So! We're throwing in the towel and writing our own Harry Potter fic. Yes, we think this makes us pathetic, but it's really all Karasu's fault for deciding suddenly that she liked Draco. ::coughs:: Moving on. Spoilers for all four books, slash (Sirius/Remus), violence, all that good stuff.
Harry Potter and the Dementor's Kiss
Chapter One
Remus Lupin was not given to fidgeting. However, as the year had gone on, he had found himself increasingly more likely to do so. It wasn’t precisely that he was nervous. More that he was terrified. The funny thing was, he wasn’t sure who he was terrified for the most: Sirius, Harry, or himself.
The air had been filled with rumors, and even someone with as little skill in Divination as Remus had could see the signs. Something was coming. He didn’t think he was going to like it. The day after the school term had ended, he had received a brief note from Sirius; the first such all year.
It had read simply, “Dumbledore says I’m to alert the order and then come stay with you. Hopefully you’ll see me in a week or two.”
That had been three weeks ago. Remus had trouble figuring out why Dumbledore had chosen Sirius to contact the order, given that at every stop, he was probably going to have to deal with the screaming and shrieking until he had assured them that he was indeed innocent. After Sirius’ supposed betrayal, he had become one of the most hated figures in the wizarding world, and among none more than his previous friends.
He nearly jumped out of his skin as there was a quiet knock on his door. He put his tea and the book he had been reading aside, and went to answer the door. Much to his relief, Sirius was standing on the front doorstep. He was dressed in ragged robes and looked much worse for the wear. Remus tried to kick his brain into gear and had definite trouble. “Sirius,” was all he managed to say.
Sirius grinned, and there was something a bit disturbing about the grin. It made him look slightly to the side of sane. For a minute, he considered hugging his old friend, but managed to quell the urge. They had been close in school -- close enough that they’d felt the need to hide the specifics of their relationship from all but their closest friends.
“Come in,” Remus said, and opened the door wider, ushering Sirius inside. He shut the door behind Sirius, and tried not to look as awkward as he felt. Fourteen years was an awfully long time to have not seen someone, especially given that for the first thirteen, he had believed Sirius to be a traitor and a murderer. He wasn’t entirely sure how he was supposed to feel. “Dumbledore sent me an owl, let me know you’d be coming,” he said, then added, “and I got your note. You’re late.”
Sirius nodded, and the grin faded from his face. He seemed no more sure of himself than Remus was, and it made Remus want to cringe. If there was one thing he had always loved about Sirius Black, it was the utter certainty he had in himself. Now that was gone, and Sirius seemed less himself without it. “I hope this isn’t too sudden,” he said. “I . . . wasn’t quite sure when I’d get here.”
“No, it’s fine,” Remus said, and looked around at the apartment, feeling even more awkward. His apartment was small, in the middle of Muggle London. “It . . . it’s not much, but it’ll do, I suppose.”
Sirius glanced around. “It’s warm, dry, and not moving, Moony. It’s heaven.”
Remus wanted to blush at the old nickname, and covered it up with a snort. “Because I’m sure you haven’t been taking care of yourself. You never did. Like some tea?”
Sirius grinned. “I always take care of myself, and I would love some tea.”
Remus rolled his eyes. Trust Sirius to pretend he was healthy in the first half of his sentence and then imply that he wasn’t in the second half. He headed into the kitchen, picking up his own mug of tea on the way, and beckoned for Sirius to follow him. “So,” he said as he walked, “is it true? About Voldemort?”
“It’s true,” Sirius said simply, the grin vanishing.
Remus silently poured him a mug of tea and handed it over, then seated himself at the small kitchen table, holding his own mug tightly between both hands. “Well. Isn’t that . . . splendid.”
Sirius slumped into the second chair. “Poor Harry,” he said quietly.
“Is he all right?” Remus said. He was unable to deny the urge to scoot his chair closer. He knew they were sitting closer than propriety would dictate, and didn’t know whether or not Sirius would be nervous about this or not, and didn’t particularly care. After fourteen years of solitude, he wanted Sirius close to him again.
