Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Sirius, get downstairs immediately! Just for today, can’t you stay off the phone?"

From his mother’s voice, it was clear that her patience had run out two reprimands ago. Sirius could practically hear the wood creaking under her hand. She was standing at the bottom of the stairs, gripping the bannister. A closed door and a long, dark corridor separated them, but her voice still echoed as if it were inside his skull.

For the past twenty-four hours, Sirius had done nothing but listen to James through the phone speaker. His ramblings about girls, sports, university, mixed with shared stories from their past and increasingly far-fetched plans for the future, were the only things keeping Sirius from losing his mind completely.

The thing was, his younger brother Regulus had taken his own life two days ago. He had graduated with flying colours, passed all his bloody exams. Their mum and dad had big plans for him. But instead, Reg chose the bottom of the sea, leaving Sirius to deal with the fallout.

The breakdown had come and gone. Sirius had already borne the full weight of their mother’s anger and despair, taking the blow in his brother’s stead. Even the nauseating dread that used to devour him whenever he came home had subsided – there simply wasn’t room for it now. He was somewhere in the numb stupor of depression, that state where tears roll down your cheeks but you no longer have the strength to react.

"...and then, to impress her, I said I liked Murakami’s poetry, and she looked at me like I was an idiot and said–" James paused; there was a loud crash from the speaker, as if something had fallen, followed by a muffled curse. "She said Murakami never wrote poetry! How was I supposed to know? It’s not like I’m the one studying literature!" He was clearly holding something in his mouth now – it made his words slightly garbled. "You still with me?"

Sirius gave a faint grunt to show he was listening. He knew that if he didn’t go downstairs now, his mother would come up herself – the last thing he wanted. But once he did go down, he’d have to face the reality that today was his younger brother’s funeral. Sirius rolled from his back onto his side, pulling his knees to his chest, curling into a foetal position.

"Listen, I know your mum hates me, but if I could be there..." James had apparently put aside whatever he was doing. His voice was hoarse from hours spent trying to soothe and distract Sirius. "Maybe it’d be easier if we could get through this together."

More than anything, Sirius wanted to be with James in their flat, far away from here. He squeezed his eyes shut, feeling his heart clench again with pain. It surged and receded like the sea that had taken Reg.

"James..."

"Yeah?" James immediately perked up – until now he’d only been getting mumbles and the occasional sob.

"I don’t think I can do it," Sirius said slowly, each word a struggle. "I can’t look at him in that coffin. I just can’t."

Sirius rose to his feet slowly, realising that panic was beginning to creep in. It felt like a sudden surge of adrenaline had swept away the exhaustion of the past few days. All at once, with startling clarity, he understood that this single moment was the only thing standing between him and the terrifying new reality. If he didn’t act now, it would consume him. He wished he could teleport away, vanish into thin air – anything but this.

"James, I... I... I can’t!"

"All right, Padfoot, just breathe! Come on, with me now," James began loudly breathing into the phone, as if guiding someone through labour. "Like this – in..." he inhaled dramatically, "and out..."

He would have kept going, but breathing exercises weren’t going to help Sirius now – nothing would.

"Let’s run away..."

James faltered, clearly not expecting that. Something else clattered in the background. He’d probably just grabbed the phone and wedged it between his shoulder and cheek, because his voice became harder to hear.

"Erm... all right. I’d love to get you out of that house," Sirius heard the zip of a bag being closed. "Actually, I’ve just finished packing. I was planning to come get you right after the funeral. But if you want to leave now, it’s about an hour’s drive to that posh estate you lot live in..."

Sirius tuned out the part where James calculated how soon he could leave if he set off immediately, and whether he had enough petrol. Gratitude washed over him. He clutched the phone tighter, as if James’s voice and unconditional willingness to help were the only things keeping him together.

"Sirius Orion Black, I’m coming upstairs!" his mother’s voice rang through the empty corridor. Sirius had always felt fear in his spine whenever she shouted like that. If her fury was aimed at Reg, he would instinctively try to draw it toward himself, wanting to protect his brother.

"...I’ll need to grab some food. And maybe cash? Though I’m not sure we’ve got anything in the fridge..." James was still mumbling into the phone. Sirius could have sworn he was scratching his head, bewildered, while glancing around their kitchen.

"James, get here as soon as you can and pick me up from the old spot," Sirius was already tying his shoelaces, scanning the room for his jacket. "Mum’s out for blood, and I’ll try to make it out the window..."

"Isn’t it raining? Sirius, listen, I can’t just apparate – stay somewhere warm, and I–"

"Just come get me, Prongs!" The stairs groaned under his mother’s approaching footsteps. Sirius already had one foot on the windowsill, weighing what scared him more: a broken spine or his grief-stricken mother.

He ended the call despite the rising panic in James’s voice. Shoving the phone into his jacket pocket, he slung the strap of his bag across his neck so his things wouldn’t scatter across the garden. By the time the door burst open with a crash, he had already jumped from the conservatory roof onto the wet grass below.
* * *

"Do you think she’s playing with me?" James’s mouth was full of crackers, the crumbs of which he brushed off his chest.

"Who?"

Sirius was finding it hard to follow the conversation. He was genuinely trying not to picture Regulus lying on a silk cushion inside a wooden box, but the thought kept breaking through. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard now and then, trying to figure out what point the funeral ceremony – meticulously planned by his mother – had reached.

"Lily!"

James cracked open the window to toss the crumbs out. The weather was awful, rain drumming on the roof of James’s ageing car, and even the smallest gap was enough for a wind to burst in – cold to the bone. Sirius shrank into his seat, wrapping himself in his soaked leather jacket. His boots were full of water and his socks were completely wet. He had waited for Prongs under a tree for forty bloody minutes.

