A Realist Watches Her Friends
by Am-Chau Yarkona
Rating: 15 (implied violence, dark themes)
Pairings: Lily/James, Remus/Sirius
Summary: Lily watches her friends—James' friends—and worries about them, because worrying is meditation for realists.
Author's notes: Dedicated to Victoria, because I meant to write birthday fic and sort of… didn't. Happy birthday, my dear! Raven, thanks for the beta. You know I love you, right?

Movie-inspired, but to the best of my ability book-canon.

Prologue

I worry, you know. About my friends, my marriage, my baby, the future. It's all very well for James to say cheerfully that pregnant women always worry more, particularly as the birth gets closer. I expect that's right, but it doesn't change the fact that there are things to worry about.

Quite a lot, really. There's something very off in the way Remus and Sirius treat each other.

James doesn't see it. He says they've always been the way they are—"Moony's a werewolf, Lily, what do you expect?—and laughs it off. He sees the cuts on Remus' face, sees the bruises and the scrapes, but he doesn't really notice them. I notice: notice that they appear as often before the full moon as after, that Remus doesn't try to tend them. That sometimes they're the shapes made by a human hand or tooth.

Sirius hurts him.

I'm sure of it, and I'm not talking here about a few love bites or some rough play. I know how much pent-up disgust there is in Sirius, how twisted he is, and I can almost understand why he'd do it. The world's not a good place for Sirius. It made him a pureblood, a Gryffindor, and a friend of James'. It made him arrogant and courageous, abandoned and adopted, a heartthrob and a queer and an Animagus at sixteen. He doesn't know why, and that makes him angry.

He takes that anger out on his lover, because his lover is a man and a werewolf and the only part of the confusion that he has a hold over.

That part I can understand. It's just the way I shout at James when the whole business of being pregnant gets too much—just human behaviour at the extreme that Sirius always takes things to.

I don't understand, though, why someone as clever and independent as Remus stays with a man who leaves black bruises and bleeding scratches. It's not as if he has nowhere else to go—if he can't stand to go back to his parents, James and I have a spare room we could spare at least for a while, and Peter's flat is perfectly good.

He says he likes living with Sirius because he gets the independence but doesn't have to pay the rent, but I do wonder if that independence is real, or an illusion. He may in theory be able to stay out as long as he likes, but Sirius gets annoyed if he's gone too long (Sirius worries, it's one of the few reasons I tolerate him); he may be able to give minor orders—sit down, be quiet—but it's Sirius who decides where to sit, Sirius who chooses their friends and their visitors and where they go out.

Something isn't right there—and I only wish I could help.

* * *

"Lily," he said on the night it all began. His eyes were pleading, and I simply stepped back and let him in.

"Remus? What happened to you?"

He looked terrible; tired and pale, his eyes dropping shut and his mouth down-turned. There were streaks on his face which made me wonder whether he had been weeping.

"I… is James in?"

I shook my head. "He and Sirius went to the pub—I thought you’d be there, too—"

His laugh had the hollow edge of the echo from a stone dropped into a deep well. "So did I. Sorry. I should—" He was turning back towards the door, but I'd already shut it.

"Remus—it's okay—tell me what's the matter."

Tiredly, he leant against the wall, and said, "You don't want to know, Lily. It's… not nice."

"Come on through to the living room," I said. "I'll brew some tea and you can tell me. I can deal with 'not nice', whatever that means."

He accepted the cup, and sipped before he spoke. "I'd hoped…" he began. "No, wrong place. They'd been so tolerant—no. First things first…. Lily, please don't explode over this, I can't cope with another row tonight."

"I promise," I said.

"Okay," and there was a ghost of the Remus I knew, a faint smile. "Thank you. Lily, I—I'm gay."

I nodded. "Right."

He stared at me. Clearly he'd been braced for some sort of outburst—the shadow of whatever row he'd just escaped was still darkening his eyes.

"I'm all right with it, Remus," I said, and smiled at him. "Well, so long as you aren’t in love with James."

