Where are we? Remus Lupin thought to himself as he blinked sleepily, rubbing the heel of his palm over tired eyes. Wherever it was, it was dark. He was also alone. What the hell?

He sat up, holding his head until the aches dulled and he could feel the blood shift back to its normal places. It took only a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark. It had always taken only a moment. He could smell rain, earth and wet dog—wet dog? That was Sirius' smell. Almost instinctively he reached a hand over to what had always been his lover's place. The space was warm, as if a body had just left it.

Remus' heart skipped a beat.

Wanting—no needing to see, he stumbled through the room and yanked open the heavy drapes. Sunlight streamed through the window, lighting the dust that floated through the air. It had been displaced during his dash to the window, and was only now settling back into the carpet.

Remus had always been intrigued by this carpet. Sirius had picked it up from somewhere or other and had brought it home, saying they needed a nice reading rug, and this would be perfect. It was the one thing of theirs that he'd kept, even all these years.

The patterns were odd, they'd tickled something in his memory and it had bothered him for months before he'd found the reason. It was in an old Muggle textbook he'd taken from the nearest library.

He had placed it on the table in front of an eating Sirius, and pointed to a picture on the page opened.

"See there? That's what's on that rug of yours." His voice was a bit triumphant.

"Circles in dirt?" Sirius had asked, rather unhelpfully. He'd looked up then, and smiled at what must have been a very disheveled-looking Remus. "Moony, love, you need a bath."

"The books were dusty." He'd said simply, brushing a hand over his fringe in a half-hearted attempt to tame it. "But look Pads, look." And Sirius had obliged him with a crooked smile.

"Crop circles," He'd read aloud. "A phenomenon that has never been fully explained, though some cases report the possibility of vandalism, such as this example from a farm in Dover." He couldn't read anymore, he was laughing too hard. "I used to make these. James and I, we'd go out to some bloke's farm over summer hols and stamp the hay and howl." He'd looked back at the lanky lad standing over him. "Never knew we'd made designs out of it. You really do need a bath. You smell like books."

And despite Remus' loud protestations, he'd been carted upstairs and given just that. Though to be fair, it hadn't gotten rid of the book smell.

A shiver ran down his naked back, despite the relative warmth of the room. Countless nights had been spent sprawled across this very rug, tracing the designs with his finger as he tried desperately to understand why.

Whether or not he believed in crop circles, their likenesses gave him no answers.

He turned rather sharply to close the curtains, but another wave of dizziness hit him and he sank to his knees into the plush carpet. For long moments the room spun wildly, seemingly in time with the pain he could feel everywhere. Last night had not been easy.

He ached in places he didn't normally ache, even on the day after the full moon. Muscles he didn't think he used to change were sore and stiff. If for no other reason than to try and find a focal point for his wavering mind, Remus tried to remember what had happened.

Even in his delusional state he could remember some things, flashes of color or a particularly strong scent or taste. Pack. He remembered Pack. But this couldn't be right. His pack had been disassembled long ago, ravished by war and betrayal.

But try as he might, he couldn't. Images of running free, fenced in by white teeth and black fur were all he could conjure beyond the feeling of Pack.

Remus m'lad, you have finally gone completely mental. He thought to himself, and this realization seemed to make things resettle. The walls didn't swirl and the floor stayed firmly under him. Time to get up then and start the day.

Shuffling feet made a funny sound going down the hall at this time of day. And as Remus glanced out the window he judged it to be late afternoon. It was early August, and the air was hazy.

His kitchen wasn't much better. For some reason the air was stuffier in this part of his house. Not that it was much better in the other rooms, but there was enough to notice a difference. It was also darker than he'd like, the only light coming from the small window above the sink, and the sun was in the wrong place for that be of much help.

He knew some hot tea would do his body good, but he couldn't bring himself to stoke the fire and heat the room further. He knelt and looked in the old icebox that served as his refrigerator.

Pint of milk, bit of shaved ham, some lemons and—iced tea? Remus sat back on his heels and thought hard. He hadn't made any iced tea. At least, he didn't think he'd made any.

A moment's thought yielded nothing, and remembering his previous conclusion as to his relative sanity, he shrugged and grabbed the pitcher.

There was a sparse enough selection of dishes in his cupboards, but there was a small cup—dusty but usable.

