Pilgrimage (2/2)
Jul. 1st, 2006 01:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rosie_ruesTitle: Pilgrimage (cont.)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rosemaryandrue
Words: 15, 518
Disclaimer: They're not mine, and I can't keep them.
Summary: He exposed his book to the rain long enough to discover that he had, unknowingly, passed out of Kent and into Surrey.
Togidres han thise thre hir trouthes plight
To lyve and dyen ech of hem for oother,
As though he were his owene ybore brother.
- The Pardoner’s Tale
The fog was still heavy the next day, but the ground rose steeply. He welcomed it and kept to a more temperate pace. He was aching again, as if all the passions of the previous day had marked his bones rather than his heart.
He didn’t want to think about anything at all – not Sirius, not betrayal, not loneliness. He tried to let the fog swamp his mind, turning everything grey and meaningless.
Was this how it felt in Azkaban? If so, perhaps they should send the survivors there.
Then, amongst the comforting numbness, he remembered Sirius, half-naked and laughing, pulling him down onto the bed, his breath hot on Remus’ shoulder.
He forced the image out, hating himself, but he couldn’t get the numbness back.
They had told him that Sirius had been laughing when they found him amongst the dead.
It didn’t surprise him. Everything Sirius had ever done had been done with passion. There would be no small betrayals for Sirius Black. It must be all or nothing.
Sirius had always been loud, demanding more with every breath, his head flung back so his hair spread across the pillows, his back arched, his hands rough and possessive.
It had all been lies.
It had to have been lies. There was no such man as Sirius Black, no ferocious, shameless, joyous man who loved and raged with the same intensity. That man would never have betrayed James Potter, would never have used the others’ distrust of werewolves conceal his own actions.
Those things had happened, indisputably and undeniably.
Therefore, that Sirius had never existed.
The conviction lasted until halfway through the lunch he had in the pub in Wrotham.
He was, without even thinking about it, guarding his chips from thieving fingers.
Nobody would ever steal his chips again.
He managed to shove away from the table and stumble into the Gents. There he barricaded himself into a cubicle and sagged onto the loo, pressing his hands to his face. He couldn’t muffle the sounds coming out of him, though, or stop himself from rocking forward, or keep the tears from smearing down his cheeks.
Oh, God, they were all dead, and Sirius had done it.
He never knew how long he had spent there. When he finally made it back to his table, someone had cleared his plate away.
The woman behind the bar eyed him strangely as he walked out. He tried not to meet her eye.
It was already getting dark. He should stay here tonight.
He couldn’t. He had to move.
He stumbled along the path, across the side of the hills, squinting into the darkness as dusk deepened around him. It wasn’t until he fell that he admitted it was truly night.
There was still snow on the ground, cold around his fingers.
Had it been because of Regulus, who had died at the first frost? Had Sirius’ loyalties, always more passionate than sensible, driven him to finish what his brother could not? Had it been Lily, who had both claimed and endangered James? Had it been some misguided attempt to stop the war with some great gesture?
He got up slowly, and continued along the path, lighting up his wand so he could see the way ahead. To his right, the escarpment rose steeply towards the heights of the Downs. To his left were rolling fields. He could see lights on the horizon but nothing close by. He would have to walk until dawn, or turn back.
He walked on. The fog had cleared, and the moon had shrivelled towards new.
Would he be trying to understand for the rest of his life?
He had tried hard to convince himself that Sirius, too, was dead.
Sometimes he succeeded.
Much later, he heard bells, and followed the sound. There was a village before him, its roofs pale with a thin coating of snow. The church bells were ringing, and he could see light through the doors as he approached.
The warmth was tempting, and curiosity made him wonder why the villagers were not leaving their beds to complain.
The church was full. It wasn’t until he squeezed into one of the back pews, and looked around at the candles, that he realised what the day must be.
It was Christmas Eve, and the villagers had gathered for the midnight mass.
Remus immediately felt self-conscious. He wasn’t part of this community. He shouldn’t be here.
But it was warm, and no one was sending him angry scowls. He settled back into his corner, and enjoyed the singing.
He was tired enough that he forgot to cast a Disillusionment Charm at the end of the service. He was startled by the sound of the vicar clearing his throat.
“I’m afraid I have to lock the church now, my boy.”
“Oh,” Remus said, and stumbled up. “I’m sorry.”
The vicar smiled at him, kind and vague. “Are you staying in the village?”
Remus shrugged. “I – I don’t know. Where am I?”
“This is Kemsing,” the vicar said, concern washing over his face.
“I walked,” Remus said, feeling an explanation was due, and too tired for a plausible lie.
“From where?” the vicar asked. Everyone else had left, save for a plump, bustling woman who was putting the candles out and straightening the cassocks.
“Canterbury,” Remus said, and then tried to clarify things. “I mean, not today, but that’s where I started, you see. Today I only came a little way – there was a village with a plague church and I don’t know what it was called, and I’m sorry, I’d better go.”
“Alfred?” the bustling woman called. “Is something wrong?”
“Sit down, please,” the vicar said to Remus and went to speak to her.
Within half an hour he was installed in the guest room at the vicarage.
“But you don’t even know me!” he had protested.
“Fiddle,” Mrs Hartridge had said. “It’s Christmas Day.”
Nobody in his world would ever have taken a stranger in so easily. It was another, peculiar, reminder that the Muggles hadn’t even realised there was a war.
It would be a strange world to live in.
Yif me my deeth, er that I have a shame
- The Physician’s Tale
The Hartridges wouldn’t let him leave, so he trailed after them to church and then back to the vicarage.
Reverend Hartridge, who seemed to have convinced himself that Remus was an Oxford man, discussed Horace with him over dinner. Remus, whose entire knowledge of Latin literature came from Sirius’ classical education, nodded and ummed in what he hoped were the right places.
He escaped to help Mrs Hartridge with the washing up and was not entirely surprised to find himself thoroughly, and kindly, interrogated. He dodged as many questions as he could, and then changed the subject by complimenting her Christmas pudding.
That evening, when they finally slowed down, he overheard them talking in the kitchen.
“Nonsense,” Mrs Hartridge pronounced. “Of course he’s not English with a name like that. One of those terribly educated chaps who just sound that way. He’s from behind the Iron Curtain.”
Remus blinked. He was fairly certain he hadn’t told her anything of the sort.
“How terrible,” the vicar murmured.
“The poor boy’s lost everyone,” she said, crockery clinking as her voice moved away from the door. “Everyone, Alfred.”
That he couldn’t deny. He backed away from the kitchen and settled himself on the edge of one of the overstuffed armchairs, pretending to be asleep.
He spent the evening watching them through his eyelashes, and felt his heart clench at the easy affection between them. He had wanted that – the chance to grow old with Padfoot, bickering their way into happy ever after. But Sirius, Sirius who was never content, had destroyed even that unvoiced hope.
And here he was, dependent on the kindness of strangers.
Love is a thyng as any spirit free.
- The Franklin’s Tale
He didn’t manage to leave Kemsing, and the Hartridges, until mid-morning on St Stephen’s Day. There was fog again, though it was thinner, but the rest had changed something, and he set out more confidently.
The moon would be new tonight.
It had, obviously, always been his favourite time of the month. It had been sixth year before he realised why Sirius had always been so wild at the same time. He had assumed his happiness was merely infectious until the day in Sixth Year, when things were still tentative and wondrous between them, when Sirius had pushed him against the wall of the shower and given him the first blowjob of his life.
When he had slumped to the floor, gasping, Sirius had crawled up into his arms, smirking. I like the way you smile when there’s no moon.
If he could have convinced himself that there were two Siriuses, that Regulus, who looked so like him, had stolen his identity and been the betrayer, then it might all have been easy.
But it had been that Sirius who sent Snape to the Shack, and that Sirius who had turned on him last spring, spitting accusations and obscenities.
Every time he thought he understood Sirius Black he had been proven wrong. He had put up with Sirius’ drinking, and his inability to perform a simple laundry charm, and his embarrassing crush on Stubby Boardman, and the stink of Padfoot after he hit the duck pond in St James Park. It had been nothing compared to his absolute certainty that he was loved. Sirius, though, hadn’t loved him enough to stay true.
At Otford he bought some more bread and then crossed the River Darent. He ended his day in St Botulph’s Church in Chevening. He lit a candle, and, for the first time, wished he’d brought another book. Smiling wryly at himself, he curled up to read his guidebook properly, wondering what lay ahead.
