Of course he's known Sirius was coming; he's even cleaned up his own bedroom for him, washing the sheets meticulously, and magically fluffing the pillows. For the past week he's been scouring through his house, attempting to make it as livable and welcoming as possible, Vanishing dust, straightening curtains, cleaning the threadbare carpets so thoroughly he doubts there is any carpet left now. He's rearranged furniture, actually weeded a good half of his garden before giving it up as a lost case, washed his windows and frowned at the two missing panes in the large one in the sitting room, even walked into the nearby Muggle town with some of the money he's saved "for emergencies" and stocked his pantry and ice box with fruits, breads, vegetables, even a couple of steaks he managed to buy cheap off the butcher. He has done all this, knowing full well that it wouldn't stop him worrying, and now he sits anxiously in one of the chairs in the kitchen, beating a pattern into the counter. He's known Sirius was coming. He still isn't prepared.

He thinks abruptly that he doesn't have a table. He is half-way out of his seat to find one, make one, steal one, when he realizes how useless it is.

He knows I've always been like this, he thinks. He knows I can't offer him much…don't know why Dumbledore even sent him here in the first place. It's not like I have anything to give him, I hardly have four rooms in this place and Dumbledore wants him to stay here. All that's here is shitty old memories and all the dust I couldn't get rid of. There's nothing here for someone just out of prison…unless he wants to go right back in.

He doesn't know what time Sirius will arrive. Briefly he wonders if he could use the last of his money to quickly buy a table. He glances around the tiny kitchen, trying to find a place where it would go. Perhaps it would fit in the sitting room, instead. He's moved the chair and the old couch so that there's more space in the middle of the room. He glances out the window. He doesn't know where Sirius is coming from, and for a half-second he thinks he sees a dark figure on the edge of the trees. It's gone when he blinks again and he shakes his head furiously. The action reminds him of Sirius and abruptly he grabs a piece of parchment from the drawer next to him.

Dumbledore –

I can't take him in. Send him to someone else…send him to...to Emmeline. She'd love to have him. I just…there's nothing here for him, Dumbledore. I can't give him anything, I can hardly feed

He stops here and scratches out the last sentence, pauses, and continues.

He won't want to be here – it'll be too painful for him, all the memories and stuff. Send him to Emmeline; she'll take care of him until he's cleared. He'll be happy with her – she's a wonderful cook…and she's closer to Harry; he might be able to go visit him at the Dursley's. Just…not here. If he gets here before you get this, I won't turn him out, but please come and get him as soon as this reaches you. I don't want to make him stay here.

There's a soft knock on the door and he jumps. Fuck. He pulls out his wand just to be safe, crosses quickly through the sitting room and halts at the door. His left hand is poised to turn the doorknob, but he can't move. Another knock, a little louder, but he still can't move. He stares transfixed at the lined, grainy wood in front of him and tries to force his body to move. When finally he grasps the knob and jerks it violently towards him, Sirius is already halfway down the little path through the front garden. He makes a kind of strangled noise, his wand raised and his hand still clutching convulsively at the door. Sirius pauses and turns around. He looks better than he did a year ago; thin lines of emotion trace themselves across his face, deepening his eyes, creasing his forehead. His hair has been cut shorter, neater, and his robes look slightly damp, as though they've just been washed.

Remus tries to say, "Hello, Sirius," but he can't. Instead, he gestures limply with his wand inside the house and stands aside a little so Sirius can pass him. Once the door is shut and beams of light slant through the windows of the sitting room, casting the shadows of Sirius' face and robes into even sharper contrast. A fly buzzes through one of the empty panes and lands on Remus' shoulder. He brushes it off and the first thing he can think to say is, "I'm sorry there isn't a foyer."

Sirius raises his eyebrow slightly, traces of a formerly semi-permanent sardonic look flashing across his face. "I've been living in a cave and in a cell for the past thirteen years," he says hoarsely. "I couldn't care less if you've got a foyer."