That got a proper smile. "No," he said, "Not James—though frankly I think I'd be better off if I was."

"Despite the fact that I'd be forced to hex you into next Thursday?" I asked lightly.

"Prongs may have a talent for trouble," he said, affecting an arch tone, "but at least he's never betrayed you to Severus."

That one caught me by surprise. "You—Sirius?"

He nodded, slowly. "I didn't get as far as telling my parents that bit."

"You had a row with them?"

"Yes," he whispered. "Possibly the biggest mistake I've ever made. Telling them, I mean—I should just have gone on lying."

"No," I said, and I put one arm around his shoulders, hugged him. "Honesty is never a mistake, Remus."

He sobbed, once, and then said in a choking voice, "You can say that. But I'll never, ever be able to tell Sirius."

"Well," I said, "perhaps not all at once. Let him get used to you being gay first."

"I don't think I'll be telling him that any day soon," he said despairingly. "Look, I'm sorry, Lily. I should go, I've bothered you enough."

He stood up, but I caught him by the hand. "Go where, Remus? You were staying with your parents, weren't you?"

"Hotel, I suppose," he shrugged. I stood too, to look him in the eye.

"Not while there's a perfectly good spare room here," I told him.

"But…"

"Remus—" I said, with as much warning in my voice as I could manage. "You've been through a lot—too much—just for doing the right thing.

I'm not going to let you sleep in a hotel room when you could stay here. After all," I added impishly, "it's not like I'm going to be worrying about your molesting me."

He laughed ruefully. "Thank you, Lily. You're right, as usual. But—are you sure James won't—?"

"James won't mind," I told him firmly. "You can explain in the morning—just that you had a row with your parents, if you like. He won’t start an argument while he's got a hangover."

"No," he agreed. "That's about the only time he and Sirius never argue."

We said goodnight then; I think he fell asleep as soon as he got into bed, because when I peered through the door about midnight, just before I went to bed, he was still holding an unopened book. He was fast enough asleep not to stir when I slipped it out of his hand and flicked the light off.

"Sweet dreams, Remus."

* * *

The next night, a series of three demanding knocks on the front door summoned me away from a quiet evening reading Magic and Children: What Every Witch Needs To Know.

It was, of course, Sirius. Nobody else can make a doorknocker sound imperious in quite the same way.

"Hi, Lily," he said, trying to be casual and reeking of whiskey. "Is James in?"

I shook my head. "He decided Remus needed cheering up and took him down the pub."

Sirius grinned. "Good. I shall join them."

"Don't you think you're drunk enough already?" I asked pointedly. I'm still not quite sure where in my wedding vows I promised to look out for James' friends, but look out I do.

"I can never be drunk enough," he assured me solemnly, and staggered to the bottom of the garden path, where he hit his knees and threw up.

I don't much like dealing with drunks, but the last few years have given me a fair amount of practice. I'll confess I think I wouldn't cope without magic, though.

I cleaned him up a bit, dragged him indoors, poured a pint of water down his throat, and told him he could sleep on the sofa, all the while suffering a mixture of his anger, his self-pity, what passes for his sense of humour (hiding my wand is not funny), and his alcohol-fuddled ramblings.

"Why can't I have the spare room?" he asked, petulantly. "James said he wouldn't mind—"

"Because Remus is planning to use it tonight and will expect it to be empty when he gets back," I snapped. It had occurred to me that I could 'accidentally' let Sirius sleep in there and see what happened, but I liked Remus too much to try that sort of trick on him.

Sirius was frowning at me. "Remus is staying here?"

"He didn't tell you?" I sighed. "Well, never mind that now, you can talk to him tomorrow."

He nodded seriously. "Thanks, Lily." he grabbed my shoulders, hugging me tight, and planted a sloppy kiss on my cheek. "Really, thanks. I—hic—love you, Lil."

I jerked away, aggravated by the over-familiarity, wand clutched behind my back.