"You’re sure you won’t regret this?" James, having failed with all his attempts to distract him with other topics, now watched Sirius intently, trying to catch his eye. But Sirius kept his gaze fixed on the raindrops sliding down the glass. "Skipping the funeral, I mean."

His voice was full of warmth and sympathy, and Sirius couldn’t help but notice how much that didn’t suit James. This dreadful, gloomy weather, the poisonous family atmosphere, running away from home and mourning – especially mourning – didn’t suit him at all. James, who was made of sunlight and laughter, wasn’t meant to lie in bed for days like a lump of mould, sniffling in misery. And now he was doing everything he could to drag Sirius out of his own private hell.

"I’d have regretted going, and I’ll regret not going. It’s a lose-lose situation," Sirius said, his voice dull and tired. They had picked up some hot tea at a service station, but it hadn’t done much to warm him or clear his head. He just held the paper cup for the heat.

"Right, take off your boots." James turned towards the back seat, pushing aside the cracker bag. He pulled from his bag a pair of thick, fluffy socks – the ones Sirius only ever wore at home – and a blanket. "Your feet wet?"

Sirius nodded silently, setting his tea in the cup holder.

"You really are a stray, Padfoot." James bit his lip to stop himself grinning, but Sirius noticed anyway. He felt like some kind of emotional vampire, feeding off someone else’s warmth.

James helped him change into dry socks, wrap himself in the blanket and turned the car heater on. James didn’t ask the question that had been hanging in the air – out of tact more than anything. So Sirius asked it himself.

"So, what’s the plan?"

James stared straight ahead again, watching people come and go from the little shop at the petrol station.

"You don’t even want to go back to our flat, do you?" Prongs asked quietly, resting his hands on the wheel. It was rhetorical – he already knew the answer. Sirius was sure he already had a plan too. James always had a plan.

"What have you come up with?" Sirius leaned his temple against the cool glass, wrapped in the blanket up to his chin.

James perked up at once – any kind of scheme always brought him back to life.

"Just don’t say no right away," he said, reaching into his pocket for his phone.

Under any other circumstances, Sirius would have huffed: "When have I ever said no to anything?!" But not now. Now he wasn’t sure he had the strength for another mad idea.

James showed him a website offering accommodation in the forest, available to rent for a spiritual reset in harmony with nature. In this godforsaken place stood an old monastery where real miracles were said to happen. Beneath the photograph of the monastery was a long, flowery passage explaining that there comes a moment in everyone's life when problems seem insurmountable and one grows tired of facing them alone in one’s mind, and that spiritual practices in the forest help to work through this and quite literally emerge as a new person.

Sirius raised an eyebrow and turned to James.

"You’re serious?" Before James could respond, Padfoot pointed a warning finger at him. "Don’t you dare make a joke about my name right now. Spiritual recharge?"

Alright, James sometimes turned to spiritual practices to stay connected with his ancestral roots. They had an altar at home, he burned incense, lit lamps, knew mantras and would occasionally make offerings – usually when they couldn’t finish a term properly or when money was tight. Sometimes, he would dance traditional Indian dances just to show off in front of Sirius or to cheer him up – and it was actually rather mesmerising to watch.

But dragging him – Sirius – out to the forest so that he could, what, meditate his grief for his younger brother away?

"It’s a change of scenery, and there’ll be nothing there to remind you of…" He trailed off at the name, deflating right before Sirius’s eyes. His personal sun, flickering out again on this wretched day. "It might be a good idea, if you give it a chance."

Sirius sighed, tapping James’s phone against his own knee under the blanket. Maybe he was right. He was rarely wrong about things like this. Except when it came to Lily Evans ever giving him a chance.

"We’ll need more people," James added hopefully, still trying to convince him.

"Remus?"

It was Padfoot’s turn to show a little interest. James immediately responded with a smile.

"And Peter."

James was already fastening his seatbelt to start the engine.

"You think it’s safe dragging Remus out into the woods in his condition? Especially that far out, and in this bloody awful weather?" At last, something had distracted Sirius enough to bring a flicker of life back to his eyes – the thought of Remus. James silently counted that sparkle as a small personal victory.

"After all, fresh air and time with friends never hurt anyone, right?" James pulled the car back onto the road, and off they went to fetch their friends.

* * *

Remus vaulted over the turnstile, fishing a pack of cigarettes from his pocket as he moved.

"Come back! You’re not supposed to be wandering the streets, especially in weather like this!"

Pushing the door open with his shoulder while lighting a cigarette, Remus grimaced at Madam Pomfrey with a mix of guilt and irritation.

"I can’t spend my whole life in that ward, don’t you understand?"

Her face twisted in pain, but he turned and dashed out into the street all the same. Madam Pomfrey certainly didn’t deserve that – she cared for him like family. But he felt as though the hospital walls were draining the last of his life from him.

The weather really was appalling. Remus turned up the collar of his jacket and ran diagonally across the car park towards James’s car, shielding his cigarette from the rain.

Peter was already in the back seat, arguing animatedly with James.

"This site is completely dodgy! There aren’t even any photos of the place, nothing about what the practices actually are," Peter said, jabbing his phone at James. "What are we supposed to do there with no civilisation? It could be dangerous!"

Remus snorted as he climbed in next to Peter, immediately cracking the window to blow smoke out of it.

"You’ll be scared of your own shadow soon," he muttered, shoving Peter aside to clasp James’s hand and then give Sirius’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. Sirius looked exhausted, utterly disinterested in everything around him. But James had noticed – just before Remus arrived, Sirius had checked himself in the small mirror on the sun visor. He wasn’t as detached as he wanted to seem.