Agayn the swerd of wynter, keene and coold.
- The Squire’s Tale
He awoke from the sort of dreams he was rather embarrassed to be having in a church, and smiled dimly at the arched ceiling.
The moon was new, and he was miles from anyone who could force the truth on him. Today, he was going to lie to himself.
So, he wasn’t walking this path, in this season, because there was nothing of meaning in his life. He was – he was doing it for charity. That was right – to raise money to support the families of young lycanthropes. Sirius, who was alive and well in London, had sulked for weeks at the idea. Remus had pointed out that he could always come too, and barely ducked in time for The Daily Prophet to miss his head.
He knew Sirius wasn’t really angry, though, because he’d been there at the full moon, before Remus started walking, and he’d come to Canterbury with him, and they’d squashed into the loo on the train and done things British Rail wouldn’t have approved of.
He lingered on that for a while, trying to force it into a real memory. It didn’t quite work – the only train he’d ever been debauched on was the Hogsmeade train, and that had been in a first class compartment, not the bog. All the same, it gave him enough material to be going on with, and he found it was suddenly uncomfortable to be walking.
He lent on a fence and looked down on Chevening Park, waiting for the cold to settle his blood.
Perhaps Sirius would surprise him tonight, by Apparating in just after dark, with a takeaway and a bottle of firewhiskey.
It was no good. The harder he tried the more the fantasy thinned, feeling weaker and tinnier by the moment. There was no getting round it.
Sirius Black was a traitor and a murderer and not worth loving.
"Wepyng and waylyng, care and oother sorwe
I knowe ynogh, on even and a-morwe,"
- The Merchant’s Tale
When he left Titsey the next morning the air was full of a fine drizzle, which rapidly turned the remaining snow to slush. By mid-morning he was coated in chilly mud, and sick of muttering charms to avert the worst of the rain. Drizzle, he’d learnt long ago, could get through a spell that would hold a cloudburst off.
The mud made him think of Quidditch. He’d always enjoyed watching it and had rarely passed up a chance to mock James’ unwavering devotion to the Chudley Cannons. Playing Quidditch in winter, they had found out in their first year, involved a tremendous amount of mud for an airborne sport. When James and Sirius were feeling particularly enthusiastic, that mud had also been shared liberally with any unlucky spectators. He’d felt noisily, uproariously happy for the first time that year, stumbling back to the castle in a four-person, mud-smeared, stinking tangle of chaos.
Mud had meant spring moons, too, and Sirius spending hours in front of the mirror, bewailing what Padfoot’s love of oozing puddles had done to his hair.
You are just an enormous tit, Peter had said in awe, watching him from where he perched on the edge of his bed, nose twitching. I’m surprised you don’t have tits, that’s how much of a girl you are.
He’s definitely not a girl, Remus had always said mildly, just to see James and Pete splutter.
There had been mud on his boots the first time Sirius had slammed him against a wall and demanded, Where the fuck were you, Moony?
He’d been too shocked to reply, and Sirius had taken that as an answer, crashing out of the flat.
There had been apologies later, and sex, lots of sex, but by then, Remus thought, it was already too late.
Had Sirius already been working for Voldemort? Or had mistrust led him into one too many risks?
The path took him up onto the top of the escarpment. He could see the blur of towns in the rain-soaked valley below. He exposed his book to the rain long enough to discover that he had, unknowingly, passed out of Kent and into Surrey.
Well, then, that was progress, wasn’t it? Couldn’t deny that.
When this war is over… Sirius had mused once, stretched out on James’ lawn with his head pillowed on Remus’ thigh. Then…
What> Lily had asked, rubbing her swollen belly slowly.
Sirius had grinned at her. Let’s take over the world.
Lily had considered it and nodded sharply. Sounds good.
Oh, help James had murmured, and Remus had rolled his eyes and tangled his fingers into Sirius’ hair.
Travel round it anyway, he’d said, and they’d all mumbled approval, even Peter, who didn’t like any travelling that involved anti-tetanus potions.
His hostel that night was the church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Chaldon. Its back wall was covered with a vast medieval mural of the damned being tortured in hell. Remus stared at it as he chewed on his sandwiches and tried hard not to think about Azkaban.
And thogh youre grene youthe floure as yit,
In crepeth age alwey, as stille as stoon,
And deeth manaceth every age, and smyt
In ech estaat, for ther escapeth noon;
And al so certein as we knowe echoon
That we shul deye, as uncerteyn we alle
Been of that day whan deeth shal on us falle.
- The Clerk’s Tale
It wasn’t until he crossed the M25 motorway the next day that he wondered, treacherously, if Sirius might have had a good reason for everything he had done.
There could be no good reasons.
Yet every horrendous, friendship-breaking disaster Sirius had ever created had come from the same cause. Sirius would do anything to protect his friends, even if it meant destroying them in the process. He could send Severus Snape to face a werewolf to stop him murmuring about what the Dark Lord did to halfbloods and dark creatures.
If Sirius had, for example, fallen into Voldemort’s hands, and the Dark Lord had threatened to unleash Greyback and his pack to provoke the Wizarding World into a backlash against werewolves unless Sirius passed him information…
Remus shook himself and hurried on. He had never feared that. He had always known that Sirius would rather die than be taken.
Besides, Sirius would always have chosen James.
Now, he doubted. What if it had been gradual? – a date and a place here, a name there. Sirius had never dealt well with being trapped.
He had asked it of Sirius, in the dark, small hours of the night, after the Prewetts died. If we lose, and they come for me – if either side comes for me – kill me. Please, Padfoot.
Sirius had blustered and raged but promised. Then he had turned it round on Remus, and demanded the same promise in return. If his family came for him-
How had the man who hated with such passion gone back to them?
He put a shield charm up to keep the rain off and sat on the viewpoint on top of Reigate Hill to eat his lunch. Every explanation he could think of fell apart. Must he go back to the simplest one – that Sirius had been evil from the start?
If it was true, then he was a fool. He had believed that choice was more important than birth; that the future was not set in stone, that free will existed.
He had never quite believed in the mysterious prophecy Dumbledore refused to reveal to them. He had a sick feeling that might have been a terrible mistake.
The sandwiches were heavy on his tongue.
Sighing, he chucked the crusts under a bush and cancelled the charm. Then he headed down into the town.
He found a bookshop, and, because it appealed to his sense of humour, bought a paperback translation of The Canterbury Tales. He stuffed it into his rucksack, and went in search of a teashop and, slightly less urgently, somewhere pleasant to stay the night.
He ended up breaking into the Grammar School, which had a comfortable medical room. It was not New Year yet, and nobody would be paying any attention to the school. He found it vaguely unsettling - the smell of damp shoes and cheap perfume and must was almost familiar. Add a whiff of sulphur, or the sharp wooden scent of brooms, and it might have been homely.
At least he had something to read tonight. He’d never managed to read any Chaucer before – his tastes ran more to the modern, either moody thrillers or the sort of tightly written, self-referential novels that Sirius had felt a need to shout at every time he tried to read them in the bath.
Bastard always gave them back with soggy spines.
Hell. He wasn’t supposed to think of Sirius like that – not fondly. He could hate him, or wish him out of existence, or, if he was weak, forgive him. He wasn’t allowed to miss him.
He turned stubbornly to the book. The introduction, dry enough to lull him to sleep, told him that today was the anniversary of Thomas à Becket’s martyrdom. He put the book down and thought of Canterbury, and the road through the hills, and a troublesome, turbulent priest cut down in error. The over-eager murderers had died too, hadn’t they? He wondered who had been the last one standing, the one who mourned them all.
Be war from Ire that in thy bosom slepeth;
War fro the serpent that so slily crepeth
Under the gras and styngeth subtilly
- The Summoner’s Tale
It was wet again, and for the first hour his path along the hilltops was so muddy and overgrown he couldn’t worry about anything but hacking and hexing his way through. He came out onto an open hillside red-faced and hot.
He followed the path round onto the very crest of the hill.
He missed talking. He missed company. He missed the warm presence of someone else sleeping beside him. He missed sharing the shower because they’d forgotten to put the hot water on, and finding out there was no cereal in the cupboard or milk in the fridge, and dog hair on the sofa, and realising halfway through the day that the robes he was wearing weren’t actually his.
He missed Sirius.
There was no such person.
How could you miss someone who was just made up, just a mixture of deception and wilful fantasy? How could you miss them so much that your throat burnt and your hands shook and your heart was like a knot behind your ribs?