"I don't have a table, either," Remus says. "I was going to buy one today, but I only just thought of it."

"Somehow, I'll manage," Sirius says, and it takes Remus several seconds to realize that this was a joke. He blinks, wondering if he should laugh.

Sirius laughs for him and something clicks inside Remus, telling him that this is wrong, that he should be the one laughing, that he should be the one offering a home and a comfort to his best friend, not the other way around. Sirius shouldn't be joking. Sirius should be downtrodden and depressed, quiet, hesitant, still remembering what the real world looks like. But Remus is remembering. He's seeing his friend, laughing in front of him, laughing at how nervous he is, how worried about all this, how old and stiff he's become, living day to day, hour to hour, in a tiny house that he doesn't even own, some old woman gave it to him because she said it was too horrible to even bother asking for rent. Remus remembers Sirius' old flat, the huge, expansive, disgustingly expensive thing that it was, furnished with only the best, and Sirius sprawled on one of the many couches, complaining that he'd never have to actually work for his living. Remus then thinks of James and Lily's house, about the size of Sirius', but with a more comfortable atmosphere, more like a home, instead of the dazzling display of wealth and style that Sirius couldn't live without. He remembers Peter's apartment near the center of London, smaller and filled with files stacked upon files; Peter worked almost constantly; they couldn't get him to come round for breakfast, much less pass a weekend at one of their respective homes. He remembers his own tiny flat, filled with drawings and paintings and sculptures, most done by others, a few by himself. He's sold nearly all of them now, keeping some of the ones he's particularly attached to, or a few of his own he doesn't think are good enough to sell.

He says, "Are you thirsty? I have some iced tea. Or water. Or I could make lemonade if you want some…I don't think I have any butterbeer but there might be some in the pantry. Nothing stronger than that, but there's a liquor store in town that's only a couple minutes away – it's all Muggle but some of it isn't that bad. And I have food too, if you're hungry…or I could show you where you're sleeping, you can see it from here, really, just through that door, and there's a bath, too, that you can use…did you bring anything with you? Do you have bags that I can carry in, or…or…do you need some clothes, because I think I have some that will fit you, they might be a little short since you're taller than I am, though, so we could go get you some, I know a nice store that sells some, and oh!" Sparks have just flown out of the tip of his wand, which he hadn't realized he was waving. He stops and looks nervously at Sirius, whose lips twitch.

"Water will be fine," he says. And then – "You haven't changed at all, Remus."

"Oh, well, I haven't done anything," Remus says. "The kitchen's that way." He points, completely unnecessarily. Sirius walks through the sitting room, glancing at the blankets Remus has put on the couch, where he's going to be sleeping.

"I'll sleep in here," Sirius says. "You can keep your room."

"Oh, no," says Remus wildly, "you sleep in the room, there's a bed and everything in there. I'll sleep out here – I never sleep anywhere different, it'll be a…a nice change, you know, just too…have a little something different. You keep the room; I've cleaned it and everything."

"Yes, and everything," Sirius smiles and Remus blushes. He opens his cabinet and pulls out a chipped mug. He looks around suddenly, searching for the water, and nearly smacks himself. He mutters a spell with his wand and the mug fills.

"Here," he says, holding it out, but Sirius isn't paying attention. He's reading the parchment Remus has left on the counter.

Remus almost drops the mug. He spills half of it when he puts it down and his mind goes totally blank.

"You want me to leave?" It's an offer, Remus thinks, terrified. It's not a question, it's an offer. Sirius has already turned back towards the door, one foot lifting off the ground. Remus can't see his face, and he wonders what emotions are on it now. He reaches out quickly and grabs the back of Sirius' tattered robes, still damp.

"No," he says. "That…that…that was…for me." He realizes that this is true and is astonished that he managed to fool himself the entire time he wrote the letter.

Sirius turns. His face has gone blank, the amusement vanished. "For you?" he echoes.

