before putting the needle on.

"But that's everything," says Sirius finally. "I mean it. Everything is just my family. I've fought them since I was tall enough to see through the windows of Grimmauld Place. Everything I have ever done, everything of importance, I did to spite them." He shakes his head. "Bloody hell, I'm pretty sure I only like pumpkin juice because my mother thinks it's too ordinary to have at the dinner table. And you know what? She's right. The stuff is revolting."

He stares at his oil-stained hands. "What now? Who do I fight?" he says. "What do I do now?"

He turns to Remus, and there is that utterly lost expression again. But this time Sirius doesn't kiss him. This time he is just lost.

"You find out where your family hides," says Remus. "And you're doing a bloody eviction. And then you stand back and think – really think – about where you want your life going. Not where you're running from. Where you're headed."

The smile on Sirius's face is unexpected. "Please," he says. "What sixteen-year-old does that?"

"I do," says Remus simply. "All the time."

The sun is dipping low now, shadows flowing together. They've already swallowed up the garden, where the apple trees are. Only the sky overhead is still glowing. Sirius reaches for his leather jacket that is draped carelessly over the motorbike's handlebar, extricates a depleted pack of Silk Cuts and a lighter from the pocket.

He sits, cross-legged, shakes out a cigarette, puts it into his mouth and ignites, taking a deep drag. With the first exhale, some of the tension in his body evaporates. He offers Remus one, too, and Remus accepts, leaning forward so Sirius can light it for him.

"Then let me get to the bottom of this," says Sirius.

"Of what?" asks Remus, inhaling the hot scratchy smoke. For him, smoking is certainly a less religious experience.

"You," says Sirius, and his brilliant eyes regard him through the smoke. "You and the wolf, I mean. You said you know what it's like, with the wolf an all. Sharing your head. Well?"

"I meant the situations were, in some aspects, comparable," says Remus.

"In the aspects that count, I hope," says Sirius, "or what's the point? So you want things -"

He has got to be doing this on purpose, thinks Remus, smoking like James Dean in Rebel without a cause, talking about wanting –

"And the wolf wants things, too, I suppose," continues Sirius, "so, how do you know? How do you tell?"

"The wolf just wants," says Remus, trying to look anywhere else. "It wants everything, all the time, and it wants it right now. Attention. A fight. Or, well, you know what." He tries very hard not to blush. "But he's easily distracted. Me, I just watch out for things that will stay."

"Like… a good book?" says Sirius. "A comfy cardigan that you patch three times?"

"Exactly," says Remus. It doesn't seem to be the sort of thing Sirius should understand right away, so it is a relief when he does.

"How does chocolate factor into this?" says Sirius.

"You can always buy more chocolate," says Remus defensively.

Sirius snorts. "Hypocrite," he says, but he says it fondly.

Remus lets him think it through, because all this seems very far removed from the way Sirius usually sees the world.

"Aren't you missing out on a whole lot of things?" says Sirius after a while. "I mean… the whole teenage boy experience. That's basically it. Attention. Fights. You-know-what."

He grins in a way that is probably outlawed in the American Bible Belt.

"If James's soul-destroying infatuation with Lily Evans and your ongoing hate affair with Severus Snape are exemplary of the teenage boy experience, maybe I don't want a part of it," says Remus.

"Oh, you are such a prefect," says Sirius, and Remus instantly regrets bringing up Snape at all, because Snape reliably brings out all the terrible traits in his friends. Ironically, it is a more long-lasting relationship than any of the four have ever known.

"It's not a hate affair," says Sirius. "Have you seen him staring at your mum at King's Cross? Probably trying to see if she's really chronically ill. You're the one who should be having a hate affair. He's all up in your business and you're being bloody polite to him -"

"I just don't believe riling him up will make him back off," says Remus mildly.

"He needs to learn you're untouchable," says Sirius.

"I'd prefer if he didn't learn anything."

Sirius laughs. "Trust me, the Slytherins will be unbearable after all this. Ignoring them doesn't work. You'd know if you partook in the whole teenage boy experience."

"As I said –"

"I know," says Sirius. "You want no part of it." He sighs, lets the smoke curl out of his mouth. "Is the point of all this that you're as broken as I am?"