"Go to sleep, Sirius," I said.

He snarled at me, but lay down and obeyed after another token wisecrack or two.

Far less comfortable with him than Remus, I lay awake until one-thirty, when James stumbled into bed.

* * *

When it got to nine o'clock the next morning and all three of them were still fast asleep, I got bored and decided to wake James up.

"Sleep well, Lily?" he asked when I let him surface from the kiss.

I shrugged. "Well enough. Once you and Remus came back. In case you didn't notice last night, by the way, Sirius is on the sofa."

He nodded, then put a hand to his head and groaned. "Right. I might have noticed but I think I'd forgotten." James began to get up, but I rested a hand on his shoulder to press him back down onto the bed.

"James—I'll let you get up in a minute—look, how much has Remus told you about what happened?"

"A little," he said. "He had a row with his parents, something to do with them having to many ideas about who he ought to be and what he ought to do."

So, I inferred, not the part about being gay, or the part about Sirius. "Right. Just wondering."

I let go of James and rolled off the bed, not wanting him to see my face in case my worry showed.

"Is there something else I should know?" James asked.

Damn him. He's much too clever.

"Well…" I said. "I think there might be, but it's not mine to tell. And it would probably be better if you found an excuse to ask Remus more details about the row anyway."

"Okay," he nodded. Thankfully, secrets are one of the things he does understand: whom you can tell, whom you can give hints to, and whom you mustn't mention anything to.

"And ask Remus before you talk to Sirius about it," I added, and let him race to the bathroom.

* * *

To my surprise, James acted on what I'd said almost straight away. By the standards of morning-after-a-night-out, anyway.

Remus didn't get up until gone eleven—by which time I was fretting because I'd planned to clean the living room but Sirius was still on the sofa, and heavens do I feel sorry for anyone who ends up living with him—and didn't speak until around twelve thirty, when brunch-become-lunch became sitting-at-the-kitchen-table-sipping-coffee. Lacking anything better to do, I leant against the kitchen counter, sipping my own coffee.

"Good night out," James said conversationally, and Remus answered, "Yes."

After a moment, he added, "It's nice to do that and not creep in trying not to wake my parents."

James, who had carefully and thoughtfully if pointlessly crept in trying not to wake me, nodded diplomatically. "Was that what the row was about?"

"No," Remus said, and gazed deep into his coffee mug. "James—if I tell you this, will you keep it secret?"

"Of course," James told him, flicking a quick glance at me.

Remus must have seen the look we exchanged, because he said, "I told Lily the other day, I'm afraid."

"That’s okay," James said.

"But Sirius doesn't know, and I don't want him to," Remus continued.

James nodded. "I won't be the one to tell him. Cross my heart and see the Grim, Merlin keep me neat and prim."

Apparently satisfied by the childish rite, Remus said in a low voice, "I—I said my parents had fixed ideas for me, like nice safe marriage, didn't I? Well—it's not just that I haven't found the right girl yet. I never will. James—I'm gay."

There was a moment of silence. I watched James' face freeze, then relax as he forced himself to accept it, and—reasonably confident that he'd adjust to the idea—moved on to look at Remus, who had his eyes resolutely turned to the table. He looked scared, understandably so, by the possible reactions to what he had just said.

I was about to say something, to comfort or cheer or support, but my gaze was drawn to the doorway by a long, slow intake of breath. Sirius stood there, pale as a ghost and leaning on the doorframe for support.

"You're what?"

* * *

While I was staring at Sirius' shocked face, I heard three things: James' gasp, Remus' head hitting the table, and my own heart thumping.

Silence.

Then: "Morning, Sirius," James said cheerfully. "Want some breakfast?"

Bless him, he was trying.

"James," Sirius growled—little wonder his Animagus form is a dog—"just repeat for me what Moony said, would you?"

"I think it's for Remus to say or not as he chooses," James replied, standing up and heading for the cupboard—a path which, deliberately or not, put him between Remus and Sirius. "Porridge or bacon, Padfoot?"