“I don’t know,” Sirius replied, not reacting to Remus moving closer. “He was physically fine when I left, but . . .” He stopped and shook his head. “He was a mess. And none of my letters are getting to him. I gave up after the first few because it doesn’t do him any good if someone uses my letters to catch me.”
Remus frowned at this. He hadn’t tried writing to Harry, unsure of what to say, and was now wishing that he had. “Why aren’t your letters getting to him?” he asked, having all sorts of images of Aurors and members of the Ministry.
Sirius’ hands clenched around his mug of tea, tight enough to turn his knuckles white. “I’m assuming that wretched family of his is stopping the owls from getting to him.”
“Oh.” At first, Remus only felt relief that it wasn’t anything more dangerous. Then the meaning of the statement set in, and he wondered what Harry’s family would be doing that would keep owls from getting to him. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I see.” He reached over and rested his hands on Sirius’, hoping to relax them slightly. “And how are you?” he asked softly.
Sirius slumped slightly, taking one of Remus’ hands in his own before he could think better of the idea. “Tired,” he answered. “I’m very tired, and very lonely.”
“You probably haven’t been sleeping enough,” Remus said, and reached out with his free hand to smooth Sirius’ hair. It was almost as if the fourteen years of separation had never happened, and they were sitting at the same table in a small house in the country, wondering what to do about Voldemort, about James and Lily, about everything. “Silly Padfoot, as usual.”
Sirius’ eyes slid closed in an expression of relief so great that it was almost painful. Everything else in his life had vanished or died, and he’d had no expectation that Remus would feel anything for him other than perhaps a slight pang of nostalgia. Remus believing his innocence in no way meant that Remus would still love him. But he was fairly sure that Remus wouldn’t have touched him, at least not in the way he always had, if he no longer cared. “I missed you so much,” he said, the words barely a whisper.
Remus’ hand tightened on Sirius’. “I missed you too,” he said. “But I thought that . . . you would forget . . . in Azkaban.”
Sirius opened his eyes and looked at Remus for a brief second, before fixing his gaze on the table. “I had while I was still in there,” he said. “I had forgotten about everything good. But I could still feel the hole where it all should have been. That’s what hurt the most.”
“And it’s still there, isn’t it,” Remus said quietly, still stroking his hair. “The hole.”
“I don’t think it’ll ever go away,” Sirius said, his tone flat and almost emotionless. “James and Lily are dead. I lost fourteen years of my life with you. I missed seeing Harry grow up, and now I’m not even allowed to see him or talk to him.”
Remus squeezed his hand again. “Yes, James and Lily are dead,” he said, his voice soft and sad. “And yes, we lost fourteen years, and that’s a long time. Neither of us got to see Harry grow up. But believe me, we’re going to get him away from those people, and you’re going to be the godfather that you never were, and we’ll fill in the hole with new things. All right? New things.”
Sirius simply nodded. He wanted to believe Remus, but he knew better than to think that things could ever be the same.
Remus managed a wan smile. “Besides, it’s not like my life has been peaches and cream since you left, anyway.”
“Tell me what I missed,” Sirius said, finally looking up and meeting Remus’ eyes. He gave a slightly bitter but oddly amused smile. “I mean, you know my story. Misery, misery, fervent daydreams of suicide, misery, escape, fervent daydreams of murder, then, well, here we are. You, though, you must have had a life.” The bitterness in the smile faded in the last statement and he gave Remus a fond look.
“Look around, this is it,” Remus said dryly, waving his hand to indicate the apartment. He sounded slightly less amused than Sirius did.
“What made you move to London?” Sirius asked curiously. “Last time I checked, you weren’t a city person.”
“I’m not,” Remus said flatly. “I hate it here. But it’s easier to find work.” He shrugged slightly, and tried not to sound as unhappy as he was. “Not that you’d be able to tell from the state the apartment was in,” he added, glancing around at the sparseness of the furniture and belongings.
“I like it,” Sirius said, glancing around again, and noting the same sparseness. “It’s open, airy, nice. Why did you quit your job as a professor, if you hate living here so much?”
Remus coughed. “Ah, well. That wasn’t exactly my choice.”
“Harry said you resigned,” Sirius said, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.