Remus is surprised and a little offended. "That's not really a word I use for people."

"You think," says Sirius very deliberately, "you think, that just because something happens in the moment, that it doesn't mean anything."

"I never said –"

"You think it was just one of my wild ideas," says Sirius. "That I thought, hey, guess what will tick off my mum in the worst possible way? If just lean into the next available guy and kiss him on the mouth. That'll show her to put an Imperius on me."

"And did that thought not go through your head?" asks Remus carefully.

"Of course it did, Moony," says Sirius, a bit desperate now, "I think a million different things every day, but that's beside the point. The point is, do you think I've gone and ruined it?"

"Ruined what?" says Remus.

"You tell me," says Sirius. "What did I ruin? Was there ever anything? I've been agonising about this for months, but I never thought to just ask. Do you even want this? With me?"

It's a bit much to take in at once, thinks Remus, so he holds on to the first fact that grabs his attention. "Months?"

Sirius wrings his beautiful hands. "Could you focus on the question, please?" he says, and Remus does, and then his breath catches in his throat, and then he realises, somewhat belatedly, that his throat is full of toxic smoke, and he's coughing.

"You complete and utter prefect," says Sirius.

Maybe it's just to wipe that amused look off Sirius's face, but Remus takes a deep breath and says, "Yes."

It definitely works. "What?" says Sirius.

"Yes," says Remus again. "I want this. With you. Not with any demons you might bring."

Sirius is not immediately rejoicing, he notes. Instead, he narrows his eyes. "Oh, you have plenty of –"

"But they're not part of this," says Remus. "Seriously. I mean it. Take your time. Find out if I'm pumpkin juice or, or -"

"Firewhiskey?" suggests Sirius.

Remus winces. "That's not much better."

"All right," says Sirius.

"What?"

"I'll take my time," says Sirius. "I'll think it through." He stubs out the dog-end in the grass, then takes care to bury it in the dog-roses so Mrs Potter won't find it. "Bear in mind I'm not used to doing that, so I'll probably botch it, but, well," he adds. "At least you'll get a good laugh out of it." He grins. "Or a good snog. Hope springs eternal."

"Oh god," says Remus. "Should I be scared?"

"Course not," says Sirius. "Everything's going to be peachy. Just you wait."

Neither of them is saying anything for a while. It is getting dark now, and Sirius lies back to stare at the sky, at the beautiful star-flecked indigo above. He still has the spanner in his hand, and Remus recognises the movements. Swish and flick, swish and flick. The first spell they ever learned. Small and precise and powerful.

"I reckon you'll want it back," says Remus, reaching for Sirius's wand that he still has in his pocket.

Sirius hesitates, then shakes his head. "Think you should keep it a little while longer," he says carefully.

Still?

"You just want us to tie you to the bed again tonight, do you," says Remus, and Sirius laughs.

"How did you even figure it out?" says Remus. "How did you know Regulus stole your wand? It was a very sneaky operation, after all."

"I threw all these ugly figurines, didn't I?" says Sirius. "I know when my wand is in my hands, even if it is temporarily Transfigured to look like a hag's dildo." He absent-mindedly turns the spanner in his hands again.

"Why didn't you say anything?" says Remus.

Sirius doesn't say anything for a long while. Just when Remus considers repeating the question, he says, softly, "I know what it did."

"Oh."

"What it let her do," says Sirius. "To me."

"Yes," says Remus. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," says Sirius. "I'm sure I'll forgive it soon."

Suddenly, inconceivably, he smiles. "I never said, didn't I? Thank you. Thanks for looking out for me. Even against, you know, your own best interests."

"Always," breathes Remus, but that is lie, there is a bit of that lie in everything he has said: Because in the grand scheme of things, the answer is closer to never. Because he'll fold before the time comes. Because Sirius will always have demons. So will Remus.

"We all did," he says. "We all looked out for you. James, Peter, me. And," he pauses, "Regulus, I suppose."

Sirius is silent at that, but his eyes flicker, as they sometimes to, to a familiar constellation in the sky, or at least, to where it would be now. This time of summer, Leo is already descending when sun sets.

"Regulus is a good boy," says Remus softly. "You know he is."

"First day of summer, I –" Sirius stops himself. He stares down that piece of sky, as if braving himself to say something.