Sirius looked at him though narrowed eyes for a moment, and then said, "Bacon, thanks." His expression didn't change, as he crossed the room—past James, who ignored him; past me, and I was conscious that I shrank back against the counter a little—and sat down at the end of the kitchen table in the chair James had just vacated. At the other end, Remus was still resting his head on the table, although through fear or hangover I couldn't tell.

James fetched the frying pan and went about cooking bacon in a competent manner, which I unexpectedly—given the situation and company—found extremely attractive. I sat down next to Remus, mostly to hide the fact that my knees were a bit wobbly.

"Out of interest, Sirius, why are you here?" James enquired, as the bacon started to sizzle. "Good to see you, as always, but I thought you had a place of your own now."

"I do," Sirius said, "but I was bored with it." A typical Sirius answer. "I went round to the Leaky Cauldron, thinking you might be there, but I couldn't find you, so I got drunk on my own."

"We went to the Muggle pub, the Red Lion."

"But none of your friends go there," Sirius said, frowning. "It's all… well, Muggles. Nothing wrong with being a Muggle, but you don't want to mix with them."

James was about to reply, but Remus scraped his chair back and rushed out of the room before anyone could speak. I think there were tears in his eyes.

For a moment, I thought one of them might have the sense to realise why he was upset; but Sirius just looked confused and James shrugged and went back to turning the bacon over.

"Oh, you stupid bastards," I said, and followed Remus.

* * * 

When I'd walked out, I almost regretted it; then it occurred to me that maybe I should make the best of it and clean the living room while I could. But I realised that was just my mother's work ethic speaking—that it was exactly what Petunia would do—and I went looking for Remus instead.

He was sitting on the edge of the spare room bed, head in his hands.

The door had been left ajar, but I knocked gently anyway. He didn't react.

"Remus?" I tried.

"Lily," he said, "you know why I'm upset, don't you?"

I shrugged, then realised he could see me, and said, "I can guess."

"Have you ever read Ringan's theories on metaphor in Muggle literature?" he asked. He let his hands fall away from his face—I'd been right; there were a few tear tracks there—but didn't look up.

"No," I said, sitting down on the bed beside him, "sorry. Tell me."

"Ringan theorises that one of the purposes of magic still present in Muggle literature is to act as metaphors for subjects which can't be discussed openly. For example, joint spell-casting as a metaphor for sex especially where both participants are of the same gender, or vampirism as a metaphor for rape, and so on."

"Yes," I said, "that's what I thought. If Sirius was in a Muggle book, he'd hate wizards, and that would be a metaphor for…"

"Hating gays," Remus said, succinctly. "Hating me."

"He doesn't hate you," I said. I wasn't entirely sure that it was true, but I couldn't really believe it. "He might not understand yet, and when he does he might not like your being gay, but he doesn’t hate you."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Remus said, darkly. "Look, can we change the subject? To say, where am I going to go? I can't stay here forever."

"No," I agreed, "but you can stay for a while longer. At least until the baby's born, if you want to."

He shook his head. "I don't want to impose on you."

"So help with the cleaning or something. You can go if you can find somewhere, but don't feel you have to if you don't want to."

Remus covered his face with his hands again. "Thanks, Lily."

* * *

Sirius was still eating when I got back to the kitchen: bread and jam, so I guessed he'd finished all the bacon.

"Remus is asleep," I said to James' questioning glance.

James nodded, and turned back to what he and Sirius had been discussing—Remus, evidently.

"I don't know, mate," he said. "Remus only just told me. Last night he said something about his parents asking why he hadn't got a girlfriend, and then this morning when I asked him about it he said he was gay. Look, Sirius, it's not that important, is it?"

"No, Prongs," Sirius said in a low voice. "Of course it's not important that one of my friends has decided to ruin his life by… by…"

I have to confess, I found the sight of the great Sirius Black at a complete loss for words quite entertaining.