"Yeah…" Remus says distractedly, sitting down hard in his chair. "I…Hell, I don't know, I just…didn't think I could do this. It wasn't actually about you."

"What did you scratch out?" Sirius asks. "I can see 'feed' but that's it."

"That's the part that was about me," Remus says dully, staring at his hands. They're shaking, but he doesn't register this until Sirius takes one of them in both of his, examining the thin scar that runs almost entirely around his thumb.

"I did that to you, didn't I?" he asks softly. Remus glances at the scar and remembers that yes, Sirius did do that to him, when they were fourteen.

"Yeah, when we were trying to juggle the swords you'd stolen from your dad," he says, pulling his hand back. "That was the only year we lost the House Cup, McGonagall took so many points."

"Are you going to tell me what that line is?"

"No."

"Do you still want me to leave?"

"I never did. I wasn't going to send that."

"You still wrote it."

"I didn't think I could do this."

"Why?"

"I told you – I don't even have a foyer."

Sirius kneels down in front of him so that they're almost eye-to-eye. He glances down at the faded green of the tile and traces a line through it, his eyes following the movement of his finger. He doesn't say anything for nearly a minute, then, finally, "Well, you'll have to get one, then. Until you do, I'm sleeping outside in that mess of a garden you've got."

Two days later, Remus can hardly think but for all the memories shoving around him. Everything Sirius does triggers something new, something he had thought was carefully locked away in his old school trunk with a couple sketches of his friends and one unfinished one he tried to do of Hogwarts in his fifth year. It doesn't help that Sirius seems to be remembering all these events as well, and won't shut up about them. Remus keeps thinking he's going to explode if one more mention of what he used to have, what could have been, reaches his ears. He says very little, letting Sirius do most of the talking. He knows that Sirius is being decidedly cheerful, that he's making an effort to make this easier for Remus, and Remus knows that their places have been unfairly switched, that Sirius is the protector and Remus is the one who's just escaped from prison, only to find that he liked it better inside.

Sirius doesn't have a wand anymore; he's been using Remus' to do every little thing. He grins when Remus catches him enchanting the napkins to fold themselves for dinner. "I haven't used magic in ages," he explains. "It's good to be able to do it again."

"We'll get you a wand as soon as we can," Remus says, remembering how good Sirius was with magic; how spells seemed to want to perform for him, to always work perfectly. He'd even "accidentally" snapped his grandfather's wand in third year, and the damned thing would still transfigure a teacup into a turnip with Spellotape wrapped messily around its center, barely keeping it together.

"That'll be good," Sirius nods. "Then I can…I dunno, enchant the stars to make little unicorn shapes in the sky."

"You could do that with my wand," Remus suggests, wondering why Sirius wants unicorns prancing through the sky.

"But it wouldn't be the same," Sirius says. His eyes cloud over and he jabs gloomily with the wand at a couple of apples Remus has fetched from the pantry. They start to core themselves, whirling around quickly until their middles fall with small thunks to the counter.

An owl flies in through the open window and drops a letter near Sirius' wrist. He picks it up and tears open the envelope, his eyes scanning the narrow writing, not as quickly as they used to. He says, "Dumbledore wants to know if we've got any ideas about a good place for Headquarters."

"For what?" Remus asks. Sirius glances at him.

"Shit," he says. "Headquarters. I forgot to tell you – Voldemort's back."

Remus drops his mug and it shatters on the ground. Absently, Sirius waves the wand and the pieces mold together again. Remus dimly remembers Dumbledore's letter informing him that Sirius was coming to explain something and to stay for a few weeks. Dumbledore hadn't said what Sirius was going to be explaining, only that it was very important.

"He's what?"

"Back," Sirius says dully. "Harry saw him come back. He was in the Triwizard Tournament, you know. Barty Crouch Jr., disguised as Mad-Eye Moody, put him in. When Harry got to the Cup at the end of the Third Task, it was actually a Portkey, took him to Voldemort and Peter. Some sort of spell went on, and now Voldemort's got a body and a wand and so on. Of course, no one believes Harry except Dumbledore, so the Prophet has been putting out that Harry's a madman and Dumbledore's gone senile. You haven't noticed?"