"I can keep a secret," Remus reminds him. "It's basically my best thing."

Sirius closes his eyes against the sky, against Leo, against the star hiding behind the sunset. "I found a Death Eater mask in his room," he says.

There's nothing Remus can say to that except, "Well, shit."

"With a note from Bella," says Sirius. "Try it on for size. This is the sort of people I left him alone with, Moony."

"God," says Remus softly. He can't really think of anything better to say, so he takes Sirius's hand, motor oil be damned. He entwines their fingers and holds it tightly, and Sirius lets him, his eyes back on the sky. Looking for something.

"Remember when I was Sorted?" says Sirius, out of the blue.

Remus is not sure what prompted this jump in the conversation, but he's willing to go along with it. They'll probably get back to Regulus, anyway.

"I don't think anyone who was there will ever forget," he says. "It was pure agony."

Sirius gives him a tiny, almost embarrassed, smile. "So, not just me, then?"

"Seriously, you never asked yourself that?" Remus can't help but lightly punch his friend. "I was stuck, middle of the queue, worried sick that the Hat would just give up on me. That it would Sort me into the Forbidden Forest or something," he says. "And there's that posh brat right at the beginning of the alphabet taking twenty-three minutes to decide on a house. I hated you a lot that day."

"You and everyone else," says Sirius. "I was heaving quite the heated argument with the Hat. Couldn't persuade, blackmail, or otherwise convince it to put me into Slytherin."

"Odd," says Remus. "You shouldn't have had any trouble, you were a right little Pureblood wanker in those days. I'm sure you put up one hell of an argument."

"Course I did," says Sirius. "I wasn't suicidal."

Eleven year old Remus, of course, hadn't understood the politics of the situation, but even he had picked up on the chilly silence in the Great Hall after the Hat had finally decided to put the heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black into "Gryffindor", and Sirius Black had slammed it down on the stool and shouted "Fine!", stalked past a table full of shell-shocked Slytherins to a table full of equally shell-shocked Gryffindors, sat down, and crossed his arms.

"Is it true, then?" says Remus. "That you camped out in front of Dumbledore's office, trying to get him to re-Sort you?"

Sirius gives him a look. "Well, for some reason, my new dorm-mates didn't make me feel immediately welcome –"

"You expected the house-elves to dress you and called everyone the M-word!" exclaims Remus.

"- so yeah, I went to Dumbledore," says Sirius. "He was being his usual pompous self, though, said the Hat's decision was a magically binding thingy and he couldn't take it back. And to tell my mother to stop writing him letters."

"Like that was going to happen."

"So I accepted my lot," says Sirius. "Made friends with you tossers. And then I went home for Christmas, expecting the whole thing to have blown over by then, but as it turned out, they'd just been stewing since the Sorting. Not my best Christmas."

Sirius pauses, but Remus can see there's a story that wants out, so he just gives him an encouraging look.

"Day after I came back from the Christmas holidays, I went back to see Dumbledore," says Sirius finally. "I asked him whether I could talk to the Sorting Hat again, and he let me."

"Still trying to change its mind?" asks Remus. He is surprised. He hasn't thought of the Sorting Hat at something that even exists between Sortings, or something that you could talk to more than once in your lifetime, or something that would ever admit to a mistake.

"Not the point," says Sirius. "I didn't want to get into bloody Slytherin anymore, I just – I wanted to tell the Hat. That damn Sorting Hat affects so many lives, and it takes so little time, and I wanted to tell it, because I thought it needed to know."

"Tell it what?"

"The fallout," says Sirius very, very softly. "It said it saw bravery in me. I told it what bravery looks like when it lies sobbing on the floor of Grimmauld Place. I told it that if it put my little brother anywhere but Slytherin the next year, I would personally come and set it on fire."

Remus looks at the oil-stained hand he's holding, and for lack of anything helpful to say, he squeezes it – it's over, he thinks, twelve-year-old Sirius is no more and he was braver than any twelve-year-old should have needed to be.

"What did the Hat say?"

"That I was not going to be twelve forever, but I would be a Gryffindor for the rest of my life."

It's probably extraordinarily insightful, coming from a hat, but Remus remembers twelve-year-old Sirius and knows he wouldn't have appreciated the subtlety.

