Laocoon's Children: Secret Tongues
Chapter 3
By copperbadge
AU. When Sirius and Remus go looking for Peter Pettigrew, they make a wrong turn and someone else finds him first. Eight years later, Sirius owns a book store and Remus manages it for him. When Harry stumbles into the store and they find out the truth, they decide it's time to be Stealing Harry. (SB/RL slash relationship in later chapters.)
Warning: This chapter includes M/M sexual contact.
"I am not fond of moving. In fact, you know what? I hate moving."
Sirius grinned and charmed another box into the air, landing it on the kitchen counter so that he wouldn't have to bend over to open it. "Dishes or books?" he asked.
"Two Sickles says crockery," Remus answered, maneuvering the new bookshelves into place along the wall opposite. The delivery wizards had left them in the middle of the living room, and Remus was
grumbling good-naturedly about having to rearrange them.
"Ah! You owe me two Sickles, it's toys," Sirius replied.
"That wasn't part of the bet, and what toys? I thought we left most of Harry's in Betwys Beddau."
Sirius grinned and held up a smaller box he'd taken from inside the larger, which read Madam Schaeffer's Architectural Building Blocks. "These're your toys."
"Oh, grand! I was hoping those wouldn't get left behind," Remus said, abandoning the bookshelves for the much more entertaining box of blocks. He opened it at once and began removing little wooden
buttresses, columns with changeable capitals, and thin arrow-slit windowframes.
"Going to build a cathedral?" Sirius asked, as he unpacked the rest of the box -- a few tea towels wrapped around some blue-glass ornaments that always sat on their windowsill in Betwys Beddau, and
some puzzles from Madam Schaeffer's.
"Just part of one," Remus replied. "Where's the -- there we are," he said, taking out a thin wooden circle with an inset rose-window design. Sirius watched in amusement as the front facade of a
church was assembled, Remus' nimble fingers joining the blocks deftly. Finally, he pressed the rose-window into the middle, and set it up on the counter against the wall, murmuring a charm to make
the window glow.
"And you accuse me of being nine years old," Sirius said with a grin. Remus matched it, but didn't reply; after a moment he felt Sirius' arm snake around his waist, and the press of his chin on his
shoulder.
"I know you missed it. This, the magical world," he continued quietly. "Merlin knows why, since it hasn't been kind to -- "
"It's our home," Remus said swiftly, cutting him off, but he didn't pull away. "Home isn't always easy, but it's always home."
"Mmh. That's true." Sirius nuzzled his neck, and Remus leaned back into the embrace a little, his hands covering Sirius'. "You know, we've been working hard all morning..."
"You just want an excuse not to finish unpacking."
"Well, that doesn't hurt," Sirius agreed. His hands slipped a little lower, and Remus let out a soft breath that wasn't quite a moan. "But I was thinking it's a very old and honourable tradition to
christen new furniture -- "
Remus laughed. "I hope you're not meaning the shelves."
"I was thinking of the sofa," Sirius said, pulling him slow backwards towards the living room. It was an awfully nice new sofa; soft upholstery, wide cushions, deep and comfortable. Remus smiled and
let himself be moved, turning to face Sirius when their legs bumped against it.
"The boys," he said around a warm, affectionate kiss, the sort Sirius had a naughty habit of turning passionate.
"Gone with Ted," Sirius answered. "Won't be back for hours."
Remus was going to reply, something about locking the door, but Sirius put a hand on his chest and pushed gently, angling him down onto the sofa with his back against the armrest. They were good at
this, good at moving together and finding the ways the other fit; good at dancing around and with each other.
It was an informal arrangement, unspoken mostly, but it worked. It had been, once, Remus following Sirius because that was what he'd always done, following Harry because he loved the boy as if he
were his own blood, but now it was them, a family -- Remus and Sirius, and their boy Harry, theirs, and it didn't matter for the moment if nobody else knew that.
Sirius had straddled his hips and was kissing his jaw, hands unbuttoning his shirt, pulling it haphazardly out of his trousers; he managed to push Sirius away for long enough to pull off the old
t-shirt Sirius wore, fingers working at his belt buckle as Sirius slid warm hands inside Remus' shirt. He had followed Sirius for years, wanting this -- wanting the skate of Sirius' fingers over his
ribcage, the spread of his hands over his skin. Sirius loved to touch, and Remus had been starved for it.