"He hasn't ruined his life, and as far as I know he didn't decide, more discovered. Be reasonable, Sirius."

"Okay, okay, I'll drop it for now," Sirius sighed. "But you have to promise me that we will make sure he doesn't use this as an excuse not to date at all."

"What are we going to do to ensure that, Padfoot?" James enquired. "Send him on blind dates?"

Sirius gave him a wicked grin and swallowed the last of his slice bread. "If we have to."

* * * 

Try as I might, I couldn't either couldn't persuade Remus that he was really welcome, or that housework wasn't all that bad; he rented a flat on the money his job at Flourish and Blotts was giving him (though he wasn't paying all the rent—unbeknownst to him, James made a private arrangement with the landlord to pay some of it, so that he could have a flat which was actually inhabitable). Sirius went back to his place, only half an hour's walk away.

Things, essentially, returned to normal. Peter came round every Thursday, begging to borrow some money; Remus visited from time to time; they all met in the pub on a Friday or a Saturday. Such is life.

Then one evening James called a top secret meeting. "Padfoot, Wormtail—and Lily—we are gathered to discuss a topic close to all our hearts."

"Cow hula?" Sirius suggested brightly.

I don't know exactly what he meant, but James gave him a very fierce look. "No, you doofus, Moony."

"Moony, right," Sirius agreed. "What about him?"

"He's observably down in the dumps," James said, "and we have to do something about that."

"He's observably not dating," Sirius put in. "'Cos he's sworn off girls and he doesn't really like blokes."

"We ought to give him a chance to try both," Peter said, quickly heading off a potential argument. I have to confess, he's good at that.

"How?" I asked. "You can't make him date people."

Sirius smirked, which for some reason made me itch to punch him. "No, but he trusts us. We'll set up some blind dates for him. Then he'll see that girls are the way to go."

Chortling, James nodded. "That's very much what I was going to propose, Padfoot my friend. All those in favour, say aye."

His "aye" and Sirius' were chorused loudly enough that I doubt either of them noticed Peter's quiet "well…" or my pursed lips. If they did, they didn’t comment on it.

* * *

The first two blind dates they set up for Remus were with Sirius' ex-girlfriends, of which he seems to have a vast supply. The third one, though, was James' work; and it was a stroke of genius, if a twisted genius born of instinct or an improbably lucky guess.

Sirius had complained, once or twice, that he was devoting more time and energy to Moony's love-life than his own, so James offered to set him up on a blind date, as well as organising Remus' next date himself.

He didn’t even tell me that he was cast to cast both spells with the one wand, though; he left It to me to guess, and when I'd worked it out he made me swear not to tell Peter.

"James," I told him, "you are a crafty, sneaky, terrible, trick-playing man who would have made an excellent Slytherin, but for some unearthly reason I love you anyway."

He wrapped his arms around me from behind and kissed me. "How could you not?"

Sneaky, arrogant, terrible, sexy… 

* * *

I'd also made it known that I objected to the amount of time that was being devoted to Moony's love-life, so the evening of Sirius' first and Remus' third blind date was also the night James took me out for a nice evening meal, alone.

Or so I thought. But, as usual, my devious husband had added an extra layer of complication to the plan.

We went to Helios—if you don't know it, it's one of the smarter wizarding restaurants in the south-east of England, patronised over the years by such notables as Lucius Malfoy (junior most recently, but also senior and extremely senior), both Albus and Aberforth Dumbledore, and the Potters (senior, and now, of course, junior).

James remembers his parents taking him there, Sirius remembers his parents taking him there, and Remus remembers his parents wanting to go there but not being able to afford it. When Prongs or Padfoot—or, by extension, Moony or Wormtail—want a nice place to take a date, they go to Helios. If they can afford it.