"It also pointed out that it was, you know, a hat, and a thousand years at that," adds Sirius, "and that it would sort Regulus anywhere it thought fit, so I used Incendio but I sort of forgot that Dumbledore was right there."

"You set his priceless artefact on fire," says Remus flatly.

"We had surprisingly little to say to each other afterwards," says Sirius with a shrug. His fingers move slowly in in Remus's hand, tracing their edges, groves, the pulse point.

"And then the Hat went and sorted Regulus into Slytherin anyway," says Remus.

"Yeah."

Remus remembers that day, too. Mostly because of Sirius, who'd had a look of intense concentration on his face, attempting some sort of weird, wandless Legilimency on the Sorting Hat. After four agonising minutes, when the Hat had finally declared him a Slytherin, Regulus hadn't looked for any of his numerous family members in Slytherin. Instead he'd found the eyes of Sirius, who'd breathed a sigh of relief and gave his brother the thumbs-up under the table.

"That fucking Hat," says Sirius. "Why'd it listen to me?"

"It's not the Hat's fault," says Remus. "It's not your fault, either," he points out.

"I should have chosen a path he could follow," says Sirius. "Instead I told him he wasn't brave enough to follow me. I told him to stay where it's safe." He looks up. "Now I'm safe, and he's with people who'll eat his soul."

There is a long, silent moment, and the record spins to an end. Sirius still has Remus's hand in his own, and now he takes it, presses it against his lips, a distracted gesture of affection.

"I'm not okay," Sirius says finally.

Remus squeezes his hand again. "I know."

Sirius sits up, looks at their entwined hands for a moment as if he doesn't understand how they ever got there, and then looks at Remus. "I'm sorry, Moony," he says, gently reclaiming his hand. "I just need to not think for a little while."

Next thing Remus knows, Sirius flips off reality by transforming into a huge shaggy black dog, and that is still new enough to be pretty damn cool. The dog stares Remus down with intense, bright eyes, and gives a small whine.

Remus reaches around in the grass until his fingers feel the remnants of the Jammie Dodger Sirius has thrown at him. The dog swallows it in two bites, then licks Remus's fingers and wags his tail.

"Hello, Padfoot," says Remus. "Long time no see."

It's not true, of course it's not true, Remus realises. It's just that Sirius sometimes gets important things wrong when he's sad, or agitated, or thinking too many things at once. He misses things in the clutter. But here is the truth: Not everything Sirius has done his life has been because of his parents.

The proof is right in front of him. Padfoot exists because of him. Because of Remus. Sometimes, Remus still can't quite grasp how much he is loved, or understand why.

Padfoot whines for attention, lays his head on Remus's knee, and out of reflex, Remus scratches his ears. "We've missed something, haven't we," he says to Padfoot, who huffs and ignores him.

He's sure of it, they've all missed something in the clutter of the last three days. It's just that Sirius thinks too much at once, and Remus rarely gets a chance to think, but now he has one.

So he thinks. He sorts through the clutter.

Hand curling up in Padfoot's dense fur, Remus thinks of the bad things. Learning about the Unforgivable – a dark and terrible thing on its own, and yet, only the final shove down the rabbit hole. Learning that the adults around them are just as overwhelmed as they are. Learning that, growing up, they may not become more rational, more capable, more compassionate – instead they, too, may get tangled up in this Socratian paradox. Worse, they may accept it as just the way things are.

And he thinks of the good things, the new things: Sirius is free, and he will never walk the gloomy halls of Grimmauld Place again. And he has the best damn friends a boy could wish for. And - Remus is careful with this one, because this thing is so new, and so small, and so vulnerable, and already it has his heart in such a tight grip – Sirius likes him. Likes Remus. Like that. If this small thing survives the post-Imperius rearrangement of Sirius's mind, that is.

And he thinks of the things in limbo, the things they can't quite know, because here is where it's hidden, that thing they've missed. He's still not seeing it, he just hopes.

And he hopes, and he hopes: That Snape will back off this year. That Regulus will realise he is the good person they all suspect him to be, and that he can't be a Death Eater at the same time. That Sirius will be able look inside himself and find peace. That the war that is coming will spare them, Sirius and James and Peter.

Because they're untouchable.

The end.