"I…I don't get the Prophet," Remus says. "You're…you're sure?"

"Harry is," Sirius says. "And that's enough for me."

"I thought Barty Crouch was dead."

"Nah, his dad switched him and his mum out when his mum was about to die – they took Polyjuice to change into each other and she died in Azkaban. Crouch kept his son under the Imperius curse for…I dunno, twelve years or something, but then his son broke it and put the curse back on his father. Something about getting word that Voldemort was still alive, and working for him…I don't know the details. Just what Dumbledore told me quickly. Anyway, Crouch Sr. is dead. His son killed him a few months ago. And Jr. was Kissed. Apparently Fudge ordered it. McGonagall had a right fit when she found out, and Dumbledore was even worse. He and Fudge have…'taken separate paths,' I think is how Dumbledore put it. Dumbledore didn't tell you any of this?"

"He said you would explain stuff to me," Remus says. "I forgot to ask."

"Sorry," Sirius mumbles. "I forgot I was supposed to tell you. I figured Dumbledore would have. Tell the truth, I'd been wondering a little why you weren't asking many questions about it."

Remus doesn't know what to say. The idea of Voldemort being back has removed every other thought from his head. He frowns with the effort of bending his mind around this idea, its implications. The word "Headquarters" floats through his mind.

"Dumbledore's reforming the Order?"

"Of course he is. You're coming back, right?" Sirius looks at him, almost nervous. "Word's been that you kind of…disappeared…after James and Lily died."

"I did," Remus says quietly. "I didn't want anything to do with people for a while…and by the time I did, I thought it would be too late to make an appearance. I've lived here for…twelve years, now. Didn't really see anyone except the people in town until two years ago, when Dumbledore came to ask me to teach."

"Why didn't you stay at Hogwarts, then?" Sirius asked.

"Severus told everyone I'm a werewolf."

"Snape did what?" Sirius snarls, his face contorting angrily. "What the fuck for?"

"I don't know. He said it was for helping you into the castle to 'reach Harry Potter.' I think it's just because I believed you and not the rest of the world."

"Harry told me he used to be a Death Eater," Sirius says darkly. "Which means he knew very well that I wasn't one."

"You think Voldemort told his followers the names of their peers?" Remus asks, surprised. "I'd always assumed he didn't."

"That doesn't mean they don't know who each other are."

"You could have been working under cover, for all he knows," Remus says fairly.

"Well he knows I'm innocent, now," Sirius says. "Dumbledore shoved his nose in it, big as it is. And apparently he's working as a spy for the Order anyway, which is complete shit. There's no way that man isn't a Death Eater anymore."

"I'm sure Dumbledore trusts him," Remus says.

"Dumbledore trusts a lot of people," Sirius replies sharply. "He trusted Peter."

"We all trusted Peter," Remus says quietly.

"Me more than anyone," Sirius spits, and for the first time in the past three days Remus sees the look of self-loathing he's sure Sirius has been carrying for nearly thirteen years. He puts a hand gently on Sirius' shoulder, trying to comfort.

"It wasn't your fault," he says. "What you did…it was right. You just had the wrong person."

"I shouldn't have," Sirius says. "I should have known better. I mean, after all, we…" he trails off, staring at his hands. Remus knows the end of the sentence, but he doesn't finish it. He's thought the same thing many times in this past year. Sirius should have trusted him, Sirius, who should have known him better than anyone else, should have trusted him. But Sirius thought he was a spy. Sirius thought he was a liar, even though Remus had only lied to him – to everyone – about one thing, ever. And no one had blamed him for that. One lie. That made him a suspect. And Peter, who told lies nearly as well as James did, was presumed innocent.

Sirius winces and Remus realizes that his grip on his shoulder has been growing tighter all this time. He lets go abruptly and turns away to hide his frustration.