He managed to get Sirius' belt undone and shove his trousers down far enough that Sirius hissed with pleasure and fumbled with the zip of Remus' flies, the belt sliding easily over his hips if he
sucked in a breath for a minute. He often wondered privately what Sirius thought of him, skinny and scarred and ragtag, but when they were together like this, clothes still half-on, hips arching
against each other, breath coming fast against slick skin, hands everywhere at once, stroking, encouraging, exploring --
"Sirius, mum says to -- MERLIN."
Remus gasped and opened his eyes, turning his head to see Dora standing in the doorway, one hand still on the doorknob. Sirius tensed and turned as well, his dark hair brushing Remus' chest
tantalisingly even as the horror of the situation washed over them.
Dora was flushed bright red, and staring at them; hopefully the fact that their clothing was mostly still on made the situation better, though Remus had a terrible suspicion it somehow made it much
worse.
"Dora," Sirius said faintly. "Give us a minute?"
She was still staring. Remus very slowly lifted the corner of his unbuttoned shirt, and pulled it across the bits of his chest that weren't covered by Sirius' head.
"Dora," Sirius said.
"Yes?" she asked faintly.
"You've come down from Hogwarts for lunch?"
"Yes..."
"Good to see you. Close the door and tell your mum we'll be down in a few minutes."
She nodded, mutely, and closed the door.
"Dora."
"Yes?"
"Go through the door and then close it, okay?"
When she was gone, Remus leaned his head back against the armrest and laughed. Sirius kissed his collarbone, and pushed himself up slightly.
"We should dress," he said regretfully. "They'll be waiting."
Remus could feel heat still against his thigh. "Your cousin doesn't seem to have dampened your enthusiasm much."
"Maybe I'm secretly an exhibitionist," Sirius said with a grin. Remus shifted his weight a little, and Sirius moaned.
"Lunch can wait five minutes," he said, pulling Sirius' head up to kiss him on the mouth. His other hand drifted back down to stroke them both, tantalisingly, and he was pleased to hear Sirius'
breath hitch. "Poor Dora..."
"Poor Dora?" Sirius growled, falling into a quick, even rhythm, and Remus shivered happily. "Just think of the show we gave her -- oh -- "
He gasped and came, and Remus nuzzled against his cheek, bucking his hips as he followed. They lay for a minute or two, catching their breath; eventually Remus stretched and murmured a cleaning
spell.
"Well," Sirius said, as he pushed himself up and reached for his t-shirt, pulling it on before tugging his pants and trousers up, "I'm starving. You?"
Remus laughed and let Sirius button his shirt for him. "Ravenous."
***
The house was empty and quiet with the workmen gone; Narcissa moved through it like a ghost among ghosts. The sheeted furniture lending an eerie surreality to the rooms, as though it was not a place
to live so much as a peculiar indoor graveyard.
Her bedroom was untouched, of course; the bedroom she and Lucius had shared, once, the bedroom that didn't change because as much as she hated her husband sometimes, she couldn't bear to part with
the shreds of their marriage. For the same reason, as much as she might scream and rave at Draco, she would not send him away without at least a token battle.
Draco was half of her, after all, and she was proud of that, just as she was proud, in a twisted sort of way, that her husband rotted in prison on the Dark Lord's behalf. She had given a husband up
to him and did not expect reward for that; she would do better with her son.
She had dreamed of being at the right hand of Lord Voldemort, and if Lucius had abandoned her, Draco would serve here just as well.
She stepped into the library -- Lucius' library; like a good Black woman, when she had married she had gone to her husband's house, and nearly everything in it was a Malfoy possession. These were
Lucius' books, would one day be Draco's. Some of them sooner than others.
She took a key from around her neck, the key that opened every door in the house, and used it to unlock the little glass cabinet at the back of the library, next to the cold, empty fireplace.
These...these were her things. Her little collection of Dark artefacts, carefully arranged and preserved.
Reaching inside, past chalices made of black stone and stands of velvet with ropes of silver chain on them, she found what she was looking for -- a nondescript black diary, a Muggle thing bought in
Vauxhall Road decades ago, to judge from the year stamped on it.
"Narcissa," said a voice behind her, and she pointedly did not start.
"Walden," she replied, removing the book and locking the cupboard again. "So good of you to come."
"For you, always," he answered. "Your elf let me in."
She turned around and clutched the diary tightly, fingers tapping on the cheap cover.
"Is this it?" he asked, eyeing the plain little book carefully.