It wasn’t logical.
It wasn’t fair.
He laughed aloud at that. He’d learnt a long time ago that fairness was an illusion.
The hillside around him was jagged with quarries cut into the chalk. They gleamed milkily under the wash of the rain.
He scrambled down into one at lunchtime, sheltering under an overhang. It was full of abandoned kilns and an unlabelled collection of small steam trains.
Sirius would have been examining them by now, heedless of the rain. He had always indignantly denied the charge of being a trainspotter, but anything with an engine had drawn him like a magnet.
If Sirius had not betrayed them, they would never have come here. Either way, Sirius would never have seen these machines.
There were so many things they would never do. They had made lists, in the earliest of the dark days, before words became weapons: climb Snowdon, see the Northern Lights, go to Moscow and Shangri-La, watch Harry’s first Quidditch match, get hammered at Dumbledore’s retirement party, and at Nymphadora’s wedding, and Neville’s passing out from the Auror College, and James and Lilys’ golden wedding (I see we’re just going to be drunk for the rest of our lives, Padfoot), fly to the Caribbean on Marianne(Of course it’s safe, Moony – we’re wizards), learn what the fuck cricket was about.
Remus supposed there was nothing to stop him doing most of those things. He wondered if James and Lily and Peter had had lists of their own, and whether he ought to guess what was on them. It could keep him busy for years, keeping up with other people’s dreams.
Sighing, he heaved to his feet and carried on. He wanted to make it to Dorking by evening.
The afternoon took him across the lower slopes of Box Hill. He could look down through the dark spars of the trees to the valley, where the River Mole, swollen with melted snow, rushed between brown fields. There was a barn in the field below, and he could see the line of a lane running towards the railway. It was bleak, and empty, and he wasn’t sure if he hated it more than it called to him.
He kept walking, aware of the great hill looming above him, solid and implacable. He imagined in summer it was green and glorious, the leaves of the trees rustling invitingly, casting golden light onto the rides. Now, it is harsh, and simple, and incomprehensible.
It reminded him of Dumbledore.
At the foot of the hill a row of stepping stones crossed the river. They were barely visible above the brown water, so he wandered along to a bridge. He’d never been very good at taking risks, though he understood the appeal of it, that hot bloom of danger.
Dorking, when he reached the main street, was a sleepy town with a lengthy high street. Spoilt for choice between a church, a town hall, a library and a music hall, Remus decided not to risk the library’s security system and bedded down in the prop room of the music hall on a tattered four-poster that reminded him strongly of the one in the Shrieking Shack.
"Brother," quod he, "fer in the north contree,
Whereas I hope som tyme I shal thee see.
Er we departe, I shal thee so wel wisse
That of myn hous ne shaltow nevere mysse."
- The Friar’s Tale
That night he dreamt of Azkaban.
It was an old dream; one he had been having since he was fourteen. He had always known that there was a chance he would be confined there, if Voldemort decided to unleash his pack and scare the Ministry into countermeasures. There had been times when he lay awake, waiting for the tramp of boots in the street or the pop of Apparition in the hall.
The dream was always the same – low stone corridors and the cold leeching at him. He rarely saw a dementor in his dreams, but he always heard them, their breaths rattling behind him.
Sirius was there. Sirius who was all passion, who understood love and hate and loathing and violence but had never faced the slow, grey leech of despair.
When Remus thought of it, which he could not do for long, he imagined Sirius fading, his gleaming hair falling into grey strands, his eyes dimming to the colour of clouds on a dull day, the pink of his lips paling into white, his olive skin becoming parchment.
He could not imagine a Sirius who did not laugh and rage. He could not imagine Sirius silenced.
Sirius Black would grow old in Azkaban. He would die in Azkaban, when he finally lost the will to live.
Remus thought on the Sirius he had known, and was afraid, deeply, coldly afraid, that it would take long years.
His feet carried him along the path, over hill and heath, as he fought to decide what he resented most.
Was it just, even given what Sirius had done? Surely there were cleaner ways?
Twenty-five people were dead.
The Dark Arts of Azkaban would not bring them back.
He found a car park at lunchtime, and an elderly couple, armed with binoculars and thermos flasks, let him sit in the back of their Reliant Robin and eat his sandwiches while they told him all about their ornithology society.
After lunch, he thanked them politely and hurried on through the woodland. This, at least, felt more like a forest, dense and steep.
Sirius had not had a trial. At the time, he had been almost thankful. It would have been a formality, and everything precious about all of their lives would have been torn apart in court for the vultures of the media. He had been aware that Andromeda Tonks had raged at the decision, but he had been too lost to support her.
Now he wondered. It would, at least, been a chance for Sirius to explain. Now he would never know what had driven him to that point. They would not trust Remus past the gates of Azkaban, not until the personal loyalties of this era had faded to mere statistics.
Peter had once spent a month hunched over plans of the jail, trying to work out how they would rescue Remus if it did all go wrong. He had eventually concluded, miserably, that it was impossible to get out, even for them.
Remus had patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and thanked him for trying.
He reached Gomshall at dusk and was surprised to find the pub full until he realised it was New Year’s Eve. He crowded himself into a corner, surrounded by merry strangers. At last orders, the landlord pulled down the hatch over the bar and came round to join the revellers.
Just before midnight, he slipped out into the cold night.
At midnight, he heard the church bells begin to ring, and drunken voices slurred into a barely recognisable version of Auld Lang Syne. Remus looked up at the moon, a narrow sliver in the cold heights of the sky, and murmured, “1982.”
At least he could be sure it couldn’t be any worse than 1981.
But conseillyng is no comandement.
He putte it in oure owene juggement.
- The Wife of Bath’s Tale
He wasn’t the only one to wake in the pub the next morning, and the landlord booted them out with cheerful admonitions. Remus ambled along in the midst of them, accepted on the merits of a shared hangover. One by one they turned off into side streets until only he continued along the path west.
His path was an easy stroll through the woods, and he let his thoughts settle, as quietly as the sigh of the rain.
He could not excise Sirius Black from his memories. Sirius was Sirius. He never had made things easy for Remus.
There was not much he could do to make sense of it. Once upon a time he had loved a man called Sirius Black, who had not been strong enough to defeat his own demons. In a way, Remus thought, it hadn’t been Sirius who made that final, unforgivable choice. It had been generations of Blacks, their genes and attitudes and expectations too much to fight off for any length of time.
It wasn’t an ideal solution, but he could live with it.
When he reached Guildford, all the shops were shutting early, as it was a bank holiday. He wandered up the cobbled High Street, past the glittering Christmas lights and the Sale posters. He followed a sign through the Tunsgate, and up a slope to the Castle Gardens.
The old moat was now lined with empty flowerbeds. He ignored them to climb towards the ruined keep, which loomed against the greying sky.
At the foot of the keep, surveying the approaches, he found Alastor Moody waiting.
“You coming back?” Moody demanded, without looking at him.
Remus leant on a ruined wall and gazed out towards the hills he had walked across, considering.
“Soon,” he said.
Moody grunted but clapped him on the shoulder. “Full moon’s a week on Saturday. I’ll expect you when it’s over.”
Remus, who could lose track of the day of the week but never the pull of the moon, nodded, and stayed where he was until the faint pop of Apparition told him he was alone.
A short wander through the lower levels of the town let him find a YMCA hostel on the riverbank.
He didn’t dream as badly that night.
But litel while it lasteth, I yow heete,
Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde;
Fro day to nyght it changeth as the tyde.
The Man of Law’s Tale
The next morning found him scrambling up the Hogsback, under the shadow of the red-brick cathedral. He found the path again on the far side of the hill and began to follow it along the side of the ridge.
So, he still had a job to go back to. That should fill a few days, even if almost everyone he had worked with was gone. He couldn’t quite imagine Auror HQ without Alice’s husky laugh or Sirius glowering at the next desk.
He’d always enjoyed the work – not just the glory-seeking chases and clashes but hunting the trail of information through paperwork and spell echoes. He suspected and hoped that there would be more of the latter than the former now the war was over.
The war was over.
Was it worth the price?
He struggled with that all the way through Compton and Puttenham. It wasn’t until he was settled in the church of St Lawrence in Seale that night that he realised it didn’t matter. The Wizarding World had been saved, and his losses, devastating as they were, meant nothing in comparison to that. There was no point raging against fate. The world wasn’t fair. If Voldemort had won that night, they would all still be dead, and many others beside.