"I’m just trying to be the only responsible adult in this lot," Peter huffed, folding his arms and slumping back in his seat.

"Then you should’ve stayed home with your mummy," Remus muttered, rolling his eyes, taking one last drag before tossing the cigarette out the window.

"How are you?" James’s concern was big enough to cover them all.

Remus didn’t answer, but winked at James just obviously enough for Sirius to catch it in the rear-view mirror.

"Come on, Wormtail, hop out and toddle off home," Remus said, nudging him in the ribs and nodding towards the rainy street.

Peter puffed up even more, arms crossed tight – but it was all for show. A moment later, he was fastening his seatbelt, same as Remus.

"Oh, come on, Peter. It’s a twenty-minute adventure – in and out," James added, restarting the engine.

Moony felt like hell. Just in case, he checked his pocket for the tablets and counted. The blister pack of ten was already half-empty. But they wouldn’t be there more than five days… right? One per day should be enough.

Shame he had to sit next to Peter, sulking like a cat denied its milk. It would’ve been better to feel Sirius’s warm thigh against his – Sirius, who was without a doubt feeling worse than Remus was. Offering condolences would’ve been stupid, and Remus knew Padfoot understood. Knew they were there, no matter what.

At least for Remus, their presence – and their endless schemes – helped him breathe. Helped him cope with whatever shit life decided to throw at him.

"So?" James said, practically bouncing in his seat with excitement. "Shall we begin another bit of mischief?"

Oh, how wrong he was.

Chapter Text

It had not been a particularly short journey. James was doing his best to maintain the feeling of a summer road trip, the kind you take as a child on the way to camp with your friends, with a whole summer of adventure ahead, but unfortunately the others could not share in his enthusiasm.

Sirius felt emotionally drained, as though only a shell of him remained. He still could not get warm, and sleepiness was beginning to take hold. The events of the morning felt distant to him, as if several years had passed. James suggested he swap seats with Peter and sit in the back with Remus.

Remus was not faring much better. His temples throbbed with pain, his body was weak, and his arms felt limp, as though they were made of rope. He did not even have the strength to light a cigarette.

Sirius was curled up inside his hoodie beneath his leather jacket, only his nose and dark curls visible beneath the hood. He leant back against the door and rested his head on the seat, arms folded across his chest to preserve warmth. He had taken off his boots, and Remus gave a tired smile when he saw the thick, fluffy socks on his feet. Sirius tucked his legs onto the seat, knees bent, placing them delicately beside Moony so as not to disturb him. But once it became clear Sirius had finally dozed off, Remus gently shifted his feet onto his lap and covered them with the edge of his own jacket.

Peter was trying hard to catch James’s enthusiasm and even made efforts to help him with navigation, but he was still anxious about their sudden escape. His mum had not yet called, likely because she had not noticed his absence, but she would definitely start to worry soon. Besides, Peter had never been one for spontaneous escapades; the unknown unsettled him more than it excited. He was also worried about Sirius and his brother, about Remus and his condition. And somewhere, deep down, a little worm of doubt gnawed at him – that he did not truly belong in their group.

James and Sirius were best friends, they lived together, operated like a single organism. They often finished each other’s sentences, and Peter did not understand half their jokes. He had little in common with Sirius – in fact, quite the opposite. Everything Peter valued – peace, stability, cosiness – was far from Sirius’s priorities. Sirius was wild, chaotic energy; he rebelled against rules and valued honesty and directness in communication. Peter could not give him that. James could, though, and fully.

Remus remained a mystery to Peter. He did not need anyone’s approval, was entirely independent, and possessed a very, very strong spirit. Peter respected him for it, but that often made him feel intimidated in his presence. And though Remus never pressured him, never made cruel jokes or used his clear influence against him, Peter knew that, deep down, Remus simply did not care much about him.

There was a different, poorly understood connection between Remus and Sirius. They were not a couple in the traditional sense. But their intimacy – whispers, fleeting touches, soft smiles, the constant pull between them like opposite poles of a magnet – was unmistakable. Every time they sat close together, heads bent towards one another, whispering about something, and Peter tried to speak, he felt as though he were intruding on something sacred and just theirs. Peter knew James did not feel the same way.

There was also a fifth, invisible member of their group – Regulus. Remus was not close to him, but it felt natural that he knew everything about their history through long conversations with Sirius. James, on the other hand, did know Regulus. Although Prongs could probably get along with the devil himself, Regulus was not easy to befriend, and all of James’s attempts had failed. Sirius had often teased him about it in front of Peter. Peter himself had never seen Sirius’s younger brother, and Regulus remained one of those subjects to which he could not meaningfully contribute.

Sirius had complicated relationships with all his family, but none more so than with his younger brother. He could sever ties with his parents, but not with Regulus. There was clearly an invisible thread between them. Sirius had a rare ability to form astonishingly deep and intimate connections with people. But he had never tried to form one with Peter.

James bit his lip and quickly assessed the atmosphere in the car, and he did not like what he saw. Sirius and Remus were asleep in the back, their faces like biblical martyrs. Peter had given up trying to start a conversation and turned towards the window, his expression troubled and resentful.

Meanwhile, the satnav was leading them further and further from civilisation. They had long left the city behind, and James had taken several turns off the main roads, until they ended up on a truly remote country lane. According to the map, there was nothing nearby for miles, and the weather remained the same – wet and miserable. For a moment, doubt crept into Prongs’s mind – was he really doing the right thing? He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, feeling the weight of responsibility. After all, it had been his idea to drive out into the middle of nowhere for a spiritual reset.