It's a beautiful place: a large semi-circular room, divided into three or four sections with rows of elegant plants, and a balcony running around the outside of the curve. There are three sets of desirable seats, depending on what you want to do. When James asked me to marry him, he took me to a table right at the back under the balcony, where we couldn't be seen; when Sirius takes a girl out, he takes her to the windows on the long, straight side; and on this occasion, James had talked (or maybe bribed) the waiter into giving us seats at the front of the balcony.

I'm a little afraid of heights, and I wasn't all that happy with it. James just smiled, saying, "Trust me."

I carefully didn't look over the edge, trying to concentrate on ordering—though James wasn't making it easier, as he seemed determined to make it up to me and was starting a good game of footsie under the table.

One of these days, I'll learn not to try and make the footsie more competitive when I'm playing with an experienced Chaser. He's just too good.

Once we'd ordered, however—I forget what I ordered—he turned his attention to the people below (I watched a couple in the window, who were clearly making up after an argument. He kept taking her hand, and she kept pulling it away, more slowly every time); and after about ten minutes he leaned across to me and whispered, "Look down. Don't be too obvious about it."

"James…" I said, warningly.

"Trust me," he said again, which didn't increase my confidence but did increase my curiosity.

Warily, I peered over the edge. Directly below us was a small round table, with… I blinked hard. I could have sworn it was Remus sitting there, hands folded slightly nervously in front of him.

"Recognise him?" James asked.

"I think so," I said. "But—I thought you'd sent him out with—"

"Over there," James said, nodding towards the door, and whispered an obscurity charm.

"So Sirius is here too—but I still don't understand why we're here," I said. "And are you sure the obscurity charm is enough to hide us?"

"Yes," James said, "and it's less open to making mistakes with than the Invisibility Cloak, which is detectable if you have a very good idea what you're looking, or rather listening, for. As for why we're here? Well…" and he grinned a wicked grin, "I want to make sure I'm here to save Remus when Sirius realises he's been set up, or possibly vice versa. Plus, I want to enjoy the show."

"We won't be able to hear it," I said.

James shook a finger at me. "Now, Lily, surely you realise that I've thought this through." He handed me what appeared to be a small mass of thin pink sting. "The very latest product from the workshop of Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot and Prongs: the Amazing Extendable Ear, the Eavesdropper's Friend."

"James," I said, torn between doubt and laughter; but I tried the thing out anyway, and to my amazement it worked. 

* * *

Sirius, led by a waiter, wended his way through the tables. "Here, sir," the waiter said politely.

I risked a glance straight down. They were staring at each other. "Remus," Sirius said, and then turned to the waiter. "There's some mistake here."

The waiter shook his head. "No, this is your table. Booked by one Mr. Potter, yes?"

"Yes," Sirius said, "but…"

"I'll bring the menu," the waiter said, and hurried away.

"But you were expecting a girl," Remus said. "We've both let James set us up on blind dates, and that's just what he's done. Set us up." I heard disappointment in his voice, and his sigh.

Sirius must have heard as well. He said, "Don't worry, Moony. We can at least have dinner anyway."

Poor Remus. To be so nearly, but not quite, on a date with the man he was (and, as far as I know, is) in love with must have been an agony—and I wondered just how much James knew or guessed.

At first, their conversation was stilted and awkward; but gradually it began to seem easier. They moved from talking about the weather (with occasional remarks about taking revenge on James), to the weather and how it affected their actual lives, to… well, about that point I decided that they really deserved a fair chance to set James up in return—or something—and dragged him out of the restaurant. I told him it was to help prevent them seeing us, but I think he thought it was because I was horny.

I'm not actually complaining about the action he took based on that assumption.

* * *

Both James and I lived the next week in a state of perpetual paranoia, and not just because we'd had our monthly visit from Alastor Moody.

"I know you feel safer now it's spring and the days are getting longer, but it's still got to be constant vigilance," he growled. "Keep your wand with you at all times—and not in your back pocket, Potter, didn't I ever tell you about the wizard I knew who blasted his buttock off that way?"

