Fic: Elegy

Title: Elegy
Author name: Mariner (rusalka @ ix.netcom.com)
Pairings: Sirius/Remus, James/Remus
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: It's J.K. Rowling's world; I just write in it
Summary: Sometimes, you just need somebody who'll understand

Written in response to challenges 8. AU: it wasn't James who died protecting Harry; 7. James wouldn't ever cheat on Lily... or would he? and 19. a mission for the Order goes badly wrong.  (I'm not sure if Peter's betrayal counts as a mission going wrong, given that it leads to Voldemort's downfall, but it certainly wasn't the planned result, so I figure it qualifies. :-P)

Big thanks to my intrepid beta readers, ndancer and amptowl, without whom this story would've sucked.



At the funeral, James and Remus stood together, apart from the crowd, so close to each other that their shoulders almost touched.  They hadn't planned it that way -- at least James knew he hadn't -- but the moment they'd walked into Hogsmeade Cemetery, heads lowered to avoid the reporters' cameras, they'd instinctively drawn together.  Moony and Prongs against the world.  Lily, coming in behind them with Harry in her arms, must've gauged their mood with her usual perceptiveness, because she immediately began to steer away approaching well-wishers and making small-talk so that James and Remus wouldn't have to.  James felt a twinge of guilt at leaving her to it, but it didn't last.  He just didn't have it in him to be dutifully sociable this day.

People stared at them, with varying degrees of pity and morbid curiosity.  Dumbledore had managed to keep the prophecy business out of the papers, so the entire Wizarding World was convinced that James had been the target of Voldemort's final attack and thus the catalyst for his defeat.  People actually stopped him in the street sometimes, wanting to shake his hand "for luck."  He'd stopped going out unless he absolutely had to, and closed the Floo to everyone but Remus and Dumbledore.

Remus had escaped attention at first.  But three days before, someone at The Prophet -- and James was going to cast a few choice Unforgivables when he discovered who -- had unearthed the details of Remus' relationship with Sirius.  The resulting front-page spread had been more respectful than it might've been under other circumstances.  It was, after all, impossible to impugn Remus' morals without also impugning Sirius', and the Wizarding World's martyred savior must not be reproached. Still, everyone knew now, and the ill-concealed distaste on strangers' faces as their stares flickered from James to Remus made James want to start throwing hexes at random.

Remus himself didn't look angry.  Remus' face and posture didn't show any emotion at all. 

Some Ministry official was making a speech, while reporters from The Prophet took pictures.  James didn't recognize him, didn't think the pompous git had ever even met Sirius, let alone known him well enough to speak at his funeral.  He was spouting some blather about a new era of peace, about heroic sacrifices, about looking for hope in the face of tragedy and moving on toward a brighter future.  Utter tripe, all of it, yet all around, people nodded and looked impressed, as if the endless stream of cliches actually meant something.  James found himself fidgeting, shifting from foot to foot in an effort to release some of the angry energy building inside him.  Next to him, Remus was still and silent, but when James looked down, he saw that his hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists.

---

  "What are you doing?"  James stands on the back porch of the house Remus used to share with Sirius and watches Remus take a framed photograph from a box at his feet and lay it on the pile he's building in the middle of the garden.  It's an eclectic collection of objects; James can see more photographs, books, knickknacks, wadded-up clothing...  James is here on a whim. He's not even sure what prompted him to suddenly leave the house right after breakfast to check on Remus, but he's suddenly glad that something did.

"Building a bonfire."  Remus bends down to add a pair of black dragonhide boots to the pile.  The back of James' neck prickles.  He recognizes those boots.

"You're going to burn Sirius' things?  You can't!"

"Why not?"  A set of old Hogwarts robes goes on top of the boots.  James can see the faded Gryffindor patch with a blue ink stain on the lion's flank.  Remus reaches for the box again, but James jumps off the porch steps and grabs his arm.

"Remus... why would you want to?"