"Wormtail, there’s a sign up ahead – on your side", he said, pointing with one hand while keeping the other on the wheel. "Have a look – maybe you can see it better than I can. I can’t see a bloody thing through this rain".

Peter straightened up, squinting at the blurry landscape ahead, trying to read what was written on the sign. The road was washed out from the rain, and James was counting on the fact they were nearly there, otherwise they might just end up stranded in the middle of the forest.

"I think it says ‘Saviour’, but I’m not sure", Peter said, narrowing his eyes and leaning closer to the windscreen.

"Isn’t it two words?" James squinted as well.

The car was descending a slope, a rather steep one, and ahead lay a vast, deep puddle. Prongs was trying to keep the car steady and not miss the sign at the same time. But his modest second-hand vehicle was not built for these kinds of obstacles – a proper off-roader was needed in such a backwater.

The tyres did not sink into the mud; instead, they skidded across the slick surface and James lost control. The car swerved violently. He tried to steer it back on course, but it was already too late – it careened into a steep ravine.

They plunged downwards into the wet, shadowy hollow where even in fair weather sunlight would not reach, and now it was flooded like a tiny swamp. They crashed into trees before the car flipped over and came to a final halt at the bottom. It all happened in a flash, and none of them had time to scream.

Raindrops quickly drummed on the sign that read "The Forsaken Saviour".

* * *

Much to his dismay, Remus was the first to regain consciousness. He opened his eyes but immediately squeezed them shut again, wincing from the pain. It felt as if a bell were ringing inside his head. Something heavy was lying directly on top of him, and he felt crushed in every sense of the word.

He wished he could shut his eyes again and return to the cottony fog of unconsciousness, but awareness was rapidly returning, bringing with it all the memories of what had happened. When he remembered that he had woken from the impact, that the car had been flying straight into bloody hell, that his friends were in the car, and that a sleepy Sirius had grabbed his hand in fright, Remus snapped fully awake. Sirius!

Padfoot was still weakly clutching his hand. The foetal position he had been sleeping in had saved him from serious injury. He was still unconscious but appeared intact, apart from a graze on his cheek. His jacket – indeed, the entire back seat – was scattered with shards of broken glass.

Struggling to breathe, Remus tried to look around. It was immediately obvious the car had flipped and sustained severe damage in the crash. The weight pressing down on him was the front seat, where a pale-faced Peter lay, his face covered in blood. Remus looked towards the windscreen and realised a branch had likely pierced through the glass and struck Peter at the temple.

The driver’s side window had been smashed out, and James was half-lying in the sand. Had he not been wearing a seatbelt, he would have been thrown out completely. His glasses had flown off, his face and hands were badly cut, but otherwise he did not appear to be mortally wounded. Strange that the airbags hadn’t deployed, Remus thought vaguely.

Pain was shooting through his own thigh, growing sharper with every second. With his free hand, he reached towards his leg to feel it and confirmed that a shard of glass was embedded in his thigh.

"Hey, Padfoot," he murmured, giving Sirius’s hand a weak shake in an attempt to rouse him. "Come on, wake up, gorgeous. We need to get out".

Instead of Sirius, it was James who suddenly woke up, gasping as though from a nightmare. And it had been a nightmare. He instinctively tried to sit up, but quickly realised that was a mistake and raised his cut-up hands to his head, trying to soothe the stabbing pain. Then he slowly turned his head.

"Guys, are you all right?" His voice was hoarse, and he squinted hard. Remus understood he could barely see without his glasses.

Remus lifted his hand from his thigh and gave him a peace sign, ignoring the pulsing pain in his leg and the blood on his fingers. Peter still showed no signs of life – he looked the worst of all. But Remus wasn’t ready to start panicking just yet.

James unfastened his seatbelt and began carefully moving to check on Peter and to free Remus from under the weight of the front seat. Sirius’s cold fingers finally twitched in Remus’s hand. He immediately turned his attention from Prongs’s rescue efforts to the frowning, dishevelled Sirius.

"What the hell?"

"An adventure," Remus shrugged, as much as his position allowed, trying to sound casual but not quite managing.

Sirius’s scowling expression quickly cleared, and he started fumbling with his seatbelt and crawling over to Remus.

"Are you okay? Moony, are you hurt?" His face was filled with genuine horror, which only deepened when he caught sight of Peter, lying almost lifeless. James was outside, wrestling with the door to get him out. His glasses were back on his nose – he must have found them in the sand nearby.

"I’ve been better," Remus said, closing his eyes and squeezing Sirius’s fingers in his own. James finally forced the door open and dragged Peter outside. Moony felt immediate relief and, with Sirius’s help, began to push the front seat away from himself.

Once they were all outside, more questions began to pile up. First of all, Remus realised that when he had seen James half-hanging out of the window, he had not noticed that Prongs was lying on fucking sand. And even though he had fallen asleep before the crash, he clearly remembered the car flying into a swamp at the bottom of the ravine – not onto a sandy riverbank, which was exactly where they were now, shaken and covered in minor injuries.

Secondly...

"James, what the bloody hell?" Sirius shot to his feet, ignoring even the dizziness. Unlike Remus, he didn’t stop to assess the situation or piece together the facts – he went straight to emotion. "Where were you taking us? To Saint bloody Peter? Or straight to my brother?"

James opened his mouth to reply, but Peter groaned, drawing everyone's attention. He was clearly in the worst condition. James and Sirius leaned over him, asking all sorts of questions about how he felt. Remus had to turn away so they wouldn’t see the blood starting to drip from his nose. He wiped it with his sleeve, wondering what would kill him first – the illness or the crash injuries.

"Where am I?" Peter asked faintly, gazing up at the sky. The warm, cloudless, summer sky above them. Around them stretched a true forest paradise. "What happened to me?"