There are, of course, real things to worry about in the real world—You-Know-Who, and his ilk—but there's a special kind of anxiety that comes only when two of your good friends (in James' case), or one of your good friends and a friend of your husband's (in my case), are almost certainly plotting to humiliate you.

By Thursday, James was getting more and more worried. He kept saying things like, "I bet it's going to be something big. It's got to be, if it's taking them this long."

On Friday evening, he announced, "I'm going down the pub. I'm well aware I may be walking into a trap, but I'd rather get it over with."

I opted to stay at home, also knowing that being split up laid us open to a trap, but like James, I wanted to have it done and finished, whatever it was. Knowing Sirius, I was guessing it would involve something icky, like slugs.

The sun was sinking in a blaze of pinks when a knock came at the door. I literally jumped out of my chair.

Remus, or even worse Sirius, or possibly whatever the trick was. It had to be.

I approached the door carefully, wand in my hand, spells for protection and murdering slugs uppermost in my mind. "Who's there?" I called.

"Remus."

I slipped the chain on and opened the door a crack, peering around until I could see Remus himself.

"Lily? Is something the matter?"

He looked like Remus—tired Remus, in-need-of-a-friend Remus—and he sounded like Remus… wand still up, I undid the chain and swung the door fully open.

"Sorry, Remus," I said. "We had our Alastor Moody inspection the other day, and it's left me a little jumpy."

He stepped in past me, smiling. "Understandable—he can be a trying experience."

"Remus," I laughed, "if you've come to torment me with bad Latin, I ought to warn you from the start: I'm as capable of misusing declensions as you are."

"I didn't come for that," he said, "just to talk."

"Okay—come on in. Do you want something to drink?" I asked, waving him through to the living room.

"I could use a cup of tea, actually," he said.

"I can do that." He followed me through into the kitchen. "How are you, Remus? I haven't seen you this week."

"Oddly enough, I'm okay," he told me. "It's a long story."

"I've got all evening," I pointed out, boiling the kettle with a flick of my wand. Damn, one day I may go and do that in front of Petunia just for the fun of it. "James went down the pub."

Remus nodded. "I, err, know. Sirius is there too."

"So, what's this long story? And why's it odd that you're okay—the full moon's not until next week, is it?"

"That's right," he said. "One question before I begin, Lily—how much do you know about what happened last week, on the blind date James and Sirius set up for me?"

"Err…" I said, and poured the tea into the cups the Muggle way, stalling for time. How much to say? How much to leave myself innocent by incriminating my husband? "Before it happened? Not much, if anything. During and after? I know what happened. I don't know what the outcome was."

"So you didn't plan it?"

"No," I said, firmly. "And neither did I give James the idea, or tell him what you told me, or in any other way let him know. I have no idea why he set you and Sirius up like that, although I guess he had a reason, and I can assure you that anything he knows about how you feel about Sirius has not come from my telling him." I put one teaspoon of sugar in his tea, stirred three times (clockwise), and handed it to him.

"Don't try too hard to leave yourself in the clear, Lily," Remus said. "I'm not actually upset about it."

"Why?" I asked. "I mean, I'm glad, but you were set up."

It turned out well," he shrugged. "Let's sit down, and—in strictest confidence—I'll tell you about it."

* * *

It began (Remus told me, sitting down in an armchair and arranging the cushions to his liking with a little more care than usual) awkwardly; Sirius was expecting someone very different, and he'd been angry with James, and with Remus. But as the evening progressed, they'd start to talk about themselves, and Sirius had admitted that he thought Remus was mainly claiming to be gay to upset his family.

Remus had explained that upsetting his family had been the last thing in his mind—that unlike Sirius, he really quite liked his family—and somewhere in the middle of this confessed that he had someone specific in mind.

Sirius pressed him to tell who—first metaphorically, begging and badgering and the like, which Remus said to me he found almost irresistible—and then, when they'd had a few drinks and wandered back to Sirius' place, they'd got into a play-fight, "just like we used to at school, only, well, more adult", at which point… "well, you can guess what Sirius noticed, I suppose. Suffice it to say, he guessed the mystery man was him."