"I'm letting go of the past."  Remus speaks calmly, but James can see the signs of strong emotion in the set of his jaw, can feel it in the rigid tension of his arm.  "Facing the future with a clean slate.  Isn't it what we're supposed to be doing?  All the papers say so."

"That doesn't mean destroying everything we-- you have left of Sirius!"

"There's nothing left of Sirius," Remus says in a flat voice and twists his arm from James' grip.  "Now, if you'll excuse me--"

"Don't," James says helplessly.  "Please. I understand if you don't want to look at all this now, but you might later on, and you won't be able to unburn it then.  Lock it in the attic, transfigure the whole pile into a rock and stick it in the back of the garden, do anything except--"

"I don't want it around."  Remus' voice cracks, and he turns away, hiding his face from James' sight.  James steps closer, but makes no move to touch him.

"Let me take them, then.  You'll never have to see a single item until you want to.  I promise."

There's a long, tense silence.  James has to remind himself to breathe.  Then Remus' shoulders rise and fall in a minute shrug beneath his faded robe.

"All right," he says.  "But you have to take them away now." 

---

The Blacks were there, and the Malfoys, all draped in elaborate and obviously expensive mourning, milking their roles as the Dead Hero's Grieving Family for all they were worth.  Capella Black clutched a lace-edged black silk handkerchief the size of a baby blanket and sobbed theatrically into it whenever a reporter's camera turned her way.  Next to her, Procyon Black seemed to be perfecting the stoic suffering routine.  James thought it made him look like a mummified corpse with a broomstick up its arse.  Lucius and Narcissa, in their supporting roles, wore identical expressions of well-bred sympathy.  They were all keeping well away from James and Remus, and from Dumbledore, and from anyone else present who had actually known Sirius.

It was a disgusting display, but a part of James was grateful for it.  It gave both the reporters and the amateur gawkers something to focus on, a nicely picturesque tableau that didn't include himself or Remus.  Especially when Capella attempted to throw herself, wailing, on top of the casket as it passed.  The Malfoys hauled her back, looking faintly embarrassed by the whole thing, as well they might.  Even the photographers, who thrived on that sort of performance, were beginning to look more amused than impressed.

"I heard there's no body in there, anyway," somebody whispered behind them.  James looked over his shoulder to see a brassy blonde witch with a notebook and a quill in her hands whispering to a young wizard who was busy winding a new roll of film into his camera.  "I heard they're burying an empty casket, because there was nothing left but bones and ashes, and the forensic wizards couldn't even tell which bits were Black and which were You Know--" She fell abruptly silent when she saw James glaring and made a show of scribbling busily in her notebook.

James cast a quick glance in Remus' direction, but Remus did not appear to have heard.

---

There's a smoking black crater in front of the ruined house in Godric's Hollow, where the rose bed used to be.  James is sure that the stink of hot metal and burning petrol will stay with him forever.  For the past two nights, safe and cozy in Minerva McGonagall's Inverness cottage -- unoccupied during the school year, a handy hiding place until the remaining Death Eaters are rounded up -- he woke up choking on imaginary smoke.  On the third night he grabbed his broom and flew back to Godric's Hollow.  He's not sure how that's supposed to help, he just knows he can't take it anymore.

The forensic wizards are long gone, but the remnants of their tracing spells still linger.  James knows it's not going to happen, but as he stands on the scorched grass, looking down into the gaping wound in the earth, some part of him still half-expects Sirius to pop up from behind the garden fence, laughing his bloody head off.  Can't you take a joke, Prongs?  You know me better than that!

Lily finds him there half an hour later.  She Apparates in -- he'd forgotten the wards were down -- and comes over to wrap her arms around him.

"Harry's with the neighbors," she says before James has a chance to ask.  "He's the only one out of the three of us who's actually sleeping, so I decided not to disturb him."

James hates himself for wishing that she wasn't there.  He knows that she's being kind, that it's his own damned fault if kindness feels like an intrusion.  Go away, he wants to say. Leave me alone, what do you know about it, he wasn't your best friend...