"Yes," she answered. He stepped closer. Walden Macnair was like the animals he dealt with, dangerous and unpredictable, and while she loved that, she never knew what to expect....
He lifted the book out of her fingers, and placed it carefully in an inner pocket of his leather duster, before shedding the long coat and draping it over a nearby chair. She backed into the cabinet
as he came forward, his arms on either side of her shoulders, palms flat against the glass.
"Will it work?" he asked, lips close to hers. He smelled like leather oil and the acrid tang of ground metal; not unpleasant, but always surprising to her.
Macnair was a rangy, weatherbeaten man, with ropy muscles from years of handling and putting-down dangerous animals; surprising too was how firm, how immovable he could be when he pressed against
her, how frail she felt in comparison. Everything that Lucius had been -- pale, controlled, calm, vicious -- Walden contrasted. Even his own particular brand of cruelty was animal, predatory but not
sadistic.
One of his hands lifted away from the glass -- she'd have to clean it later, she reminded herself -- and gently cupped her breast through the thin straw-coloured robe she wore. She gasped and some of
her tension faded away; clearly he was in a good mood tonight.
"I'm not in the habit of failure," she whispered back, as he began to kiss her neck.
***
"Prognosis?"
Madam Pomfrey folded up the small brass device she had, until a few moments before, been holding over Severus Snape's heart, and crossed her arms.
"You're not to exert yourself," she said.
"Do I ever?" he asked, reaching for his shirt. She slapped his hand away, and he gave her a glare of injured dignity.
"I'm not done yet with you, and I'd like to remind you that if you hadn't exerted yourself, last June, you wouldn't be in this predicament now," she replied. "Whatever Pettigrew did to you, Severus,
it's had lasting impact."
The worry in his eyes rose a notch, and she shook her head. "Don't fret too much. You're fine, but in order to ensure that you remain fine, I'd like you to take it easy for a few months still."
"Splendid," he growled. "May I put my shirt on now?"
"No. I want to have a look at your lungs."
"My lungs are perfectly functional," he answered, and reached for his shirt again.
"Oh, don't be a big baby, Severus," she replied, and unfolded another device, this one silver. He rolled his eyes and held still while she pressed it to one side of his chest and then the other,
carefully studying the dials that clicked and whirred as she did so. "You were out in the forest yesterday, and the late-summer damp -- "
"For an hour," he protested. "Two at most. That's hardly enough time to catch cold, let alone some kind of lung ailment."
"That's for me to determine. What were you doing out there?"
"I had business with the centaurs."
"Hmm, the mirrors?"
He gave her a sharp look. "What do you know about them?"
"Severus, it's a small school. I know the Mirror of Ynitsed was broken. The centaurs have been sending messages up to the castle all summer, asking after you. I assumed from the way Dumbledore spoke
that they weren't particularly friendly notes."
He was silent for a moment, as she adjusted a dial.
"Erised has become unstable," he said, after a while. "It no longer shows the heart's desire -- they allowed me to examine it."
She glanced up at his face, worried by his tone. "What does it show?"
"Base desire, as far as I can tell. Violent urges, animal impulses. The centaurs are...upset." He glanced out the nearby window, where one edge of the forest could just barely be seen. "The magic
that forged the mirrors is lost, even to them -- they kept repeating 'destiny is shattered'. As though I could do anything about it."
"Have they asked you to do anything about it?" she inquired.
He looked taken aback, as if she had said something he hadn't considered before. "No...no, they didn't, precisely. Are you finished?" he asked abruptly.
"Yes; you may dress now," she said magnanimously. He pulled the white shirt over his head, lacing it in the front, and then followed it with his usual black, buttoning the line of small loops along
the arms first, then up his chest. She smiled in amusement as he pulled his professors' robes over them, and wondered how he didn't overheat in all those layers.
"Pomfrey," he said, as he adjusted the robes on his shoulders, "I'd like to ask...."
"Yes?" she said, tidying away the instruments she'd been using.
"How close was it?"
She glanced at him. "How close was what?"
"The hurt I took from Pettigrew. You didn't tell me everything," he said. "You still haven't."
"Mindreading, are we, Severus?" she asked. "Well, I suppose you're entitled to know, now. I didn't want to worry you."
"Am I often in the habit of worrying?" he inquired. "How close was it? To fatal?"
"It was close," she said.
He nodded, impassively, and fixed the sleeves of the robes. "I'll see you again if I have any troubles. And of course at the welcoming feast."