“Well.” Remus looked around, not meeting Sirius’ eyes. “I did, but only because the students found out I’m a werewolf. So I knew that I’d probably have to resign anyway. I mean, Dumbledore is nice and all, but I don’t think he could stand all the requests to fire me.”
“He’s stood up to worse things than irate parents,” Sirius mentioned, and shrugged. “Maybe you should ask if the position’s been filled for this year. You have a leg up on everyone else that’s been there recently. You aren’t Voldemort, you aren’t dead, you aren’t an egotistical amnesiac, and you aren’t impersonating anyone else. Also, the children liked you, and you taught them something.”
Remus just shrugged. “I suppose.”
“You never did think enough of yourself,” Sirius mentioned, squeezing his hand. That had been a constant semi-argument between them when they’d still been together. He gave the matter a little thought. “How did they find out that you’re a werewolf, anyway?”
“I don’t know, Dumbledore might have a special job for me. He may have one for you, too, and I’m not letting you go anywhere without me.” Remus smiled at Sirius, having ducked the question neatly and hoping that the compliment would keep Sirius from pursuing the subject further.
Unfortunately, he had no such luck. “Thank you,” Sirius said, with a smile that was sweet and genuine, and looked very different from his earlier grin. Then it disappeared. “Now how did they find out?”
Remus startled at the sudden shift of mood, and gave Sirius a bit of a surprised look. “Well, I did turn into a werewolf and rampage around on the grounds. You might have noticed,” he added. “You were there.”
“You took off into the forest of doom,” Sirius said. “No one to hurt there.”
“Well, ah.” Remus coughed. “Snapemayhavementionedit.”
“That slimy git,” Sirius said, his eyes narrowing and his tone approaching a sort of growl that was very reminiscent of his animal form. “I’ll find him and hurt him,” he added, definitely making it sound like a promise.
Remus just sighed. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you,” he said wearily. “Look, if you’re going to hate him for something, hate him for trying to feed you to the Dementors. That’s a lot worse than the fact that he got me fired.”
“I don’t want to think about them,” Sirius said quickly, a slight tremor running through his hands. “Not even long enough to be angry at Snape.”
Remus winced, and wished that he hadn’t brought them up in the first place. “Shh,” he said, smoothing Sirius’ hair again. “Let me get you some chocolate,” he added, slowly letting go of Sirius’ hands and giving the other man plenty of time to protest if he was so inclined. Sirius nodded, letting go of Remus reluctantly and trying to hug himself without it being obvious. If the memories hadn’t been so vivid, he would have felt silly.
Remus got a mug of hot chocolate and set it on the table next to Sirius’ clenched fists. “Come on, let’s go sit in the other room,” he said. “It’s more comfortable.”
Sirius nodded again and picked up the mug, inhaling appreciatively. “Mm, chocolate,” he mumbled to himself, before standing up and following Remus into the other room. Remus sat down on the worn and battered sofa, then touched the cushion next to him, gesturing for Sirius to sit as well. Sirius did so, and wondered if leaning against Remus would be pushing his luck.
“Don’t be angry at Snape, Sirius. Seriously.” Remus made the old joke in the hopes of making Sirius smile.
Sirius did crack a smile over the edge of the mug. “I forgot how much better this stuff can you make you feel,” he said, indicating the chocolate.
“We’re all going to have to work together, you know,” Remus said, then added, “And there’s more hot chocolate in the kitchen, if you’d like.”
“That doesn’t mean I have to like the greaseball,” Sirius said. “And now that you’ve reminded me of it,” he said, gesturing with the mug, “I’m sure I’ll want more.”
“I made it, since I knew you would be coming,” Remus said. “I figured that you could use it. And you always did have a bit of a sweet tooth.”
“It’s just a bit more pronounced now,” Sirius said. “I chalk it up to justifiable insanity.”
“You have chocolate on your upper lip,” Remus said, and unthinkingly reached out and wiped it away. Sirius looked a bit startled, but pleasantly so, and for a minute they sat in comfortable silence. That was, the silence started out comfortable, but grew increasingly less so. After a minute, Remus began to fidget.
“Um . . . so now what?” Sirius finally asked.