There was no more Dark Lord threatening the world. There was only chance and free will. He could not bring them back. All he had to do was work out how to survive without them.
Wel bet is roten appul out of hoord
Than that it rotie al the remenaunt
- The Cook’s Tale
The first stage of living without Sirius Black, he decided, would involve dealing with the flat. He wasn’t even sure if he had any right to be living there. Had Sirius left a will? Would Gringotts treat a life sentence in Azkaban as death or would they freeze his accounts and expel his lodger. Would they-
He found himself choking.
It took minutes of blind walking before he could think clearly again. Fine. The real first stage of living without Sirius Black would be to find a way around this ridiculous emotionalism.
Then, and only then, could he deal with the flat, the belongings heaped across it, the bills piling up on the mat and all the other dreary, everyday things that were necessary and meaningless and ensured that life went on.
Sirius had always hated that phrase. It emerged at every funeral, said wryly or bitterly or hopefully. Every time Sirius would explode as soon as they were out of earshot, raging along greensward or gravel paths.
Remus had never minded it. It was rather comforting. Even Voldemort couldn’t destroy everything. Even nuclear bombs couldn’t wipe out cockroaches. Life went on.
He came down off the Hogsback into the genteel little town of Farnham, with its Georgian architecture and meticulously preserved castle. It was the least Sirius place he had ever seen, so he stopped for a cup of tea, in hope of inspiration.
Tea, he supposed, was an answer of sorts. Plenty of tea, a touch of stubbornness, and a refusal to let anyone help, and he should get the job done.
He wouldn’t throw it away, though. Sirius’ Gringott’s vault was a healthy size. It could all be stored there, in case – in case-
In case Harry ever wanted any of it (assuming Petunia ever let down her guard, that was). The boy was Sirius’ godson and probably his heir. Remus was almost certain that if Sirius had changed his will in the last few months, it had been to cut him out.
It could even have been a considerate gesture, in Sirius’ terms, to avert suspicion from him.
Following the directions out of Farnham, he was delighted to discover that he had left the hills behind. They still rose around him, but now he walked along the banks of the Wey, out of Surrey and into Hampshire. He watched the drizzle dapple the water and began to believe, really believe, that the world had not ended at Halloween.
He ended the day in Upper Froyle, in yet another church. He was beginning to look forward to the time when he could sleep in a bed again.
Thanne were ther yonge povre scolers two,
That dwelten in this halle, of which I seye.
Testif they were, and lusty for to pleye,
And, oonly for hire myrthe and revelrye
- The Reeve’s Tale
As he continued along the riverbank, the temperature began to drop again. Remus dug his gloves back out of his bag and drew them on gently. Lily had taken up knitting when they first went into hiding. The gloves, along with a scarf for Sirius and a rather lurid tea-cosy, had arrived with a pithy note on cabin fever and James’ complete inability to change a nappy.
He probably wouldn’t ever have friends again, not true, loyal to the death friends. Acquaintances were easier and left less scars. He would leave great passions behind him. Wartime made everything more intense. Now the war was over there would be no need for such things.
Life went on, and he would go with it.
In Alton he remembered that he had never posted the card to Hagrid and stuck it in a postbox. He then bought another one and sent it to the entire Weasley family.
There, that was a positive move towards acquiring acquaintances, even if Molly Weasley did faintly terrify him.
He bought a bun, and wandered onwards, feeling vaguely superior. He would survive. It was possible.
It wasn’t until he was on the opposite edge of town that he realised no one would ever call him Moony again.
Well, it was a stupid name, he thought viciously. Stupid, obvious and immature.
Well, you see, you do, don’t you? Peter had said breathily. Y’know, like we call you Moony ‘cause it’s a sort of crossword clue type of a name-
Get on with it! Sirius had snapped, bouncing on his toes.
Well, I’m Wormtail, see, on account of being a rat, and Sirius is Padfoot ‘cause that’s some sort of weird breed of Grim, and James is Prongs, because he has ‘em, and, well, yeah.
Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs James had said dreamily.
Solemnly swear, Sirius had continued and then hesitated.
That they are up to no good? Remus had suggested dryly, only to be floored by an overjoyed black dog.
Now he stood still, staring blindly at the faint smoke from a chimney in the distance. He would remember, even if no one else did, and the Map was still at Hogwarts somewhere, after all. He’d worried about that a little, but now the war was over it was nothing more than a beautifully designed piece of mischief (even if he did say so himself).
He ended the day at Chawton, where the village shop was better stocked with copies of Pride and Prejudice than bread and jam. The shopkeeper told him, rudely, to come back in the morning after she’d had her delivery.
He avoided the Greyfriar pub because the robed figure on the sign made him think of dementors. This church was St Nicholas’. Remus, curling up in a pew with his book, wondered if there were a patron saint of bereaved, tea-loving werewolves, and, if so, whether he had unknowingly stayed in their church along the way.
And thus this sweete clerk his tyme spente
After his freendes fyndyng and his rente.
- The Miller’s Tale
Money was going to be a problem, Remus decided as he swung along the quiet lane, his breath pluming before him. He had always been scrupulous about sharing the bills, but there was no denying that it worked out better value for two people to live together than one alone. He didn’t have a handy legacy to deal with defunct kettles and broken furniture.
Of course, he wouldn’t be boiling cockroach clusters in the kettle either, so it should last longer.
The sky was clear, and a glittering frost had settled on every twig and cobweb. It was getting colder by the hour, but the bright winter sun was worth the chill.
All he needed now was a dog.
Damn.
He went back to whistling to keep his mind busy.
It was 1982. Wasn’t that grand? After 1982 would come 1983 and then 1984 and 1985 and so on until he popped his clogs sometime around the turn of the next century. All those years without a war – or without his war, anyway. They’d just keep going, and he’d keep going with them.
Sirius would still be in Azkaban through all those years. James, Peter and Lily would still be dead.
Hell.
It was too cold to cry, and he was a grown man and a werewolf. He should be used to pain.
He just didn’t want to be so very alone.
The hint of a good mood died again, and he continued wearily along the track. He wasn’t hungry enough to stop for lunch, but when he finally reached Ropley Dean he found he couldn’t make sandwiches fast enough to satisfy his hunger.
Yow loveres axe I now this questioun:
Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamoun?
That oon may seen his lady day by day,
But in prison he moot dwelle alway;
That oother wher hym list may ride or go,
But seen his lady shal he nevere mo.
- The Knight’s Tale
It was colder still the next day, and when he stopped to buy a cheap cup of tea the radio was predicting more blizzards by the end of the week.
It wouldn’t matter. He would be in Winchester by then.
How strange. He had begun to think he would be wandering the winter hills forever. Eventually he would have become a legend – the wild man of the North Downs, who stole into villages to beg for a good cup of Earl Grey and some whiskey for his imaginary dog.
He made his way slowly down into Alresford, where he spent an hour watching the steam trains and cradling another cup of tea. What was the rush? He would be in Winchester tomorrow.
Then there would be the moon, and then he would go back to work, as if this month had never happened, as if there had never been a man called Sirius Black, or a Dark Lord trying to destroy them all. He would just be that sickly Auror in the corner cubicle whose robes were always neatly patched. He would put his sickles in the milk tin and the biscuit fund and always end up drawing Belgium in the Quidditch World Cup sweepstake. After a few years, when he’d saved up enough, he might do a bit of travelling. Moscow, say, or Tibet.
Eventually, like all old Aurors, he would fade away.
Once upon a time he had been a Marauder.
Now all the Marauders were dead, and it was time to grow up.
He wished he understood why the very idea made him feel so desolate. Shrugging, he tossed his cup into the bin and headed out into the cold once more.
Whan Zephirus eek with his sweete breeth
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
- The General Prologue of The Canterbury Tales
At eleven the next morning he caught his first glimpse of the spire of Winchester Cathedral rising over the marshes of the Itchen valley. He stopped, as long ago pilgrims might have done, and smiled.
He would be awarded no badge to wear upon his cap, but the deed was done, and it was his, as nothing had been his alone for many a year. Admittedly, the kindness of strangers had helped him along the way, but his own feet had carried him, and his own will had driven him forward.
He would spend tomorrow in Winchester. The next day he would return to the Ministry, for the moon. For the first time in his life he almost welcomed it. The moon, whatever Shakespeare claimed, was constant. This one would be followed, in time, by the next and the next and the next.
The moon alone bound him. The age of prophecy was over, and the future lay before him, and his world, to shape as they could.