Braced for rejection or at the very least a huge argument, Remus had protested that it was just a phase, that he could deal with it, that he didn't blame Sirius for not feeling the same.

"But then—he grabbed me, and he held me down; and he asked me if I liked that. I didn't really get a chance to reply, because my response was pretty obvious." In telling this, I noted, Remus had started to blush, but he seemed determined to finish the story. "And then, we… had sex, I suppose."

Well. What can you say to that, really, especially when you don’t know how your friend feels about it? "And?"

"And what?" he asked, looking up at me. He was still blushing, and a little confused.

"And is he as good as Daisy Parkinson claims?" That sent the blush racing up to his ears, which I took to be a yes. "And what's happened since? Are you really okay with it?"

He nodded. "I'm not quite sure where we're going with this—Merlin and Taliesin, I hope it lasts—but… it's been a week now, you know." He smiled, not at me but into the distance.

"Well, if you're happy, Remus, I'm happy for you," I said in the end. "Are you going to tell James?"

His smile faded like the last rays of the sun when I asked that. "Sirius doesn't want James to know yet—we will tell him, but not until we're a bit clearer where we're going. I'm not supposed to be telling you—but I know I can trust you, and I didn't want to keep secrets any longer."

"I can understand that," I said. "And I promise I won't tell James. If you're sure that's the right thing to do."

"I don't have a choice," he said. "Sirius has commanded."

The doorbell rang than—James and Sirius, with Peter tagging along almost-sober behind, chucked out of the pub for levitating other people's drinks.

"Ah, Moony!" James cried. "It's all okay, Lily—Sirius has a real sense of humour. Now, are we going to try our luck in another bar?" 

* * *

Epilogue

The morning after the full moon; Remus opened the front door, thinking of tea. It was too late to sleep before work, but too early to go straight in.

The flat he could no longer afford to rent was now nearly empty of furniture—a stool, the kettle, the last couple of cardboard boxes. Tired, he moved stiffly through to the dusty kitchen, and set the kettle to boil. Making tea in times of stress or crisis was what Charlotte Lupin had taught her son.

He was alone. Alone as he'd never been before.

The funerals were over; three of his friends were lying in the cold ground—James and Lily in one grave, as they'd requested, and what they could find of Peter in another. Remus had stood next to Dumbledore in the churchyard. For the first time in his life, he'd wept in public.

Dumbledore had handed him a handkerchief, a twist of cloth from which a couple of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans tumbled to the ground. The sight hadn't eased his sobbing.

Sirius was gone, too—anger flashed at that thought like fire in a frying pan, and his being in Azkaban, far over the cold water, did nothing to douse it. Sirius, the betrayer. And he'd allowed Sirius to touch him, sleep with him, take his fury out on him. Lily had been the only one who knew—she'd noticed, guessed, and tried to talk to him about it.

Remus had refused to listen, saying that he knew Sirius. It was, he'd thought, just one of those things; something that would pass.

He'd been wrong. Sirius was violent, a spy for You-Know-Who, and if he'd spoken up before—not put up with Sirius' blows—James and Lily and Peter might be alive, and young Harry with his parents.

When the boiling water missed the mug and splashed Remus' hand, he didn't move it out of the way. The heat was almost welcome.

It had, he supposed, passed; he'd never feel Sirius' hands again, never touch or be touched, and when he needed pain there would only be hot water and his own fingernails. There was a scratch along his arm, delivered by the wolf-form. It almost seemed a shame that he didn't remember putting it there.

The water around the teabag—Sirius had teased him for buying Muggle teabags—darkened slowly, and the flat dawn light gradually deepened to yellow.

Time to go to work.

Remus swallowed the tea quickly, letting it scald his throat, then took a deep breath, kicked the doorframe, and strode out into the dull new day. He would keep this job, stay alive, refuse to mourn too long. Passing time would be his revenge.

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