She gave him a smile, which he returned less enthusiastically before vanishing into the corridor leading away from the hospital wing. As a person he was prickly and rude, as a patient incorrigibly
disobedient, but he had a good heart. She had reason to know.
***
There were many nights, even now when he had the measure of Remus Lupin as he hadn't when they'd only been friends, that Sirius felt he was as much his protector as he was...well, whatever you wanted
to call what they were. Lover -- or companion, perhaps. Sirius didn't really care to label it.
Ever since they were thirteen, Sirius had been there -- hundreds of dawns he'd kept vigil over a sleeping, pain-wracked body, too young to suffer the monstrous indignities of the lunar change. Since
they were fifteen, there had been whole nights when he was one of Remus' packmates, the most peculiar pack a wolf ever kept. He had employed Remus when he was starving, and Sirius was proud that he
had never once held that over his head -- had never even thought of it. For the past three years he'd been allowed to sleep beside him, to reach out in the night and touch him if he liked.
Or like tonight, to watch Remus as he dreamed, because returning to London meant returning to the odd, unsettling, prescient dreams that were one more disadvantage of lycanthropy. Whether it was a
connection to whatever controlled the way events turned in the world, or a knack for Divination, or some peculiar link with another version of their existence (one in which horrors lay -- twelve
years of Azkaban for Sirius, continual torment at the hands of the Dursleys for Harry, a decade and more of solitary poverty for Remus) Sirius didn't care. All he knew was that it had saved Harry's
life once, and once had driven Remus on an obsessed search for Peter. Too many times to count, it had robbed him of a decent night's sleep.
Remus shifted a little, head turning on the pillow, eyes moving under his eyelids, and Sirius watched. His mouth was open, and a soft cry escaped, but for all Sirius knew he could be dreaming about
the afternoon's briefly-interrupted activities. He stretched out a hand and smoothed silver-brown hair back off his forehead, leaning close and whispering soothing nonsense reassurances. Skin cold,
almost clammy; perhaps it was no more than a touch of the flu upsetting his sleep.
"Moony," he said softly, "What are you dreaming?"
Remus' eyes opened and it took them a minute to focus; Sirius realised it wasn't just his forehead that was cold -- his whole body was chilled as if he'd come in from a storm. His hands were freezing
when Sirius pulled him close, and he tightened the blankets around their shoulders.
"Cold," Remus said.
"It's just a chill -- "
"No -- I was dreaming of cold..."
Sirius gathered as much of the lean, angular body as he could up against him, willing some of his heat into the chill skin.
"Just cold?" he asked, and Remus shook his head. "Just a dream?"
Another headshake. He stayed silent until Remus drew breath, his hands already warmer, his body no longer trembling.
"I was in a classroom," he said softly. "And there was a boy there...not Harry...I couldn't see his face. But I remember feeling so cold. As if just by looking at me, he could freeze me up. And
anxious...because I knew who he was, but he didn't know that -- it was -- petrifying..."
"You knew who he was?"
"I knew what he represented," Remus said. "Something horrible -- something poisonous, blood-poison."
"Did he say anything?"
"No, that was a part of it. Fuck, I'm freezing."
Sirius threw his own blankets off and doubled them over the other man, not sure what else to do. He could get up and get heavier blankets, but that would mean leaving him alone in the bed. Instead he
leaned back and grasped his wand, which lay haphazardly across the clock on his nightstand. The only warming charm he could remember was one they used to use after Quidditch at school to relax the
muscles, but it seemed to work all right; before he could ask if that was better, Remus' body had gone slack against him, and his eyes were closed again.
"All right then, Moony?" he asked, and Remus nuzzled closer, muttering something half-coherently as he dropped off to sleep. After a while, though he had wanted to remain watchful, Sirius slept
also.
When he asked, over breakfast the next morning, if Remus remembered waking up in the night, he got a puzzled smile for his pains.
"Why, did I say something stupid in my sleep?" Remus asked, pouring syrup onto his oatmeal.
"No -- just curious if you remembered it," Sirius answered.
"I don't remember, Pads. Maybe you dreamed it."
"Maybe I did."
Just then Harry emerged from his room, yawning and wild-haired, and Sirius was distracted by fixing him breakfast; not that they needed to speak more, he supposed. He was Padfoot, after all, and it
was his job to guard Moony; it was what he had done for nearly twenty years. If that meant keeping secrets Moony didn't even know he had, he could live with that. The rewards for being a faithful
guardian far outweighed the trouble.