While Sirius and James tended to him with the limited contents of James’s glove compartment first aid kit, Remus sat on a log by the riverbank and, not allowing himself to feel fear or overthink, yanked the glass from his thigh. Despite the pain, the wound wasn’t serious – the shard was small and had probably missed anything important. Moony tossed it at his feet onto the sand and looked ahead, at the water. Strange ripples spread across its surface. It seemed to be a river. In the distance, there was an old wooden bridge, ancient as the world, drooping low over the water.

"You’re all right, Wormtail," Sirius said gently, wiping the blood from Peter’s face with a tissue. "Just took a knock".

James was rustling around in the glove compartment, trying to find anything else useful, ignoring the blood and cracks on the windscreen. The car might be salvageable, maybe even flippable, but they probably couldn’t manage it on their own. Prongs was relieved Sirius was now focused on Peter and not giving him the tongue-lashing he probably deserved.

Remus took out his cigarettes and lit one, checking just in case whether his pills had fallen out of his pocket – but they were still there. It was warm here, even hot, so he carefully took off his stained jacket, remaining in his shirt.

James gave Peter some water from a bottle. Sirius came over to Remus and held out his hand. Remus passed him the cigarette at once – they often shared one. James generally disliked the smell of smoke.

"What’s that?" Sirius asked, exhaling, pointing into the distance. Just beyond the river, above the forest, thick pinkish smoke was rising. It moved like a living thing, coiling and drifting like something out of an expressionist painting.

"I don’t know, but it’s probably nothing good," Remus sighed and squinted into the sunlight.

"Do you think we could flip the car and get it running?" Sirius carefully perched on the edge of the log next to Remus, pulling back his hood.

"The keys are gone – must’ve fallen out somewhere and gotten lost," James answered for Remus, lying flat on the ground next to a quiet Peter.

Remus smiled, still squinting into the sun like a cat.

"You can open a car with a screwdriver," he said quietly.

"Really? You know how to do that?" There was admiration in Sirius’s voice. He was always impressed by Remus’s light brushes with petty crime. Remus could impress him easily. He nodded, knowing Padfoot was watching him.

"But flipping it? I doubt it. I’m not sure our efforts would be worth it – it’s probably too badly damaged, and even trying to start it could be dangerous," he explained.

"It’s dead. The petrol’s leaked out, I checked," James said dully. He buried his face in the crook of his arm, unable to look his friends in the eye.

Peter let out a small, pitiful sound – something between a whimper and a sob – and curled up on his side.

"Where did you even find this site?" he asked quietly.

"Saw an ad on Facebook," James replied flatly. "There’s supposed to be a monastery here. Very old, with miraculous properties."

Peter whimpered again.

"Miraculous indeed," Remus snorted, taking the final drag from the cigarette he and Sirius had been sharing.

Padfoot looked like he was about to lose it again, but Remus shook his head and stood.

"Shall we?"

"Go where?" Sirius looked at him as if he’d gone mad.

"To seek salvation," Remus sighed.

Peter sat up in alarm.

"What about us?"

"You stay and guard the car."

James smiled faintly, still hiding his face.

"This is exactly how it starts in horror films. When the group splits up."

Sirius scolded Prongs for frightening Peter even more, but he still followed Remus. They climbed up the steep riverbank and found a road – but there was no ravine, no signpost, and not a single puddle in sight.

* * *

They had to walk for quite a while. They simply followed the road, Remus walking ahead, discreetly wiping the blood still trickling from his nose – not heavily, but persistently. Sirius followed behind, too shocked even to think about his grief. He jerked his head up when he heard the sound of a vehicle ahead. It sounded large. They rushed towards the noise and soon saw a lorry.

The man driving it looked completely ordinary, rural in appearance, but his squint and smirk immediately put them on edge. They exchanged glances, but they didn’t have much of a choice. Sirius noticed the man’s filthy hands, particularly his fingernails. He didn’t introduce himself, but they told him what had happened anyway, leaving out the more implausible details like the sudden change in weather and location. He offered to help.

They both had to climb into the cab to return to the spot where the car, and Peter and James, were. The man seemed pleased to have company, as if he’d been starved of human contact.

"What brings you to our parts?"

"The monastery", Remus answered first. He was seated closer to the driver, instinctively positioning himself between the man and Sirius. Sirius couldn’t stop staring at a fishing lure with a feather that dangled from the rear-view mirror. Its steady swaying was hypnotic. The shock had dulled his reactions.

"Someone die? You here to order a requiem?"

Remus felt Sirius freeze beside him. He wanted to reach for his hand or squeeze his knee, but didn’t dare in front of a stranger.

"No, just curious. They say it’s a miraculous place", said Moony, doing his best to remain polite. But his own heart sank. Perhaps the requiem would end up being for him, when the illness finally devoured him.

"Repenting your sins?" the man snorted, licking his lips with a snake-like flick. "Our priest’s stuffed his belly well. These days it’s all for money. Look, I’m taking him this."

He nodded over his shoulder, towards the back of the lorry.

Both of them were foolish enough to look. In the centre of the lorry bed, strapped down with thick black belts, was a black lacquered coffin. On either side of it were wooden benches.

Sirius felt nauseated with horror. Fleeing a funeral, he hadn’t expected to end up riding a hearse as a taxi. Remus was gripped by the awful image of the lorry jolting over a bump, the coffin lid flying open, and seeing himself inside.

"Don’t worry", the man said mockingly. He clearly enjoyed their reaction. "They’re the quietest passengers you’ll ever meet."