He would never forget. Love left its own traces, fainter and deeper than scars.
The path lay before him, however, and, with a faint smile, Remus Lupin continued on his way to Winchester, along the Pilgrim’s Way.
Author:
rosemaryandrueWords: 15, 518
Disclaimer: They're not mine, and I can't keep them.
Summary: He exposed his book to the rain long enough to discover that he had, unknowingly, passed out of Kent and into Surrey.
To lyve and dyen ech of hem for oother,
As though he were his owene ybore brother.
- The Pardoner’s Tale
The fog was still heavy the next day, but the ground rose steeply. He welcomed it and kept to a more temperate pace. He was aching again, as if all the passions of the previous day had marked his bones rather than his heart.
He didn’t want to think about anything at all – not Sirius, not betrayal, not loneliness. He tried to let the fog swamp his mind, turning everything grey and meaningless.
Was this how it felt in Azkaban? If so, perhaps they should send the survivors there.
Then, amongst the comforting numbness, he remembered Sirius, half-naked and laughing, pulling him down onto the bed, his breath hot on Remus’ shoulder.
He forced the image out, hating himself, but he couldn’t get the numbness back.
They had told him that Sirius had been laughing when they found him amongst the dead.
It didn’t surprise him. Everything Sirius had ever done had been done with passion. There would be no small betrayals for Sirius Black. It must be all or nothing.
Sirius had always been loud, demanding more with every breath, his head flung back so his hair spread across the pillows, his back arched, his hands rough and possessive.
It had all been lies.
It had to have been lies. There was no such man as Sirius Black, no ferocious, shameless, joyous man who loved and raged with the same intensity. That man would never have betrayed James Potter, would never have used the others’ distrust of werewolves conceal his own actions.
Those things had happened, indisputably and undeniably.
Therefore, that Sirius had never existed.
The conviction lasted until halfway through the lunch he had in the pub in Wrotham.
He was, without even thinking about it, guarding his chips from thieving fingers.
Nobody would ever steal his chips again.
He managed to shove away from the table and stumble into the Gents. There he barricaded himself into a cubicle and sagged onto the loo, pressing his hands to his face. He couldn’t muffle the sounds coming out of him, though, or stop himself from rocking forward, or keep the tears from smearing down his cheeks.
Oh, God, they were all dead, and Sirius had done it.
He never knew how long he had spent there. When he finally made it back to his table, someone had cleared his plate away.
The woman behind the bar eyed him strangely as he walked out. He tried not to meet her eye.
It was already getting dark. He should stay here tonight.
He couldn’t. He had to move.
He stumbled along the path, across the side of the hills, squinting into the darkness as dusk deepened around him. It wasn’t until he fell that he admitted it was truly night.
There was still snow on the ground, cold around his fingers.
Had it been because of Regulus, who had died at the first frost? Had Sirius’ loyalties, always more passionate than sensible, driven him to finish what his brother could not? Had it been Lily, who had both claimed and endangered James? Had it been some misguided attempt to stop the war with some great gesture?
He got up slowly, and continued along the path, lighting up his wand so he could see the way ahead. To his right, the escarpment rose steeply towards the heights of the Downs. To his left were rolling fields. He could see lights on the horizon but nothing close by. He would have to walk until dawn, or turn back.
He walked on. The fog had cleared, and the moon had shrivelled towards new.
Would he be trying to understand for the rest of his life?
He had tried hard to convince himself that Sirius, too, was dead.
Sometimes he succeeded.
Much later, he heard bells, and followed the sound. There was a village before him, its roofs pale with a thin coating of snow. The church bells were ringing, and he could see light through the doors as he approached.
The warmth was tempting, and curiosity made him wonder why the villagers were not leaving their beds to complain.
The church was full. It wasn’t until he squeezed into one of the back pews, and looked around at the candles, that he realised what the day must be.
It was Christmas Eve, and the villagers had gathered for the midnight mass.
Remus immediately felt self-conscious. He wasn’t part of this community. He shouldn’t be here.
But it was warm, and no one was sending him angry scowls. He settled back into his corner, and enjoyed the singing.
He was tired enough that he forgot to cast a Disillusionment Charm at the end of the service. He was startled by the sound of the vicar clearing his throat.
“I’m afraid I have to lock the church now, my boy.”
“Oh,” Remus said, and stumbled up. “I’m sorry.”
The vicar smiled at him, kind and vague. “Are you staying in the village?”
Remus shrugged. “I – I don’t know. Where am I?”
“This is Kemsing,” the vicar said, concern washing over his face.
“I walked,” Remus said, feeling an explanation was due, and too tired for a plausible lie.
“From where?” the vicar asked. Everyone else had left, save for a plump, bustling woman who was putting the candles out and straightening the cassocks.
“Canterbury,” Remus said, and then tried to clarify things. “I mean, not today, but that’s where I started, you see. Today I only came a little way – there was a village with a plague church and I don’t know what it was called, and I’m sorry, I’d better go.”
“Alfred?” the bustling woman called. “Is something wrong?”
“Sit down, please,” the vicar said to Remus and went to speak to her.
Within half an hour he was installed in the guest room at the vicarage.
“But you don’t even know me!” he had protested.
“Fiddle,” Mrs Hartridge had said. “It’s Christmas Day.”
Nobody in his world would ever have taken a stranger in so easily. It was another, peculiar, reminder that the Muggles hadn’t even realised there was a war.
It would be a strange world to live in.
- The Physician’s Tale
The Hartridges wouldn’t let him leave, so he trailed after them to church and then back to the vicarage.
Reverend Hartridge, who seemed to have convinced himself that Remus was an Oxford man, discussed Horace with him over dinner. Remus, whose entire knowledge of Latin literature came from Sirius’ classical education, nodded and ummed in what he hoped were the right places.
He escaped to help Mrs Hartridge with the washing up and was not entirely surprised to find himself thoroughly, and kindly, interrogated. He dodged as many questions as he could, and then changed the subject by complimenting her Christmas pudding.
That evening, when they finally slowed down, he overheard them talking in the kitchen.
“Nonsense,” Mrs Hartridge pronounced. “Of course he’s not English with a name like that. One of those terribly educated chaps who just sound that way. He’s from behind the Iron Curtain.”
Remus blinked. He was fairly certain he hadn’t told her anything of the sort.
“How terrible,” the vicar murmured.
“The poor boy’s lost everyone,” she said, crockery clinking as her voice moved away from the door. “Everyone, Alfred.”
That he couldn’t deny. He backed away from the kitchen and settled himself on the edge of one of the overstuffed armchairs, pretending to be asleep.
He spent the evening watching them through his eyelashes, and felt his heart clench at the easy affection between them. He had wanted that – the chance to grow old with Padfoot, bickering their way into happy ever after. But Sirius, Sirius who was never content, had destroyed even that unvoiced hope.
And here he was, dependent on the kindness of strangers.
- The Franklin’s Tale
He didn’t manage to leave Kemsing, and the Hartridges, until mid-morning on St Stephen’s Day. There was fog again, though it was thinner, but the rest had changed something, and he set out more confidently.
The moon would be new tonight.
It had, obviously, always been his favourite time of the month. It had been sixth year before he realised why Sirius had always been so wild at the same time. He had assumed his happiness was merely infectious until the day in Sixth Year, when things were still tentative and wondrous between them, when Sirius had pushed him against the wall of the shower and given him the first blowjob of his life.
When he had slumped to the floor, gasping, Sirius had crawled up into his arms, smirking. I like the way you smile when there’s no moon.
If he could have convinced himself that there were two Siriuses, that Regulus, who looked so like him, had stolen his identity and been the betrayer, then it might all have been easy.
But it had been that Sirius who sent Snape to the Shack, and that Sirius who had turned on him last spring, spitting accusations and obscenities.
Every time he thought he understood Sirius Black he had been proven wrong. He had put up with Sirius’ drinking, and his inability to perform a simple laundry charm, and his embarrassing crush on Stubby Boardman, and the stink of Padfoot after he hit the duck pond in St James Park. It had been nothing compared to his absolute certainty that he was loved. Sirius, though, hadn’t loved him enough to stay true.
At Otford he bought some more bread and then crossed the River Darent. He ended his day in St Botulph’s Church in Chevening. He lit a candle, and, for the first time, wished he’d brought another book. Smiling wryly at himself, he curled up to read his guidebook properly, wondering what lay ahead.