After a few shaky attempts at pouring the tea, and a rather comical fight with the dishrag he used to try and clean up the mess he'd made, Remus sat at his kitchen table, tea in hand and a spread of parchment around him.

He sipped the tea as he leafed through some of the pages: lesson plans for the upcoming autumn term. He was glad indeed of the job, though he was worried. Dumbledore trusted him, but there were others, Snape not the least of them, who didn't. Remus had never been good at confrontation. It had always been his friends who'd done the standing up for him.

Skimming down the segment of his chosen textbook for the third years, Remus wondered vaguely where he'd come up with a boggart. He glanced up to find his glass in the mess of papers, when he saw something that made his blood freeze. A pair of very familiar gray eyes stared at him from a shadowy corner of the room. Not for the first time, Remus thought it'd be best to invest in electricity instead of relying on these candles—conveniently forgetting his distaste for bright light. He rubbed his eyes.

The eyes were gone.

This can't be happening.

That was Remus' only thought as he rose from the table, knocking his chair over in the process. Long fingers raked through his mousy tousled hair as he dug around for his shoes and a shirt, pulled them on, and left the house—he had to get out of here. As he turned and locked the door, the large tawny post owl fluttered down, his copy of The Daily Prophet in its beak.

"Just leave it on the table." Remus instructed distractedly, waving his hand in that general direction. "Seeds are there." He said, opened the door to let the owl fly past him, and then closed it again, clicking the lock as he did so. This is good. He thought to himself. Never a better cure for madness than a bit of sun, air and good Muggle curry.

As he walked down the street, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark trousers, Remus J. Lupin began to think the entire world had gone mad. Everywhere he went people seemed nervous, some nearly panicking. Everyone stood in clumps, some seeming to read something, others talking in hushed voices, some gathered in front of shop windows where the Muggle news came through stacks of televisions.

It was so odd to see no children out on such a nice day.

Remus craned his neck to try and see what all this fuss was about, but he couldn't quite make it out, and the one time he asked, the old man only gaped at him and said "Why, don't you know?" before looking over his shoulder and skittering away as quickly as possible. Frustrated and more confused than when he'd left, he rounded a corner and made his way up the hill that would take him back to his house. Curry be damned.

The old alley took him up the hill and alongside an old rail yard. He was seeing shadows take shape everywhere as he trudged through the rapidly dimming light. The sky seemed to realize that it was cruel to be so bright when the mood was so drear, and clouds rolled in, turning the evening grey. He passed a coal car bearing a rather large advertisement for "Suzie's Super Sewing Machines" and swore he saw a big dog lying beneath it. But blink and it was gone.

The whole trip home was like that, made worse by the fact that it had started to pour—again. Remus was convinced that England was vying to be the next Atlantis, another gem to add to her bloody crown. He fished the key out of his pocket, turned the lock and stepped inside.

His shirt—now soaked through—was tossed haphazardly on the back of his small sofa as he stormed up the stairs. His temper was frayed by his apparent insanity, worn down by thirteen years of seeing ghosts around corners. Today had been bad. He'd never seen so many ghosts in one day. Remus had always known he'd go insane eventually, if not from the mad antics of his friends, then from the strain of being a werewolf. In later years he reasoned it would be from the stress of the war. Now he knew why he'd gone mad, and it wasn't from any of these things, though doubtless they'd contributed to tipping the scales.

It was losing Sirius that had done it.

He'd lost him in a way that was worse than death. Sirius was gone, fully, completely and totally. And worse, there wasn't any proof that he'd ever actually been. The Sirius he knew and loved never would have betrayed his best mate, but that's just what he'd done. It made everything Remus had come to believe in seem like a lie.

But then he'd remember the warm and gentle hands on his own cold skin, the brilliant smile, the eyes that would stare at him lovingly when Sirius thought he wasn't looking. That was real, wasn't it?

Remus growled loudly as he gripped the sides of his head, knowing these thoughts very well, and also knowing they'd get him nowhere. It was funny, but most of the time he didn't feel like a madman; he felt totally in control and quite clear-headed. That was the odd thing.

He stormed down the hall, glancing up at the walls as he went. There were oily marks there, on the places where once had hung pictures of him, of Sirius, of the four Marauders, of him and Sirius together. The memories had become too painful in the first years following the Potters' death and Sirius' imprisonment, and Remus had taken them down. He'd always meant to burn them, or at the very least to shred them and throw them away.