When they arrived at the site, James and Peter were visibly relieved, though their relief faded somewhat when they saw the coffin. The man gave them water, as they had none left. He explained that they couldn’t recover the car just yet – he had to deliver the coffin to a neighbouring village by noon. But he would return later with help and tow it out with the lorry. He also offered to give them a lift to the monastery, but they would have to ride in the back, on the benches, beside the coffin.

One of them could sit in the front with the driver. Logically, Sirius should have gone, but Remus didn’t like the idea of leaving him alone with that strange man. So James took the front seat, while the others climbed into the back. Sirius sat beside Remus on one side, with pale, terrified Peter on the other. Remus suggested that Padfoot close his eyes, but he refused and rode the entire way gripping Remus’s hand tightly.

Feeling sorry for poor Peter, Remus gave him a tired smile and said, "Nirvana has to be earned, Wormtail. No suffering, no bliss."

Peter grimaced and closed his eyes in Sirius’s place.

Meanwhile, James was doing his best to be friendly. He pointed towards the pink mist and politely asked what it was.

"Chemical plant, our bread and butter", the man said with pride. James expected him to follow up with something about the monastery or the village, but instead he began a bizarre line of conversation: "Brought the lot of ’em, have you? Good lad!"

Prongs frowned, confused. The website had mentioned that groups of at least three were expected. That had been part of the booking requirements. Perhaps he meant that. But what did "brought the lot" mean?

At that moment, the lorry was slowly and heavily driving onto the bridge Remus had seen earlier. Under its weight, the bridge sagged low, and the wheels sank halfway into the water, but the lorry still made it across and climbed swiftly up the far bank. The feathered lure swung wildly.

"Three it was meant to be, and you’ve brought four. Overdelivered, haven’t you?" the man said gleefully and with a mocking grin.

James felt cold sweat trickle down his back. He gripped the door handle in a death grip.

Just when Sirius thought he really would vomit from everything they had been through – especially from having to steady the coffin as the driver swerved – the lorry came to a sudden halt.

"You head that way into the woods. That’s where our monastery is", the man said, gesturing with his hand.

James was more than happy to leap out of the cab.

The man dropped them at a fork in the road. They barely had time to grab their belongings before he sped off down a dusty track in the opposite direction.

Prongs shrugged and started walking in the direction he had been shown. Sirius and Remus followed behind. Peter trailed after them – and he was a pitiful sight. He looked frightened, lost, and streaks of half-wiped blood still marred his face. He clutched his rucksack to his chest as if his fingers were cramping with fear, the collar of his jumper soaked in blood. He had a T-shirt underneath, but the idea of taking the jumper off hadn’t even occurred to him. It felt like a barrier between him and the wild, overwhelming forest world, even in the sweltering heat.

After crossing a small thicket, they came out into a clearing. At first, what drew their attention was the noticeboard. Rusty and crooked, the service times had been written in marker using a stencil – the sort of thing no one had probably done in thirty years. But that wasn’t the most striking thing.

The entire surface of the board was covered with missing person notices. Some handwritten, some printed. Some old and faded, others clearly recent. Some with photographs, others without. People of all genders, ages, and appearances.

James forgot how to breathe. A wave of panic and helplessness washed over him stronger than anything he had ever felt. When he looked up at the monastery, he saw that it was half-ruined. Abandoned, empty, overgrown – a shell. Truly ancient and probably once beautiful. The whole clearing in front of it was overrun with tall grass. There was no one in sight, and the silence was the kind one only finds in graveyards.

"So where’s the reception desk?" Remus asked with a bitter smile.

Chapter Text

The monastery was hopelessly abandoned. In fact, they had not encountered any signs of life, other than the lorry driver who had brought them. Hesitating for a moment in the clearing before the entrance, they silently agreed to at least look around inside, just to confirm that it really was a ruin, and that anything divine, if it had ever been here, had long since departed.

James’s mind was practically boiling. He knew that everything that had happened to them was on his conscience. He was fully aware of Remus’s condition, just as he was of Sirius being devastated and Peter being scared out of his wits.

Prongs could not shake off the short exchange he had had with the driver, in which the man had mentioned the number of people in their group. The website had stated that they would be met at the village entrance and either given a lift or shown the way, but surely that man with a coffin in the back of his lorry could not have been part of the service. How did he even know the details about the number of people? Maybe all groups that came here consisted of three people? In truth, nothing from the website’s description matched reality.

The monastery had been designed in such a way that one gallery led into another, all of them connected by wide, richly adorned portals. There might once have been a breath of Catholic grandeur here, but now the entire décor had crumbled, and the furnishings were heaped against the walls, covered with torn plastic sheeting and buried under thick layers of dust. Not a single saint’s face could be made out in the images. Of the inscriptions, they could see only one, written in gold directly opposite the entrance: "The Forsaken Saviour". Everything else had faded, coated in greenish mould, and was simply turning to dust.

Their footsteps echoed around them. None of them spoke, for saying anything in this place felt inappropriate. Even an abandoned monastery seemed to preserve a trace of the sacred. Remus stayed close to Sirius as he examined what little remained that was still recognisable. James was pressing on from one gallery to the next, determined to find something, or someone. Soon, they lost sight of him, and then they could no longer hear his footsteps. Peter found it hard to be here. He stood frozen by the wall, still clutching his rucksack to his chest.

"Look", said Remus. He had found a room with coat racks, upon which hung an assortment of clothes – men’s and women’s, summer and winter, all jumbled together. He involuntarily remembered the missing person notices. He turned to show Sirius, but he was no longer behind him. In fact, he was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Peter.

* * *

Torn with fear, Peter had wanted to say that there was nothing worth seeing here, that it was dangerous, and that they would be better off returning to the fork in the road and heading towards the village. But suddenly he realised that in this maze of galleries, he was alone. Before he could panic, he heard James’s voice coming from deep within the corridors:

"Come here, Wormtail. Just grab one of the torches on the table."