- The Squire’s Tale
He awoke from the sort of dreams he was rather embarrassed to be having in a church, and smiled dimly at the arched ceiling.
The moon was new, and he was miles from anyone who could force the truth on him. Today, he was going to lie to himself.
So, he wasn’t walking this path, in this season, because there was nothing of meaning in his life. He was – he was doing it for charity. That was right – to raise money to support the families of young lycanthropes. Sirius, who was alive and well in London, had sulked for weeks at the idea. Remus had pointed out that he could always come too, and barely ducked in time for The Daily Prophet to miss his head.
He knew Sirius wasn’t really angry, though, because he’d been there at the full moon, before Remus started walking, and he’d come to Canterbury with him, and they’d squashed into the loo on the train and done things British Rail wouldn’t have approved of.
He lingered on that for a while, trying to force it into a real memory. It didn’t quite work – the only train he’d ever been debauched on was the Hogsmeade train, and that had been in a first class compartment, not the bog. All the same, it gave him enough material to be going on with, and he found it was suddenly uncomfortable to be walking.
He lent on a fence and looked down on Chevening Park, waiting for the cold to settle his blood.
Perhaps Sirius would surprise him tonight, by Apparating in just after dark, with a takeaway and a bottle of firewhiskey.
It was no good. The harder he tried the more the fantasy thinned, feeling weaker and tinnier by the moment. There was no getting round it.
Sirius Black was a traitor and a murderer and not worth loving.
I knowe ynogh, on even and a-morwe,"
- The Merchant’s Tale
When he left Titsey the next morning the air was full of a fine drizzle, which rapidly turned the remaining snow to slush. By mid-morning he was coated in chilly mud, and sick of muttering charms to avert the worst of the rain. Drizzle, he’d learnt long ago, could get through a spell that would hold a cloudburst off.
The mud made him think of Quidditch. He’d always enjoyed watching it and had rarely passed up a chance to mock James’ unwavering devotion to the Chudley Cannons. Playing Quidditch in winter, they had found out in their first year, involved a tremendous amount of mud for an airborne sport. When James and Sirius were feeling particularly enthusiastic, that mud had also been shared liberally with any unlucky spectators. He’d felt noisily, uproariously happy for the first time that year, stumbling back to the castle in a four-person, mud-smeared, stinking tangle of chaos.
Mud had meant spring moons, too, and Sirius spending hours in front of the mirror, bewailing what Padfoot’s love of oozing puddles had done to his hair.
You are just an enormous tit, Peter had said in awe, watching him from where he perched on the edge of his bed, nose twitching. I’m surprised you don’t have tits, that’s how much of a girl you are.
He’s definitely not a girl, Remus had always said mildly, just to see James and Pete splutter.
There had been mud on his boots the first time Sirius had slammed him against a wall and demanded, Where the fuck were you, Moony?
He’d been too shocked to reply, and Sirius had taken that as an answer, crashing out of the flat.
There had been apologies later, and sex, lots of sex, but by then, Remus thought, it was already too late.
Had Sirius already been working for Voldemort? Or had mistrust led him into one too many risks?
The path took him up onto the top of the escarpment. He could see the blur of towns in the rain-soaked valley below. He exposed his book to the rain long enough to discover that he had, unknowingly, passed out of Kent and into Surrey.
Well, then, that was progress, wasn’t it? Couldn’t deny that.
When this war is over… Sirius had mused once, stretched out on James’ lawn with his head pillowed on Remus’ thigh. Then…
What> Lily had asked, rubbing her swollen belly slowly.
Sirius had grinned at her. Let’s take over the world.
Lily had considered it and nodded sharply. Sounds good.
Oh, help James had murmured, and Remus had rolled his eyes and tangled his fingers into Sirius’ hair.
Travel round it anyway, he’d said, and they’d all mumbled approval, even Peter, who didn’t like any travelling that involved anti-tetanus potions.
His hostel that night was the church of Saint Peter and Saint Paul in Chaldon. Its back wall was covered with a vast medieval mural of the damned being tortured in hell. Remus stared at it as he chewed on his sandwiches and tried hard not to think about Azkaban.
In crepeth age alwey, as stille as stoon,
And deeth manaceth every age, and smyt
In ech estaat, for ther escapeth noon;
And al so certein as we knowe echoon
That we shul deye, as uncerteyn we alle
Been of that day whan deeth shal on us falle.
- The Clerk’s Tale
It wasn’t until he crossed the M25 motorway the next day that he wondered, treacherously, if Sirius might have had a good reason for everything he had done.
There could be no good reasons.
Yet every horrendous, friendship-breaking disaster Sirius had ever created had come from the same cause. Sirius would do anything to protect his friends, even if it meant destroying them in the process. He could send Severus Snape to face a werewolf to stop him murmuring about what the Dark Lord did to halfbloods and dark creatures.
If Sirius had, for example, fallen into Voldemort’s hands, and the Dark Lord had threatened to unleash Greyback and his pack to provoke the Wizarding World into a backlash against werewolves unless Sirius passed him information…
Remus shook himself and hurried on. He had never feared that. He had always known that Sirius would rather die than be taken.
Besides, Sirius would always have chosen James.
Now, he doubted. What if it had been gradual? – a date and a place here, a name there. Sirius had never dealt well with being trapped.
He had asked it of Sirius, in the dark, small hours of the night, after the Prewetts died. If we lose, and they come for me – if either side comes for me – kill me. Please, Padfoot.
Sirius had blustered and raged but promised. Then he had turned it round on Remus, and demanded the same promise in return. If his family came for him-
How had the man who hated with such passion gone back to them?
He put a shield charm up to keep the rain off and sat on the viewpoint on top of Reigate Hill to eat his lunch. Every explanation he could think of fell apart. Must he go back to the simplest one – that Sirius had been evil from the start?
If it was true, then he was a fool. He had believed that choice was more important than birth; that the future was not set in stone, that free will existed.
He had never quite believed in the mysterious prophecy Dumbledore refused to reveal to them. He had a sick feeling that might have been a terrible mistake.
The sandwiches were heavy on his tongue.
Sighing, he chucked the crusts under a bush and cancelled the charm. Then he headed down into the town.
He found a bookshop, and, because it appealed to his sense of humour, bought a paperback translation of The Canterbury Tales. He stuffed it into his rucksack, and went in search of a teashop and, slightly less urgently, somewhere pleasant to stay the night.
He ended up breaking into the Grammar School, which had a comfortable medical room. It was not New Year yet, and nobody would be paying any attention to the school. He found it vaguely unsettling - the smell of damp shoes and cheap perfume and must was almost familiar. Add a whiff of sulphur, or the sharp wooden scent of brooms, and it might have been homely.
At least he had something to read tonight. He’d never managed to read any Chaucer before – his tastes ran more to the modern, either moody thrillers or the sort of tightly written, self-referential novels that Sirius had felt a need to shout at every time he tried to read them in the bath.
Bastard always gave them back with soggy spines.
Hell. He wasn’t supposed to think of Sirius like that – not fondly. He could hate him, or wish him out of existence, or, if he was weak, forgive him. He wasn’t allowed to miss him.
He turned stubbornly to the book. The introduction, dry enough to lull him to sleep, told him that today was the anniversary of Thomas à Becket’s martyrdom. He put the book down and thought of Canterbury, and the road through the hills, and a troublesome, turbulent priest cut down in error. The over-eager murderers had died too, hadn’t they? He wondered who had been the last one standing, the one who mourned them all.
War fro the serpent that so slily crepeth
Under the gras and styngeth subtilly
- The Summoner’s Tale
It was wet again, and for the first hour his path along the hilltops was so muddy and overgrown he couldn’t worry about anything but hacking and hexing his way through. He came out onto an open hillside red-faced and hot.
He followed the path round onto the very crest of the hill.
He missed talking. He missed company. He missed the warm presence of someone else sleeping beside him. He missed sharing the shower because they’d forgotten to put the hot water on, and finding out there was no cereal in the cupboard or milk in the fridge, and dog hair on the sofa, and realising halfway through the day that the robes he was wearing weren’t actually his.
He missed Sirius.
There was no such person.
How could you miss someone who was just made up, just a mixture of deception and wilful fantasy? How could you miss them so much that your throat burnt and your hands shook and your heart was like a knot behind your ribs?
It wasn’t logical.
It wasn’t fair.
He laughed aloud at that. He’d learnt a long time ago that fairness was an illusion.
The hillside around him was jagged with quarries cut into the chalk. They gleamed milkily under the wash of the rain.