"You didn't have to come," he says instead.  "I don't even know why I'm here myself."

Lily doesn't answer, just tightens her arms around his waist and rests her head against his shoulder.  They stand there for what feels like a very long time, and the wind stirs the black dust at their feet.

"I always told him he'd get himself killed on that damned bike."  James' voice breaks on the last word.  "But I just thought he'd get drunk one night and wrap it around a tree or something.  Trust Sirius bloody Black to exceed expectations."

"He knew what he was doing," Lily says.  "Motorbikes don't explode when they crash, not like that.  He must've ignited the petrol tank just before the impact."

"He would," James mutters.  "Stupid prat probably thought it was funny." 

---

Dumbledore gave the eulogy.  He'd asked if James wanted to do it, but James knew he couldn't.  Couldn't stand up in front of the Blacks and the Malfoys, in front of the bored reporters and the curious strangers and talk about Sirius without breaking down.  Besides, it would've meant leaving Remus to stand there alone.  Lily was there, of course, but it wasn't the same.  She hadn't known Sirius like they did, hadn't loved him like they did, hadn't even liked him for the longest time.  Long after she'd decided that James Potter was more than just a walking annoyance, long after she'd made friends with Remus and Peter, Lily had continued to go into full Disapproving Head Girl mode at Sirius' antics.  She and James had argued long and hard over his choice of best man.  It wasn't until the wedding had gone off without a hitch that Lily had begun to warm to Sirius.  And it was only in the past year that his obvious adoration for Harry had melted her heart. 

James knew it was probably stupid and self-centered of him, but he couldn't help feeling that a line had been drawn through the world, with Remus and himself on one side, and Lily on the other side with everybody else.  And everybody else didn't understand.

Dumbledore looked tired and unusually somber in midnight blue robes and a black cloak.  He gazed off into the distance for a few seconds, stroking his beard with one gnarled hand before he began speaking.

"I first saw Sirius Black," he said, "just over ten years ago, on the day of his Sorting.  He created a great commotion that day, for such a very small boy.  Everyone thought they knew what to expect of him, and everyone was much surprised."  Dumbledore smiled faintly and shook his head, as if that decade-old surprise still hadn't quite worn off.  "Sirius gained an instant reputation for doing the unexpected that day.  And he lived up to it, consistently, until the very end."

---

James has never been so terrified in his life.  In fact, he's not sure he really knew what fear was until the wards around the house shatter like glass, until he pulls back the window blinds to see Voldemort's hooded shape silhouetted against the sky.  He shouts for Lily to take Harry and run; he actually manages to say, "I'll hold him off" without breaking into hysterical laughter, but he knows he's a dead man.  His one hope is to make his death last long enough for Lily to get away.  There's a wall between him and Voldemort, a pathetically flimsy barrier against the Killing Curse, and he pours every ounce of magic he has into wards and protective charms, trying to make that wall stay up against curses that fall like sledgehammer blows.

It feels as if he's been fighting for hours, days, forever.  But when the wall begins to crack and the ceiling starts coming down in pieces, James risks a glance over his shoulder and sees that Lily has only just reached the top of the stairs.  He throws everything he has left into the next Shielding Charm; the effort leaves him on his hands and knees, dizzy and panting with exhaustion.  It proves about as much use against Voldemort's next attack as a plate glass window against a Bludger.

The whole wall bows inward like a billowing sail.  The window explodes into a stinging rain of glass.  There's a noise like a thunderclap, and debris is falling everywhere, and James flies backwards to slam into the bookcase at the back of the parlor.  Books and family knickknacks rain down on him, and he automatically raises his arms to shield his head before he remembers he has a deadlier threat to worry about.