There really was a box of torches on the table. Peter tried several, but they did not work. Finally, one flickered to life with a bright white light. He picked it up, slung his rucksack over his shoulder, and headed towards where he thought James’s voice had come from.

Unfortunately, the voice seemed to be coming from the monastery’s underground level. Peter stopped at the top of a staircase, wrestling with the urge to turn and run as fast as he could. The problem was, there was nowhere to run – not alone. So, forcing himself, he slowly descended the stairs, one step at a time, hoping to find James as soon as possible and beg him to leave. He was ready to admit that he was bloody terrified, and he no longer cared what the others might say.

The monastery’s underground mirrored its upper levels, made up of numerous galleries. The ceilings were quite high and the walls white, creating an impression of space and air, yet the atmosphere was stale and still reminiscent of a tomb. Peter walked automatically now, in a daze, aimlessly moving deeper and deeper into the bowels of the old building. Eventually, he reached a cruciform junction. Before he could decide which way to go, something rushed at him from both sides.

There was a great deal of noise and blinding light. Startled, Peter dropped his torch. He shut his eyes and braced himself, expecting anything – though he had no idea what – certainly nothing good, when suddenly a familiar laugh echoed through the air.

Sirius and James were doubled over with laughter, holding torches of their own. They had hidden around the corners, each on opposite sides, and had jumped out shouting to scare him.

"Idiots", muttered Peter. Words could not describe the mix of indignation and relief he felt.

James was overjoyed to see Sirius laughing so heartily and freely. It was just like back in sixth form, mucking about with their pranks. But the joy was short-lived, and soon gave way to genuine concern.

"Where’s Remus?" Sirius asked, already sprinting back down the corridor, sweeping his torchlight through one dark gallery after another, each one revealing an empty room that looked more and more like a dungeon.

* * *

Remus ought to have rushed off to look for Sirius too, but in the room with the coat racks, he had discovered a tap with drinking water. And suddenly, he thought, if the accident had happened towards evening, but on the shore it had still seemed like late morning, somewhere between breakfast and lunch, then how could he be sure whether he had taken his tablet today or not? They had to be taken every day, at the same time, or else everything would go to hell.

Absentmindedly, he turned the tap, watching the water run down the drain in the floor. Cupping his hands, Remus splashed water on his tired, blood-smeared face, feeling the coolness and the relief. Looking around for a mug or some other container, he found nothing of the sort, so he scooped up more water with his hands and drank a little. It tasted fresh, like spring water.

Moony realised he had been extremely thirsty all this time, and that the pain in his entire body, especially the crushing headache that felt like an iron band tightening around his skull, had dulled, becoming something more distant. Sinking to his knees, suddenly feeling as though all his strength had left him, he simply lay under the stream of water from the tap, letting it pour freely into his open mouth.

Remus had no idea how long he lay there like that, staring at the peeling mosaic on the ceiling that depicted some barely discernible religious scene. Occasionally he would swallow, but mostly he just let the water spill over his face and neck. He could have stayed there forever, feeling time blur and stretch, losing all meaning, as if the very concept of time had been shattered. But then he heard a sound.

A strange rustling in the neighbouring gallery reached him through a large double door right beside the tap. Reluctantly rising, forcing himself through the weakness, he shuffled over to the door, running a hand through his hair. Peeking through the crack between the doors, he saw a priest.

Contrary to what the lorry driver had said, he did not look like a man driven by money or possessing much at all. He was gaunt, pale, and worn out, with long, matted hair and an equally tangled beard. Barefoot, he stood on a bench, writing something on the wall in large letters with a piece of charcoal. Remus squinted, struggling to read the words as though he had forgotten how to read. "Forgive me, Lord", that’s what it said.

When he finished the inscription, the priest crossed himself in the Catholic fashion and turned to face Remus. He climbed onto a stool, and only then did Remus notice the noose hanging from the ceiling, suspended from a hook where a chandelier had likely once hung. Without a moment’s hesitation, the priest slipped the rope around his neck and kicked the stool away. His face turned purple and his legs began to twitch.

Remus covered his mouth with his hand to avoid making a sound. He seemed frozen by what he had just seen. He had seen people die before, during his time in hospital, but this death, so deliberate, almost ritualistic, shook him deeply.

* * *

Sirius had once again lost sight of James and Peter. He was now walking alone on one of the monastery’s higher levels, where the light was a little better and the air somewhat easier to breathe, but the atmosphere remained undeniably sinister. Suddenly, he caught the scent of incense. Moments later, the flicker of candlelight began to dance along the walls, and, turning another corner, he came upon an altar.

Or what passed for an altar here. A wooden icon stood on a stand, roughly constructed from several boards, depicting Jesus. The alcove was filled with church candles of various sizes, so many that the smell of wax was suffocating. Above the stand hung a lamp, the source of the incense scent.

Sirius was not a religious man, but Jesus on this icon made a deep impression on him. The image was blurred, only the face was clear. Padfoot felt tears running down his cheeks, and it seemed as though Jesus was crying with him.

"Why him?" he whispered, referring to Regulus. "What did he ever do to you?"

Jesus gave no answer, only gazed back with compassion. Droplets were running down the wall behind the icon as well, like tears. The roof must have been leaking. Sirius felt as though something inside him was broken too.

"Nothing to say?"

Suddenly, anger welled up in him, but he could not bring himself to turn and leave. He might have stood there forever, had he not heard Remus cry out in agony.