He scrambled down into one at lunchtime, sheltering under an overhang. It was full of abandoned kilns and an unlabelled collection of small steam trains.
Sirius would have been examining them by now, heedless of the rain. He had always indignantly denied the charge of being a trainspotter, but anything with an engine had drawn him like a magnet.
If Sirius had not betrayed them, they would never have come here. Either way, Sirius would never have seen these machines.
There were so many things they would never do. They had made lists, in the earliest of the dark days, before words became weapons: climb Snowdon, see the Northern Lights, go to Moscow and Shangri-La, watch Harry’s first Quidditch match, get hammered at Dumbledore’s retirement party, and at Nymphadora’s wedding, and Neville’s passing out from the Auror College, and James and Lilys’ golden wedding (I see we’re just going to be drunk for the rest of our lives, Padfoot), fly to the Caribbean on Marianne(Of course it’s safe, Moony – we’re wizards), learn what the fuck cricket was about.
Remus supposed there was nothing to stop him doing most of those things. He wondered if James and Lily and Peter had had lists of their own, and whether he ought to guess what was on them. It could keep him busy for years, keeping up with other people’s dreams.
Sighing, he heaved to his feet and carried on. He wanted to make it to Dorking by evening.
The afternoon took him across the lower slopes of Box Hill. He could look down through the dark spars of the trees to the valley, where the River Mole, swollen with melted snow, rushed between brown fields. There was a barn in the field below, and he could see the line of a lane running towards the railway. It was bleak, and empty, and he wasn’t sure if he hated it more than it called to him.
He kept walking, aware of the great hill looming above him, solid and implacable. He imagined in summer it was green and glorious, the leaves of the trees rustling invitingly, casting golden light onto the rides. Now, it is harsh, and simple, and incomprehensible.
It reminded him of Dumbledore.
At the foot of the hill a row of stepping stones crossed the river. They were barely visible above the brown water, so he wandered along to a bridge. He’d never been very good at taking risks, though he understood the appeal of it, that hot bloom of danger.
Dorking, when he reached the main street, was a sleepy town with a lengthy high street. Spoilt for choice between a church, a town hall, a library and a music hall, Remus decided not to risk the library’s security system and bedded down in the prop room of the music hall on a tattered four-poster that reminded him strongly of the one in the Shrieking Shack.
Whereas I hope som tyme I shal thee see.
Er we departe, I shal thee so wel wisse
That of myn hous ne shaltow nevere mysse."
- The Friar’s Tale
That night he dreamt of Azkaban.
It was an old dream; one he had been having since he was fourteen. He had always known that there was a chance he would be confined there, if Voldemort decided to unleash his pack and scare the Ministry into countermeasures. There had been times when he lay awake, waiting for the tramp of boots in the street or the pop of Apparition in the hall.
The dream was always the same – low stone corridors and the cold leeching at him. He rarely saw a dementor in his dreams, but he always heard them, their breaths rattling behind him.
Sirius was there. Sirius who was all passion, who understood love and hate and loathing and violence but had never faced the slow, grey leech of despair.
When Remus thought of it, which he could not do for long, he imagined Sirius fading, his gleaming hair falling into grey strands, his eyes dimming to the colour of clouds on a dull day, the pink of his lips paling into white, his olive skin becoming parchment.
He could not imagine a Sirius who did not laugh and rage. He could not imagine Sirius silenced.
Sirius Black would grow old in Azkaban. He would die in Azkaban, when he finally lost the will to live.
Remus thought on the Sirius he had known, and was afraid, deeply, coldly afraid, that it would take long years.
His feet carried him along the path, over hill and heath, as he fought to decide what he resented most.
Was it just, even given what Sirius had done? Surely there were cleaner ways?
Twenty-five people were dead.
The Dark Arts of Azkaban would not bring them back.
He found a car park at lunchtime, and an elderly couple, armed with binoculars and thermos flasks, let him sit in the back of their Reliant Robin and eat his sandwiches while they told him all about their ornithology society.
After lunch, he thanked them politely and hurried on through the woodland. This, at least, felt more like a forest, dense and steep.
Sirius had not had a trial. At the time, he had been almost thankful. It would have been a formality, and everything precious about all of their lives would have been torn apart in court for the vultures of the media. He had been aware that Andromeda Tonks had raged at the decision, but he had been too lost to support her.
Now he wondered. It would, at least, been a chance for Sirius to explain. Now he would never know what had driven him to that point. They would not trust Remus past the gates of Azkaban, not until the personal loyalties of this era had faded to mere statistics.
Peter had once spent a month hunched over plans of the jail, trying to work out how they would rescue Remus if it did all go wrong. He had eventually concluded, miserably, that it was impossible to get out, even for them.
Remus had patted him awkwardly on the shoulder and thanked him for trying.
He reached Gomshall at dusk and was surprised to find the pub full until he realised it was New Year’s Eve. He crowded himself into a corner, surrounded by merry strangers. At last orders, the landlord pulled down the hatch over the bar and came round to join the revellers.
Just before midnight, he slipped out into the cold night.
At midnight, he heard the church bells begin to ring, and drunken voices slurred into a barely recognisable version of Auld Lang Syne. Remus looked up at the moon, a narrow sliver in the cold heights of the sky, and murmured, “1982.”
At least he could be sure it couldn’t be any worse than 1981.
He putte it in oure owene juggement.
- The Wife of Bath’s Tale
He wasn’t the only one to wake in the pub the next morning, and the landlord booted them out with cheerful admonitions. Remus ambled along in the midst of them, accepted on the merits of a shared hangover. One by one they turned off into side streets until only he continued along the path west.
His path was an easy stroll through the woods, and he let his thoughts settle, as quietly as the sigh of the rain.
He could not excise Sirius Black from his memories. Sirius was Sirius. He never had made things easy for Remus.
There was not much he could do to make sense of it. Once upon a time he had loved a man called Sirius Black, who had not been strong enough to defeat his own demons. In a way, Remus thought, it hadn’t been Sirius who made that final, unforgivable choice. It had been generations of Blacks, their genes and attitudes and expectations too much to fight off for any length of time.
It wasn’t an ideal solution, but he could live with it.
When he reached Guildford, all the shops were shutting early, as it was a bank holiday. He wandered up the cobbled High Street, past the glittering Christmas lights and the Sale posters. He followed a sign through the Tunsgate, and up a slope to the Castle Gardens.
The old moat was now lined with empty flowerbeds. He ignored them to climb towards the ruined keep, which loomed against the greying sky.
At the foot of the keep, surveying the approaches, he found Alastor Moody waiting.
“You coming back?” Moody demanded, without looking at him.
Remus leant on a ruined wall and gazed out towards the hills he had walked across, considering.
“Soon,” he said.
Moody grunted but clapped him on the shoulder. “Full moon’s a week on Saturday. I’ll expect you when it’s over.”
Remus, who could lose track of the day of the week but never the pull of the moon, nodded, and stayed where he was until the faint pop of Apparition told him he was alone.
A short wander through the lower levels of the town let him find a YMCA hostel on the riverbank.
He didn’t dream as badly that night.
Joye of this world, for tyme wol nat abyde;
Fro day to nyght it changeth as the tyde.
The Man of Law’s Tale
The next morning found him scrambling up the Hogsback, under the shadow of the red-brick cathedral. He found the path again on the far side of the hill and began to follow it along the side of the ridge.
So, he still had a job to go back to. That should fill a few days, even if almost everyone he had worked with was gone. He couldn’t quite imagine Auror HQ without Alice’s husky laugh or Sirius glowering at the next desk.
He’d always enjoyed the work – not just the glory-seeking chases and clashes but hunting the trail of information through paperwork and spell echoes. He suspected and hoped that there would be more of the latter than the former now the war was over.
The war was over.
Was it worth the price?
He struggled with that all the way through Compton and Puttenham. It wasn’t until he was settled in the church of St Lawrence in Seale that night that he realised it didn’t matter. The Wizarding World had been saved, and his losses, devastating as they were, meant nothing in comparison to that. There was no point raging against fate. The world wasn’t fair. If Voldemort had won that night, they would all still be dead, and many others beside.
There was no more Dark Lord threatening the world. There was only chance and free will. He could not bring them back. All he had to do was work out how to survive without them.