He peers through the settling cloud of dust, past the pile of rubble where the front of the house used to be, and sees Voldemort standing in the middle of the spell-blasted garden, red eyes glowing beneath his hood.  James' vision is blurring, and a roaring sound echoes in his ears.  It takes him a moment to realize that the sound is not just a side effect of Lily's favorite music box landing on his head.  He looks up, and sees a black speck in the twilit sky grow into the outline of a crouching, helmeted figure on a motorbike.

Voldemort is the most powerful wizard in the world, no longer fully human, practically invulnerable to every form of offensive magic.

He is not, it turns out, invulnerable to a third of a ton of motorcycle and rider slamming into him from the sky at two hundred miles per hour.

The crater from the explosion is still smoking the next morning. 

---

Half-way through Dumbledore's speech, Remus fell apart.  Not in a way that anyone watching would notice, but James, standing with his hand on Remus' shoulder, felt the tremor beneath his palm and heard the sudden hitch in Remus' breath.  James tightened his grip a little, and Remus swayed toward him, suddenly unsteady on his feet.

"Do you want to leave?" James whispered.  Remus nodded shakily.  James leaned toward Lily, who was rocking a fidgety Harry in her arms.  "I'm taking Moony home." 

Lily looked past his shoulder at Remus, nodded, and leaned in to kiss his cheek. 

"Don't leave him alone," she whispered.

Remus was clearly in no shape to Apparate, so James took his arm and steered him toward the street.  A couple of reporters made a move to follow, but he glared them back. A line of Ministry cars waited by the curb.  James bundled Remus into the closest one, ignoring the driver's protests.

"I don't care who you're here for," he snapped.  "You'll be back in time; they'll be making speeches for hours yet.  Here."  He slapped a handful of Galleons into the driver's hand.  "Just don't make a fuss, all right?  Remus, do you want to go home or to our place?"

"Home," Remus muttered indistinctly.  James slammed the car door shut and leaned forward to give the driver -- who had pocketed the money and climbed behind the wheel -- the address of Remus' house.

Remus was silent and still during the ride, and steady enough during the walk from the curb to the front door, but as soon they were inside, he slumped against the wall and let out a deep, shuddering sigh.  He pressed one hand against his temple, as if trying to push back a headache.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I didn't mean to make a scene."

"Walking away doesn't constitute making a scene," James told him.  "We're not obliged to put on a good show for everyone else's benefit.  Sit down. I'll make tea."

"Yes.  That'll fix everything."  Remus' voice was too exhausted to convey the proper sarcasm.  He staggered to the sofa and collapsed onto it, knocking a cushion onto the floor.  James picked it up and put it back before retreating into the kitchen.

There was a pile of unopened post on the kitchen table and several days' worth of dirty dishes in the sink, which spoke volumes about Remus' mental state.  James put the kettle on and washed two mugs while he waited for it to boil.  As an afterthought, he also dug out the bottle of Ogden's that lived in the back of the spice cupboard "for medicinal purposes."  When the tea was brewed, he added a splash of firewhiskey to both mugs and carried them into the living room. 

Remus accepted his mug in silence and stared into it for a long time before drinking.  James took a sip from his own mug, sighing as the combined heat of tea and firewhiskey burned pleasantly in his throat.  He hadn't realized how chilled he'd been until his face and hands began to warm again.

"They'll say it was a scene," Remus said, and James had to wrench his thoughts back to their earlier exchange to figure out what he was talking about.  "It'll be in The Prophet tomorrow.  'Sirius Black's longtime companion flees funeral.'"

"Bugger The Prophet."

"They always phrase it like that, have you noticed?  Longtime companion.  What rubbish.  We had three years together.  That's not a long time.  That's nothing."

"No it isn--"

"Nothing.  How many of those years did he spend thinking I was the traitor?"

James' heart thumped painfully in his chest.  "Remus--"

"Don't you dare tell me it's not true."

"I won't."  James put his mug down on the end table, where it wouldn't present an immediate temptation.  Firewhiskey, he suspected, would not improve this conversation.  "Is that why you've been so angry with him?"

"I'm not angry with him."

"Liar."