Remus’ first thought was ‘now, I kiss you’, but he managed to shake that off without actually saying it. “Ah . . . are you hungry?” he blurted out, then hoped that Sirius didn’t find a bad way to take that.
Sirius paused. He was hungry; for food, human affection, physical contact, and comfort. That pretty much boiled down to Remus and a sandwich. “Yes,” he said.
“All right,” Remus said, and stood up. “I don’t have much here, but I’m sure that I could find something,” he said, heading towards the kitchen. Sirius was hot on his heels, following. He hadn’t been expecting to feel quite so clingy, and was somewhat alarmed and unsure of what to do about it.
Remus turned suddenly, just before reaching the kitchen, and pulled Sirius into a hug. He didn’t really think about it; it just suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t hugged Sirius since he had come in, and he wanted to. Sirius was a bit startled at first, then wrapped his arms around Remus’ waist and hugged him like he would never let go.
“I missed you so much,” Remus said softly, hugging him tighter. “It was like being dead inside.”
Sirius rested his hand on Remus’ shoulder, trying not to seem like he was clutching at his friend. “I know the feeling . . . sometimes I thought my heart would stop just because there was no reason for it to keep beating. It was disappointing when it kept going anyway.”
Remus tried not to seem too alarmed at that statement. “But you’re out now,” he said, running his fingers through Sirius’ admittedly tangled hair. “You’re safe here . . . with me. The way it was supposed to be.”
“Do you really think we can have Harry come live with us?” Sirius asked, sounding a little desperate. “I need people around. I need you, I need a family. I can’t stand being alone anymore.”
“We’ll talk to Dumbledore about it,” Remus said firmly, regaining his composure. “We’re going to get him away from those horrible relatives of his, even if he can’t come stay with us. But even if he can’t, you’ll have me. I’ll always be with you.”
“I was afraid you wouldn’t want me anymore,” Sirius admitted quietly. “After all this time . . . and I’m not really all here, you know.”
“All this time . . . I waited for you,” Remus said softly, kissing his forehead. “It doesn’t matter if you’re not all here. I don’t think I really am anymore, either. We’ll do whatever it takes to fix this, Sirius. I promise.”
Sirius nodded. “Thank you,” he said, and they held each other for a long time.
****
If Harry had to name one thing that was better this summer than about his previous summers, it was that he no longer had to cook breakfast for his family. Of course, he no longer got to eat breakfast either, but there was no point in dwelling on the negative.
He had come home from school knowing that his aunt and uncle were displeased about the way he’d departed last summer -- which was mostly the fault of the Weasley twins, but it had been worth it for the sight of Dudley’s tongue lolling across the room. Besides, by the end of school, he’d had so much else to worry about that Uncle Vernon’s wrath seemed relatively unimportant.
Well, if nothing else good could come of it, he was willing to bet that Voldemort wouldn’t think to look for him in a Muggle cupboard.
He had promised up and down that there would be no wizards coming through the fireplace to bewitch their bonny little boy, but unfortunately, they didn’t quite believe him. Although he wasn’t allowed to use the word ‘wizard’ in their presence, and so had been forced to use ‘people’. Then they had gotten angry for implying that just anyone could come through their fireplace. He figured he couldn’t win.
Thus, the cupboard. It wasn’t so bad once he had gotten used to it. Of course, he had grown some in the past few years, and it was distinctly more cramped. His feet hung off the end of the bed when he stretched out, which was quite disconcerting as he usually slept sprawled out. He was forced to pull his knees up if he wanted his entire body on the bed.
Naturally, Hedwig didn’t agree with his idea that being in the cupboard wasn’t so bad. Harry loved his faithful owl dearly, but he was beginning to wish he could do a good Silencing charm and stop having to listen to her constant annoyed hooting.
A sentiment that Vernon and Petunia would have agreed with, he supposed. Well, if they approved of magic. Really, they probably would have just shot Hedwig and gotten it over with.
Horrible Muggles.
It was honestly too bad that they didn’t believe his threats about his murderous godfather anymore. But after he had failed to show up the first few weeks of the summer, they had decided that he wasn’t going to. Harry sighed irritably and searched his bookshelves for something to read that he hadn’t already read four hundred times.