Than that it rotie al the remenaunt
- The Cook’s Tale
The first stage of living without Sirius Black, he decided, would involve dealing with the flat. He wasn’t even sure if he had any right to be living there. Had Sirius left a will? Would Gringotts treat a life sentence in Azkaban as death or would they freeze his accounts and expel his lodger. Would they-
He found himself choking.
It took minutes of blind walking before he could think clearly again. Fine. The real first stage of living without Sirius Black would be to find a way around this ridiculous emotionalism.
Then, and only then, could he deal with the flat, the belongings heaped across it, the bills piling up on the mat and all the other dreary, everyday things that were necessary and meaningless and ensured that life went on.
Sirius had always hated that phrase. It emerged at every funeral, said wryly or bitterly or hopefully. Every time Sirius would explode as soon as they were out of earshot, raging along greensward or gravel paths.
Remus had never minded it. It was rather comforting. Even Voldemort couldn’t destroy everything. Even nuclear bombs couldn’t wipe out cockroaches. Life went on.
He came down off the Hogsback into the genteel little town of Farnham, with its Georgian architecture and meticulously preserved castle. It was the least Sirius place he had ever seen, so he stopped for a cup of tea, in hope of inspiration.
Tea, he supposed, was an answer of sorts. Plenty of tea, a touch of stubbornness, and a refusal to let anyone help, and he should get the job done.
He wouldn’t throw it away, though. Sirius’ Gringott’s vault was a healthy size. It could all be stored there, in case – in case-
In case Harry ever wanted any of it (assuming Petunia ever let down her guard, that was). The boy was Sirius’ godson and probably his heir. Remus was almost certain that if Sirius had changed his will in the last few months, it had been to cut him out.
It could even have been a considerate gesture, in Sirius’ terms, to avert suspicion from him.
Following the directions out of Farnham, he was delighted to discover that he had left the hills behind. They still rose around him, but now he walked along the banks of the Wey, out of Surrey and into Hampshire. He watched the drizzle dapple the water and began to believe, really believe, that the world had not ended at Halloween.
He ended the day in Upper Froyle, in yet another church. He was beginning to look forward to the time when he could sleep in a bed again.
That dwelten in this halle, of which I seye.
Testif they were, and lusty for to pleye,
And, oonly for hire myrthe and revelrye
- The Reeve’s Tale
As he continued along the riverbank, the temperature began to drop again. Remus dug his gloves back out of his bag and drew them on gently. Lily had taken up knitting when they first went into hiding. The gloves, along with a scarf for Sirius and a rather lurid tea-cosy, had arrived with a pithy note on cabin fever and James’ complete inability to change a nappy.
He probably wouldn’t ever have friends again, not true, loyal to the death friends. Acquaintances were easier and left less scars. He would leave great passions behind him. Wartime made everything more intense. Now the war was over there would be no need for such things.
Life went on, and he would go with it.
In Alton he remembered that he had never posted the card to Hagrid and stuck it in a postbox. He then bought another one and sent it to the entire Weasley family.
There, that was a positive move towards acquiring acquaintances, even if Molly Weasley did faintly terrify him.
He bought a bun, and wandered onwards, feeling vaguely superior. He would survive. It was possible.
It wasn’t until he was on the opposite edge of town that he realised no one would ever call him Moony again.
Well, it was a stupid name, he thought viciously. Stupid, obvious and immature.
Well, you see, you do, don’t you? Peter had said breathily. Y’know, like we call you Moony ‘cause it’s a sort of crossword clue type of a name-
Get on with it! Sirius had snapped, bouncing on his toes.
Well, I’m Wormtail, see, on account of being a rat, and Sirius is Padfoot ‘cause that’s some sort of weird breed of Grim, and James is Prongs, because he has ‘em, and, well, yeah.
Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs James had said dreamily.
Solemnly swear, Sirius had continued and then hesitated.
That they are up to no good? Remus had suggested dryly, only to be floored by an overjoyed black dog.
Now he stood still, staring blindly at the faint smoke from a chimney in the distance. He would remember, even if no one else did, and the Map was still at Hogwarts somewhere, after all. He’d worried about that a little, but now the war was over it was nothing more than a beautifully designed piece of mischief (even if he did say so himself).
He ended the day at Chawton, where the village shop was better stocked with copies of Pride and Prejudice than bread and jam. The shopkeeper told him, rudely, to come back in the morning after she’d had her delivery.
He avoided the Greyfriar pub because the robed figure on the sign made him think of dementors. This church was St Nicholas’. Remus, curling up in a pew with his book, wondered if there were a patron saint of bereaved, tea-loving werewolves, and, if so, whether he had unknowingly stayed in their church along the way.
After his freendes fyndyng and his rente.
- The Miller’s Tale
Money was going to be a problem, Remus decided as he swung along the quiet lane, his breath pluming before him. He had always been scrupulous about sharing the bills, but there was no denying that it worked out better value for two people to live together than one alone. He didn’t have a handy legacy to deal with defunct kettles and broken furniture.
Of course, he wouldn’t be boiling cockroach clusters in the kettle either, so it should last longer.
The sky was clear, and a glittering frost had settled on every twig and cobweb. It was getting colder by the hour, but the bright winter sun was worth the chill.
All he needed now was a dog.
Damn.
He went back to whistling to keep his mind busy.
It was 1982. Wasn’t that grand? After 1982 would come 1983 and then 1984 and 1985 and so on until he popped his clogs sometime around the turn of the next century. All those years without a war – or without his war, anyway. They’d just keep going, and he’d keep going with them.
Sirius would still be in Azkaban through all those years. James, Peter and Lily would still be dead.
Hell.
It was too cold to cry, and he was a grown man and a werewolf. He should be used to pain.
He just didn’t want to be so very alone.
The hint of a good mood died again, and he continued wearily along the track. He wasn’t hungry enough to stop for lunch, but when he finally reached Ropley Dean he found he couldn’t make sandwiches fast enough to satisfy his hunger.
Who hath the worse, Arcite or Palamoun?
That oon may seen his lady day by day,
But in prison he moot dwelle alway;
That oother wher hym list may ride or go,
But seen his lady shal he nevere mo.
- The Knight’s Tale
It was colder still the next day, and when he stopped to buy a cheap cup of tea the radio was predicting more blizzards by the end of the week.
It wouldn’t matter. He would be in Winchester by then.
How strange. He had begun to think he would be wandering the winter hills forever. Eventually he would have become a legend – the wild man of the North Downs, who stole into villages to beg for a good cup of Earl Grey and some whiskey for his imaginary dog.
He made his way slowly down into Alresford, where he spent an hour watching the steam trains and cradling another cup of tea. What was the rush? He would be in Winchester tomorrow.
Then there would be the moon, and then he would go back to work, as if this month had never happened, as if there had never been a man called Sirius Black, or a Dark Lord trying to destroy them all. He would just be that sickly Auror in the corner cubicle whose robes were always neatly patched. He would put his sickles in the milk tin and the biscuit fund and always end up drawing Belgium in the Quidditch World Cup sweepstake. After a few years, when he’d saved up enough, he might do a bit of travelling. Moscow, say, or Tibet.
Eventually, like all old Aurors, he would fade away.
Once upon a time he had been a Marauder.
Now all the Marauders were dead, and it was time to grow up.
He wished he understood why the very idea made him feel so desolate. Shrugging, he tossed his cup into the bin and headed out into the cold once more.
Inspired hath in every holt and heeth
The tendre croppes, and the yonge sonne
Hath in the Ram his halfe cours yronne,
And smale foweles maken melodye,
That slepen al the nyght with open eye-
(So priketh hem Nature in hir corages);
Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages
- The General Prologue of The Canterbury Tales
At eleven the next morning he caught his first glimpse of the spire of Winchester Cathedral rising over the marshes of the Itchen valley. He stopped, as long ago pilgrims might have done, and smiled.
He would be awarded no badge to wear upon his cap, but the deed was done, and it was his, as nothing had been his alone for many a year. Admittedly, the kindness of strangers had helped him along the way, but his own feet had carried him, and his own will had driven him forward.
He would spend tomorrow in Winchester. The next day he would return to the Ministry, for the moon. For the first time in his life he almost welcomed it. The moon, whatever Shakespeare claimed, was constant. This one would be followed, in time, by the next and the next and the next.
The moon alone bound him. The age of prophecy was over, and the future lay before him, and his world, to shape as they could.
He would never forget. Love left its own traces, fainter and deeper than scars.
The path lay before him, however, and, with a faint smile, Remus Lupin continued on his way to Winchester, along the Pilgrim’s Way.