"Sod off."  Remus gulped a mouthful of tea, coughed a little and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  "Maybe I am angry.  I've a right to it, don't I?  My lover and my best friend both thought I was a Death Eater.  You don't think, just maybe, that's something that warrants being angry about?"

"We never thought--"

"I said, don't you dare!"  Remus jerked upright in his seat, then hissed in pain as hot tea splashed onto his hands.  James barely managed to grab the mug from him before he dropped it.

"Shit!  Are you all right?  Did you scald yourself?"

"I'm fine."  Remus' voice shook a little, and so did his hands when he held them up for inspection.  "See?  No harm done."

"That's good."  James licked his lips nervously.  "Remus, I'm sorry.  You're right to be angry, and I'm not going to make excuses, for myself or for Sirius.  But I can tell you this one true thing: we never, ever, believed you were a Death Eater."

---

  "I know there's an explanation."  Sirius is clearly trying to sound confident, but it's not working.  This is the least confident James has ever seen him -- worse than the night he ran away from home, worse than the morning after he sent Snape to the Shrieking Shack.  He fidgets in his chair, refusing to meet James' eyes.  "They must be forcing him somehow.  Imperio.  Or blackmail.  Or-- any number of ways."

"Can't be blackmail," James says.  "We already know he's a werewolf.  And so does Dumbledore and most of the Order."

"But the rest of the world doesn't."  Sirius finally raises his head.  The desperate hope in his eyes is painful to look at.  "And you know what things are like now.  If word got out, Crouch might have him arrested just on principle.  And it wouldn't be just Remus in trouble, either, it would be Dumbledore too, for letting him go to Hogwarts."

"All right," James says, "it's a possibility."  A more palatable possibility than the alternative, so he decides to believe it.  "But why hasn't he talked to us, then?  We could help."

Sirius' shrug is just a little too elaborately casual.  "You know what Remus is like.  Never talks to anyone if he can help it."

"True enough," James sighs.  "So what do we do about it?"

Sirius ducks his head again.  "Actually, I have an idea..." 

---

Remus listened to James' explanation in silence, his composure resettling around him like a cloak.

"So you thought I was being coerced," he said quietly when James was finished.  "That's your excuse, then?"

"No.  I told you I'm not going to make excuses.  I want you to see how it was, that's all."  There was more he could've said, about Peter, about sly hints and plausible lies and carefully planted misinformation, but then he would be making excuses.  Peter, buried deep in Azkaban, was an easy target for blame and hatred, but his was not the only betrayal, just the greatest.  Peter had spread his lies, and he and Sirius had believed them.  Sirius had died for his failure.  James would have to live with his.

"I see how it was."  Remus' voice was calm now, his expression coolly composed, but James knew him well enough to see the signs of lingering anger in his posture and the way he held his hands in his lap.  "What I don't see is why the two of you didn't just come and talk to me.  If you really thought--"

"Sirius was going to do it."  James rubbed one hand over his face.  All the what-ifs and maybes, all the ways things could've turned out differently were pressing in on him from every side, making it hard to think, or speak, or even breathe.  "He'd planned to wait a week or two, long enough to make sure that Peter was hidden somewhere where no one could find him, and then he was going to talk to you.  Offer to help."  He could hear the choked tremor in his own voice, but could do nothing to stop it.  "Sirius was so hell-bent on protecting everyone, see.  You, me, Peter.  He thought if he just came up with a clever enough plan, he could single-handedly fix everything."

"And he did, didn't he?"  Remus lurched to his feet and paced unsteadily in front of the sofa.  "Bloody idiot.  If he'd just talked to me.  If he'd tried, just once, not to do it all himself."

"Remus--"

"If he'd just trusted me!"  Remus spun around and, with a swing so fast that all James saw was a blur, slammed his fist into the wall just above the fireplace.  The whole room seemed to shudder, and a brass candlestick on the mantelpiece fell over with a clatter.

"Fuck."  James jumped up and grabbed Remus' arm, hauling him back.  "Have you gone totally bonkers?  Let me see that." 