“Hey, Harry,” Dudley’s voice mocked him from outside. “You got another letter by those weird birds again. Dad’s burning it now. Reckoned you should know.”
“They’re called owls, Dudley,” Harry said impatiently. “Owls. It’s only one-syllable; I’d think you could remember.”
“I’ll come in there and pound you is what I’ll do,” Dudley said.
Harry laughed loudly. “You couldn’t fit through the doorway, let alone inside, and they don’t let me out, so that threat is rather useless. Thanks all the same.”
“You know what I think?” Dudley taunted. “I think the letter was from one of your friends pretending to be this so-called godfather of yours. Really, if he’s so eager to keep you healthy and all, why hasn’t he charged in here yet? You’ve just made him up, you tosser.”
Harry let his head thud against the wall of the cupboard. “You know what, Dudley? I only have three years of school left. And when I get out, I’m going to come back here and turn you into a pig to match that tail that Hagrid gave you. Then I’m going to give you back the tongue you had last summer, just for fun. So will you please leave me alone?”
There was a pause. Then, “MUUUMMM!!” Dudley’s wail trailed off as he ran away. “He’s threatening to do you-know-what again!”
Harry groaned. He was in for it now. He vowed to watch his mouth in the future, and wondered how it was possible that surviving Petunia and Vernon seemed more difficult than surviving Voldemort. He waited until he heard Petunia’s brisk footsteps, then the cupboard door swung open. Petunia grabbed him by the ear and dragged him out of the cupboard, a feat that required a great deal of acrobatics on his part to avoid getting caught in the door. Or accidentally kicking Hedwig’s cage over. He didn’t have much room to maneuver.
“How dare you threaten Dudley with your abnormality!” she screeched, her mouth only an inch from Harry’s ear.
“How dare you burn my letters?” he retorted.
She glared at him. “You don’t need letters from your made-up godfather. All that silly talk about . . .” Her lip curled; she was obviously unwilling to utter the word ‘magic’ in her household.
“You read them?” Harry asked furiously, drawing himself to his full height. Ever since his first growth spurt, that had put him on even eye level with Petunia. It was something he took advantage of at every opportunity.
“Of course we read them!” She glared back at him. “And that’s how I know it’s just one of your friends, because no self-respecting adult would have handwriting that bad.”
“He was in prison for twelve years,” Harry said. “I had mentioned that he was a convicted murderer, right?”
“As if we’d believe such lies,” Petunia said, ignoring the fact that those lies had kept both herself and Vernon in check for an entire summer. “If we get any letters from real people, perhaps we’ll let you see them. Until then, get back in your cupboard. And keep that owl quiet!”
Harry allowed himself to be shoved back inside, reflecting that, if nothing else, it was nice that Petunia knew it was an owl.
****
Draco came back from the walk he had been taking around the family grounds to find his dress robes laid out on his bed. He frowned suspiciously at them and then spotted a house-elf scampering across the room. “You there,” he called after it.
The house-elf turned and bowed deeply, nearly touching his forehead to the floor. “Yes, master Draco? What can Widget do for you?”
Draco pointed to the robes. “Care to explain those?”
The house-elf’s eyes widened. “They’re dress robes, master Draco.”
Draco closed his eyes for a minute. House-elves had a tendency to try his usually already strained patience. Still, they seemed to be better servants when not treated like total punching bags. “Yes. Why are my dress robes out?”
“Oh!” Understanding dawned on the house-elf. “All the house is in an uproar, master Draco. There will be a visitor tonight, a very important visitor. Widget was told to put out your robes accordingly.”
“Do you know who?” Draco asked. His father had ‘important visitors’ nearly every day of a week, and he hadn’t been required to dress up yet. He was getting a singularly bad feeling about whatever the evening held in store for him.
“Widget wasn’t informed, master Draco. Widget doesn’t ask.”
“Right.” Draco sighed slightly and picked up the dress robes. Probably some dark wizard coming to call, and his father wanted to present his son. He hated that; no matter what he said, he always felt like he came off inadequate. Maybe it was the everpresent look of disappointment on his father’s face. Yeah, that was probably it.