He couldn't bring himself to do it.

There was a certain insensitivity to this still life he led, and somehow the photographs, even tucked away in their snug little boxes made it a little easier, lifted the loneliness just enough for it to be bearable.

There, up at the end of the hallway, a flash of lightning illuminated a large and furry shape, and Remus held his breath, but by the time he reached the door to his room, there was nothing there. There was, to his surprise, the sound of panting behind him. Remus whipped around, but there was nothing besides an old end table.

He'd never heard ghosts before either. At least not while awake.

This made Remus furious. He was sane goddammit! Moving quickly, he tore open the door to the spare room across the hall, tossing things aside and looking in every conceivable nook and cranny.

Nothing.

On to the boxroom Remus had turned into a workspace, and then he tore through the little bathroom and the entire downstairs. It was like a twisted game of hide and seek.

"Sirius! I know you're here. Damn you, come out! I'm not mad! I'm not bloody mad!" His shouts shook the small house, as did his exploits. His breath was raw and ragged, coming in short gasps as he flew up the stairs to tackle the last remaining refuge—his bedroom. His fingers curled around the cold knob, and he froze for a second, afraid as well as hopeful of what he might find on the other side of that door. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and flung open the door just as another flash of lightning lit the room.

Nothing.

"I'm not mad." Remus repeated softly to himself as he steeled his nerves and began to search through what little hiding space there was in his room.

Nothing.

How could Sirius be here? He was locked and guarded in Azkaban. No one escaped from Azkaban. Remus wasn't entirely sure whether to be sad or happy about that fact. Exhausted, he flopped belly first onto his bed. It was small, the mattress was lumpy and the sheets were old and rough, but it was familiar. His hand went to the side where Sirius would have slept had he ever slept in this bed. The space was cool now, but if Remus pressed his face into the linens, he could still feel the scent that was so Sirius invading his mind and making him rather deliriously happy.

He was still tired from his change the night before, and added onto that the stresses of the day, it was quite understandable that he fell asleep right there, shoes and trousers still on and soaking wet.

He dreamed the same dream he'd had for the past thirteen years now. It wasn't even really a dream, just an unconscious re-visiting of a painful memory.

Remus was at the door, all of the things he could say were truly his—which was not much—were packed in one banged up trunk. He had thought to leave quietly, wait until morning and then send an owl with an explanation. He knew if he was confronted by Sirius in person that he'd never have the backbone to leave. Remus never had been good at confrontations.

Unfortunately for him, Sirius had picked that night to come home earlier than expected. He pulled open the door right as Remus was digging for his key to leave in the letterbox. Sirius' face broke out in a broad grin, which quickly turned into a scowl as he took in Remus' appearance and what he was towing.

"Going somewhere?" He fairly growled, knowing full well this wasn't an Order mission.

This question led to a long and exhausting argument, one which had been mercifully dulled and blurred by time. Remus had the vague feeling that he had said some things he regretted later. The next thing he saw coherently was Sirius, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. He was pale and his eyes showed pain and desperation, like an animal caught in a trap. Remus wanted so badly to drop what he carried, take Sirius into his arms, and kiss him until that look went away.

He almost did just that.

Almost.

"Now I suppose you're going to say you meant well, lying to me and hiding." Sirius said sadly. Remus opened his mouth, halfway through a nod, but Sirius cut him off. "Of course you did."

"But Sirius, this is really for the best." Remus tried to say, but Sirius cut out quickly. "Of course it is."

"Sirius, this is for the best—"

"You decided this."

"What?" Remus was caught off guard.

"This, the whole thing. It's stupid and I hate it. But it's your choice. Know that if you walk out that door, you'd better never come back."

And with that, Sirius had left, trudging up the stairs to their room. Remus stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, as sort of a parting jab, he called up. "I'm leaving."

From the upstairs bedroom came a muffled. "I don't care."

The sad part, Remus thought to himself on the damp walk to the station, is that it's true. Sirius Black could have any man or woman he desired.

But thankfully here was where the dream typically ended, melding into blessed nothingness. But this time it faded into something else.