"I'm sorry," Sirius says softly. "I know I said it before, but I am. I just got so mad after we…you know…well…I just needed someone to blame, and Dumbledore had said that we should be careful who we trust, and I got to thinking that maybe you'd done something to me, made me blind, and I got even madder, and…at that point, it just seemed logical that you'd be spying for Voldemort. I couldn't think of a single reason why you wouldn't be."

"Except the fact that you always knew where I was?" The words worm their way out of Remus' mouth before he can stop them. He snaps his lips shut before anything else can escape, but too late, the damage has been done.

"Remus, I know," Sirius says. "I know I was wrong. I was horribly, terribly, completely, and foolishly wrong, I know. I was just saying…that's why."

"You never did like your old girlfriends," Remus says, nearly smiling at the memory of one particularly clingy ex. Sirius had nearly cursed her in front of the entire school when she'd come begging for him to take her back at breakfast the day after they broke up. He refused to look at her for the rest of their school days, and wouldn't even speak her name.

"Same concept," Sirius says, his voice a little hopeful. Remus turns back around and does smile this time, though it's a little stretched.

"I understand," he says, and they don't speak of it again. A weight has lifted off of Remus' chest though; that particular memory had been haunting him more often than the rest.

The next day, over breakfast, Remus asks if Sirius has had any ideas about a location for Headquarters. Last time around, there had been no location, no Headquarters. People had met in alleys, in bars, at each other's homes, furtively passing on messages and instructions. Now, it seems, Dumbledore is going to be more structured, more controlled, an organized resistance instead of a haphazard one.

"Yeah, I have," Sirius says quietly.

"Where?"

"My old house." He says the words quickly, fumbling them together so it takes Remus a moment to realize what he's said.

"Your flat?"

"No, I mean where I grew up. You've never been there."

"Oh." Remus isn't sure how to respond. "Er…why?"

"Because my dad put so many protections on it that it's nearly impossible to find. And – no, listen a second, I think it'll really work – I did some asking around before I came here, no one's lived there for ten years, and it's definitely my house. I know my parents disowned me, but they can't change the bloodline, especially since my brother's dead, so the house is legally and magically mine. I'm the only one right now who can find it, because I haven't had the huge ceremony of telling all my relatives where it is, since as soon as the owner of the house dies, his knowledge of where it is reverts back only to his heir, no one else. It's perfectly safe, and it's big enough for lots of people to be there…I suppose it'll be a bit dirty, but we can clean it…it should work. And…I want to help."

Remus considers for a moment, but he can't think of an objection. If he's honest with himself, it's a good idea. Finally, he says, "Do you really want to go back there, though?"

"No," Sirius answers, frowning. "But if Dumbledore wants to use it, I will. There'll be people there enough that I'll be able to talk to them…I won't have to be by myself the whole time…" he trails off again, fiddling anxiously with his fork. Remus hesitates, but plunges on resolutely.

"I'll come stay with you. I mean…if you don't mind."

"Why?" Sirius asks. "You've got a house."

"Hellhole that it is," Remus says, trying to sound casual. "If I'm there, I'll be able to help more, to actually do something."

"Like what? We're both a little…out of place…in society."

"I'm a werewolf," Remus says firmly. He though of this last night, and the idea won't leave his head. "I can talk to other werewolves. See if I can get them on our side, instead of Voldemort's, like they were last time. Or, if not that, then…I don't know, at least keep an eye on them, so we know what they're doing."

"I guess that's true," Sirius says, but he looks a little happier. "You seriously want to come stay there?"

"Yeah," Remus says. "I do." He doesn't, but he will.

Two weeks later, he stands on the doorstep to number 12, Grimmauld Place, and takes a deep breath. Sirius is standing to his right, looking grim, and Dumbledore stands behind them, looking cheerful. Sirius touches the door with a finger and it swings open immediately.

"Hey, relax," he tells Remus, forcing his face into a smile. "It's got a foyer and everything."