There was a smear of blood on the wallpaper.  Remus' knuckles were scraped raw, but he showed no reaction when James carefully probed his hand. 

"Idiot," James muttered, "you could've broken something."

"I don't break easily," Remus said.

James started to pull away, intending to raid the medicine cabinet for some plasters, but Remus' hand tightened around his.  James hesitated, not sure what was wanted of him, and found himself abruptly pulled forward, off-balance.  He bumped into Remus, and the two of them staggered together until Remus' back hit the wall.  And then Remus was kissing him, roughly and awkwardly, one hand still gripping James' fingers and the other clenched around a handful of James' hair.

James froze for a moment, then jerked backwards, more from shock than from any coherent objection to the proceedings. 

"Wait," he gasped.  "I mean, don't..."

"Why not?"  Remus' voice was harsh and breathless.  He'd let go of James hair at first sign of resistance, but now that hand was resting on James' hip, and the warm weight of it was setting off an uncomfortable flutter in James' stomach.  James' throat was tight, and his lower lip felt bruised where the force of the kiss had crushed it against his teeth.  He prodded it with his tongue and tasted salt and copper.

"Because..." He fumbled for the words, too dazed to think straight.  It was no good saying, "I'm a married man," or "Sirius isn't even in his grave yet," or "I haven't messed around with a bloke since I was fourteen," because Remus knew those things perfectly well.  "You don't mean it."

"Don't tell me what I mean."

"You tell me, then.  You want me to shag you out of pity, Remus?  Is that really what you're looking for?"

"You fucking bastard." Remus' face hardened and his grip on James' hand tightened dangerously. "You think you have the right to pity me?  Maybe I'm pitying you." 

James took a deep breath and released it in a slow hiss.  "All the more reason for me to go, then."  Even as he spoke, he was sharply aware that he wasn't going anywhere unless Remus let him.  He thought, distantly, that perhaps he should be afraid, but all he felt was a strange, light-headed sort of relief at the thought of not having to make a decision.

Then Remus let out a slow, shuddering exhalation and let go his hand. "I'm sorry," he muttered,  "I had no right to say that."  James, free to walk away now, stayed where he was.  "It's not about pity, Prongs.  Yours or mine."

"What is it about, then?"  James said hoarsely.  "Why are you doing this, Moony?"

"Because."  Remus reached out and rested both his hands on James' shoulders.  His thumbs slid under the collar of James' robe to stroke lightly along James' collarbones.  "It's just the two of us left now.  Sirius is dead, and Peter is in Azkaban, and there's no one left but you and me."

"Yes," James said, "I know."

Their second kiss started off gentler than the first, but quickly grew rough and urgent again.  Remus slid his hands from James' shoulders down to the small of his back and clenched his arms, pressing them together groin to groin.  James groaned at the dizzying rush of blood to his cock, and thrust his tongue deeper into Remus' mouth, tasting tea and firewhiskey. 

Remus growled deep in his throat and pushed away from the wall, forcing James backwards across the floor while still holding him close, their mouths still pressed together.  They took a couple of awkward, staggering steps before bumping into the sofa and collapsing onto it.  James grunted as Remus' elbow jabbed into his ribs, and broke the kiss for a moment, fighting to catch his breath.  His glasses were askew, one earpiece poking him in the eye.  He tried to push them back into their proper position, but Remus plucked them off his face and tossed them onto the end table.  The room dissolved into dim blurs of color.  One of the blurs moved closer, and then Remus was kissing him again.

Pillows fell to the floor as they fumbled first at each other's robes, then at the clothes beneath, unfastening buckles and buttons by touch, tugging down trousers and pants, lips and hands roaming desperately over every inch of exposed skin.  James gasped when Remus' fingers closed around his cock, and bucked so hard that they both nearly tumbled off.