There were warm fingers stroking cold, damp skin. The touch was hesitant at first, as if the owner of the fingers was afraid to break the one he touched, but after what seemed like hours, he grew more certain and his caresses reflected that. Soon strong hands were turning Remus over gently, so that he was lying on his back. One hand stayed there, serving to hold him close as the other body clambered down with him. The other hand was stroking Remus' chest, fingers following the pattern of scars and touching almost reverently the bruises from the night before.

"Moony-love, what's wrong? You were shaking." That voice was totally and completely familiar, and it made Remus' heart skip a beat. It was unmistakably Sirius' voice, but it wasn't the voice he dreamed of often. No, this was a new touch, and his voice was older, deeper, somehow more sad and more afraid.

Remus decided that he liked this dream.

"Mmmfine. Well, am now." Remus corrected. He tried to peer through the dream fog and get a better look, but his mind wasn't able to conjure an older Sirius, and so all he got was a dim-outline, "What're you doing here?" It's a dream Idiot, why do you think he's here?

"I missed you. You and your beautiful brown eyes." Rumbles the lower Sirius voice.

"You are in so much trouble." Remus said, teasing. Dreams couldn't be in trouble could they?

"No—well yes, but not tonight. Tonight, love, is yours."

"Ransom notes keep falling out of your mouth." Remus quips with a smile. "When could I ever resist your charm?"

"You did once." Sirius' voice said, and Remus reached a hand up to touch his face. "And I was so proud of you." The hand stopped midair, and an accusatory look crossed Remus' face.

"You're lying." Remus growled, anger hiding disappointment. The words sounded like they'd been clipped from a newspaper romance, there was no feeling behind them.

"No, I'm not." Sirius said, softly but firmly.

"I don't believe you."

"You hurt me—"

"No." Remus interrupted. "You didn't care a bit." His voice was cold, detached. "You don't care a bit."

That seemed to do the trick, for the dreamSirius didn't speak again, and after a while his caresses faded into the usual peacefulness of black and uninterrupted sleep.

When Remus awoke the next morning, his head hurt and his eyes were bloodshot, but it was surprisingly easy to stand. He must have slept really well—well, after those dreams—because his back and shoulders moved freely and without pain. With two cracks his neck shifted back into a comfortable position and he trudged downstairs, aware that his shoes and trousers were still damp.

He made a pot of coffee and stuck some bread in the toaster. It was still too early for the sun to invade his kitchen, and there was a pleasant breeze coming through the little window above the sink. He piled the toast on a plate, spread some jam and filled a chipped mug with coffee before heading in to the table.

There was a small space cleared from his rampage yesterday, and he set up there. He took a sip of his coffee—he'd taken to drinking it black of late, as milk was too expensive to use on a daily basis—and picked up the Daily Prophet from yesterday. He wondered briefly how the owl had gotten loose, and then realized he'd left the window open last night—the little one in the kitchen.

He turned to take a bite of his toast and chewed thoughtfully for a moment as he unfolded the paper. The headline made him nearly choke.

SIRIUS BLACK ESCAPES FROM AZKABAN

Notorious Killer On The Loose!

And there was the picture they'd taken of Black in his prison garb, wild and laughing and altogether looking quite the part of a deranged killer. Remus' face drained of all color. But it wasn't the headlines or the picture that had done it. On the table where the paper had been only a moment before, was a small parcel wrapped in tinfoil, and a scrap of parchment torn—he noted idly—from one of his lesson plans for the fall.

That hadn't been there yesterday.

He set down the paper and picked up the object, unwrapping it carefully, so as not to tear the foil. It seemed important just then not to break the quiet any more than was absolutely necessary. Inside was a slim bar of dark chocolate, it smelled spicy, with just a hint of orange. In one corner there were teeth marks that looked unmistakably canine.

He set the package aside, unaware that he was smiling. The parchment scrap he took and held for a long moment before unfolding it, afraid of what he would find written there. Sirius had killed three of their best friends, it seemed only right that he'd come back for Lupin. Best for last. The old Sirius would've said. It had a ring of poetic justice to it, however twisted. Taking a deep breath, he unfolded the paper and sure enough there was the old familiar handwriting, but what it said wasn't a death threat. It was worse. The words hit Remus in the stomach, and for a moment he couldn't breathe. The note slipped from his fingers and floated to the floor, tilted so the words were viewable from above.

I do care.