Widget bowed again and hurried out of the room.
Draco dressed and put his hair back. It was getting just long enough to make a small ponytail. This usually meant that his father was going to tell him to get it cut any day. However, he seemed to have been preoccupied lately with more important things.
Lucius swept into the room. “Good, you’re dressed,” he said shortly. He gave his son a quick look. “We’ll have to cut off that ridiculous ponytail. But you’ll do for tonight.”
“Thank you, Father,” Draco said. He wondered if there was any way to kiss his father’s shoes and simultaneously act like a total asshole. That seemed to be the only way he could think of to please the man.
“Come downstairs,” Lucius ordered. “You’ll be meeting our Dark Lord tonight and I want you on your best behavior.”
Draco’s eyes widened slightly, but he gave no sign of his inner discomfiture. He had heard the rumors about how Voldemort had risen again, but his father hadn’t mentioned anything, and he had thought that perhaps that was all there was -- rumors. Not that this had stopped him from taunting Potter about it; but it was a rare occasion that something would stop him from taunting Potter. “Of course,” he said quickly, when his father gave him an impatient look.
He followed his father downstairs. There were a few other guests mingling. He recognized Crabbe and Goyle the elder, and was profoundly grateful that they apparently hadn’t brought their sons. He didn’t think he could deal with the two rock-brained idiots all night long, not with so much on his mind.
So Voldemort really had risen. He supposed that meant that his schoolmate Cedric really had been killed by him. He suddenly understood why Harry had been so utterly furious with him at the end of the school year for his behavior during the final dinner. And more specifically, on the train afterwards. Well, he couldn’t be right about everything. He had figured it was some scheme of Dumbledore’s to rile them up.
Really, it was all his father’s fault for never telling him anything. He’d make much better decisions if he was better informed. Of course, his father didn’t seem to have quite as much respect for him after picking him up with the jumble of hexes he’d received from Potter and his posse. Not that he’d ever respected him much in the first place.
“Draco, come here.” His father’s peremptory command cut through the voices of the other guests. Draco walked over, wondering if his father thought of him more as a faithful dog than as a son. His father was standing with a man who was hooded and cloaked. “Draco, this is the Dark Lord.”
Draco lowered himself to one knee. “It is an honor to meet you in the flesh.” It felt very wrong to be kneeling. Malfoys kneeled for nobody. Except, apparently, Voldemort.
The figure let out a dry chuckle. “You’ve trained this one well, Lucius.”
Draco fought the urge to say that yes, he must be a dog. Well, that was one mystery settled.
“Of course,” Lucius said smoothly. “He’s a Malfoy.”
“Get up,” Voldemort ordered Draco. He got to his feet quickly, without scrambling. “You are, I assume, going to be with us in this great endeavor?”
“Of course, my lord,” Draco said, not bothering to ask what great endeavor he had just signed up to be part of. He didn’t want to die tonight, and that entailed not saying anything to make Voldemort angry.
“Excellent,” Voldemort said. “You will be my spy within Hogwarts. There is no other Slytherin I would trust with this mission.”
“It would be an honor, my lord,” Draco said. After all, it couldn’t be entrusted to Crabbe or Goyle; they were collectively as dumb as a bag of hammers, though loyal. He’d give them credit where it was due. And none of the elder Slytherins had parents who were Death-Eaters. He didn’t think. Though he supposed there could be ones he was unaware of.
Lucius gave him a look. “Hold out your arm,” he told his son.
Draco had seen the Dark Mark on his father’s arm, and had wondered how it had gotten there. He had a feeling that he was about to find out firsthand. He obeyed, rolling up his sleeve and extended his arm. Voldemort reached out and pressed one finger against Draco’s arm.
There was a long second of a painful burn, during which Draco gritted his teeth and made no noise. Then Voldemort withdrew his finger, leaving Draco staring at the skull burned into his arm. It was about the size of a coin, and looked less like a tattoo and more of a brand.
Voldemort withdrew his hood, and smiled at Draco. “You are very brave, to withstand the pain without flinching.”
“I’m a Malfoy, my lord,” Draco said. “It comes naturally.”
****
Chapter Two
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