"Shh," said Remus.  He shifted his weight away from the edge, pushing James deeper into the cushions, and began to stroke with his hand.  James whimpered; he couldn't help it.  The feel of warm, calloused skin sliding along his cock was unbearably intense.  He threw his head back, gulping air, and felt Remus' left hand slip under his shirt to pinch and tug at a nipple. 

James' body tensed and shuddered over and over, out of his control.  His awareness was filled with the thump of his own heartbeat, the ragged sound of his own breath, the aching tightness in his balls.  When Remus rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock, James ceased to remember a world beyond the confines of his own skin, and he welcomed that moment of forgetfulness as much as he welcomed the physical release that overtook him a moment later. 

He clung to the feeling for as long as he could, but eventually, reality came creeping back.  After a minute or so, James became aware that Remus was still pressed up against him, rocking slightly, his erection rubbing insistently against James' thigh. 

"Sorry," James muttered sheepishly, and reached down.

Remus' face was a blur, but the way he moved and the sounds he made showed his reactions clearly enough.  The slow, uneven hiss of an indrawn breath when James cupped his balls in one hand.  The sigh when James licked at his throat.  The twitch of his cock in James' fist.  James stroked slowly at first, but Remus thrust into his fist, shivering and desperate, so he let Remus set the pace.  The sofa rocked beneath them, its back bumping the wall from time to time.

It only took a minute or two.  Remus' thrusts lost their steady rhythm, became fast and jerky.  He groaned, pressed his face into the crook of James' shoulder, and came in a wet, sticky spray over James' hand, murmuring something that sounded suspiciously like "Sirius."

They lay together for a while in a sticky, sweaty tangle, with James' arms wrapped around Remus' waist and Remus' face still hidden against James' shoulder.  James waited to feel something -- guilt, relief, some sense of closure -- anything he hadn't been feeling before, but there was only a numb sort of weariness. Sirius was still dead.  A warm hand on his cock could make him forget the fact for a few seconds, but it stayed true just the same.  And he had no right to forget, anyway.  Of all the people in the world, he and Lily and Harry had the least right.

He and Lily and Harry.

James wriggled one arm free, retrieved his glasses and put them back on.  The world snapped into focus again.

"Remus..."

"Yes?"

"This isn't-- we can't--"  He stopped, took a deep breath, tried to pull his scattered thoughts together.  "I can't be Sirius for you."

"I know."  Remus braced one hand against the sofa arm and pushed himself up to sit.  "And I can't be him for you.  And life goes on.  I think we'd better clean up"

They took turns in the bathroom.  The small square mirror over the sink made little tut-tut noises and told James to go home and get a good night's sleep.  He draped a towel over it before wiping himself off with a flannel.  When he returned to the living room, with his robes neatly fastened and his hands smelling of nothing but soap, he found Remus in the kitchen, dumping their leftover tea into the sink.

"You'll be going home, then?"  Remus pulled out his wand and began casting desultory cleaning charms on the dirty dishes.

"Yes."  James leaned against the doorjamb.  "If you're all right here by yourself, that is."

"I'll be fine."  Remus floated a clean soup bowl over to the drying rack. "You shouldn't make Lily worry."

"Uhm... yeah.  Right."  James ran both hands through his hair, realized what he was doing, and quickly patted it back down again.  He could recognize a cue to leave when he heard one, but it seemed like the wrong note to walk out on.  Sordid, somehow.  James shoved his hands into his pockets and stepped into the kitchen.

"Look, about all those things of Sirius' I took away last week...  Do you want them back?"

The plate Remus had just levitated under the running tap came back down into the sink with a faint clatter.  Remus lowered his wand and stared down at the floor, eyes half-lidded.

"Maybe in a couple of days," he said.  Let me work my way up to it.

"All right, then."  James' glasses were sliding down his nose.  He pushed them back up and turned toward the door.  "We can sort through it together, maybe."

"That would be nice."  Remus gave him a thin half-smile.  "Go home, Prongs.  I promise I'll be all right."

"I'll hold you to that," James said.