* * *

Before Remus could decide what to do next – rush to help, call for the others, or run – the priest’s legs stopped twitching and he hung limply. The rope could not bear the weight of the dead body and snapped, sending it crashing to the floor. Remus had no idea what exactly triggered the next wave of pain, the sight before him, the missed dose of his medication, or everything he had been through. But the pain was hellish. He slid down the door, still unable to tear his eyes away from the priest’s body.

Had he not been in such a dreadful state, he might have been more shocked by what happened next. The priest suddenly began to move again. He sat up, then stood, and with an irritated gesture pulled the noose from his neck before walking straight to the door behind which Remus sat. He looked directly into Moony’s pain-stricken eyes and shut the door in his face.

And the pain intensified a hundredfold. Remus collapsed fully onto the cold stone floor, striking his temple hard and howling in anguish. More than anything in the world, he wanted Sirius to be there with him, to help him, any way at all.

Whether by divine intervention or something else, Sirius really did appear at the door Remus had entered through. His handsome face was once again twisted with worry. He crossed the room quickly and knelt beside Remus, pulling his head gently into his lap.

"What is it?"

Remus was grateful that he was whispering, that the coolness of his hands was now on his cheeks, massaging his temples. Grateful that he was simply there, familiar and real, in this absurd setting.

"My head", Remus moaned, barely able to speak, "my head hurts... and my whole body..."

"Did you take your medicine today? Why are you soaking wet?" Sirius swung his bag off his shoulder, rummaging for a basic painkiller, and a towel to dry Remus’s hair and wipe his face. He did everything with the utmost care, barely touching him. Remus looked like a martyr cradled in his lap.

* * *

At last, they left the monastery. James was the last to come out, and he looked absolutely thunderous. They all appeared even more pensive and exhausted than they had been upon entering. It was decided they would walk to the village and look for somewhere to spend the night, as well as a way to get out of here tomorrow – it was obvious there was nothing more to be gained from staying.

On the way to the village, Prongs apologised a thousand times for dragging them into all of this. He kept lamenting bitterly, swearing he would get them out no matter what it took. The others, even Peter, barely responded.

Their last hope was that there might at least be some sign of life in the village, since the driver had taken the coffin there – presumably for a funeral. If there was death, then surely there had to be life. Someone must be there to bury the dead and to mourn.

None of them felt like discussing what they had seen and heard in the monastery. They were not entirely sure it had not all been a hallucination or illusion. Still, each of them kept replaying it in their minds, unable to shake the images.

When the first houses of the village came into view, they froze as if struck by lightning. To say they were disappointed would be putting it mildly. On top of that, they were all utterly drained, hungry, and still had untreated wounds, even if none of them were especially serious.

All the houses looked abandoned, just like the monastery. Wooden and crooked, with smashed windows boarded up with plywood or covered in plastic sheeting, and yards choked with wild, human-height weeds, they inspired no confidence whatsoever.

Surprisingly, there were still people here. Here and there – on benches, in shattered windows, beside wells – they saw elderly villagers. Many were missing limbs, visibly disfigured, bearing burns, scars and skin diseases. Dressed in rags, with tangled hair and unkempt beards, they stared silently at the boys, showing no emotion and offering no reaction.

James greeted a few of them loudly and cheerfully more than once, but no one answered. Sirius squeezed Remus’s hand tighter – his nose was bleeding again, though he was in such a strange, blissful state he hardly noticed. Worried, Padfoot wiped the blood from under his nose a few times with a handkerchief. Even Peter seemed too tired to be afraid anymore.

"Unpleasant place," he muttered dully, following James.

"Some villages are dying out nowadays," Prongs replied in a whisper, still trying to keep a friendly tone.

"You could film a horror here," Remus said with a smile, as though they weren’t currently in a dangerous, miserable situation – in a complete mess, to be honest. "Ready-made set."

Sirius gave his fingers a squeeze and glanced meaningfully towards Peter, but the latter no longer seemed to care.

Smoke was rising from the chimney of one house. It looked slightly more lived-in than the others, though it was still in a fairly sorry state. James turned to glance back at the others for a moment, Sirius shrugged, and Prongs confidently walked up to the door.

When he knocked, it did not open right away. First, they saw the cloudy eye of an elderly woman peering at them through the crack – she clearly did not see very well. Her gaze was suspicious and hostile as she looked them over. Everyone except Peter tried to smile.

"What do you want?"

"Good evening, madam. We came here to visit the monastery, but unfortunately we had an accident and lost our means of transport," James said, all diplomatic charm. "We would be grateful if you could let us stay the night and help us get out of here tomorrow. We have money!" he added quickly, pulling out some notes from his pocket and showing them to the old woman. She visibly perked up at the sight of the money.

"Wait here, I need to ask my old man."

She disappeared behind the door. James and Sirius exchanged a glance – but they had probably used up their capacity for surprise today. Remus leaned casually against the half-rotted wooden railing on the porch. Less than thirty seconds later, the old woman returned – though they hadn’t heard a single voice from inside.

"Come in, but take your shoes off."

She took their money – not a large amount, but still more than a night was worth in her half-collapsed house that stank of sauerkraut and old rags, dark and grimy as it was. Sirius barely concealed his disgust.

Introducing herself as Merope, the old woman tucked the money into a drawer of the sideboard, which was cluttered with framed photographs. It was difficult to see who or what was depicted on them.

"Why were you at the monastery – someone died?" she asked, turning to face them again with a look of genuine curiosity.

"No," James replied quickly, before Sirius could process the question.

"Well, thank God," Merope said with a smile that was almost warm. "You’ve come at just the right time. I’ve heated up the bathhouse. You can wash up, and I’ll give you something to eat."

James seemed perfectly content with this arrangement, and the others were not at all opposed to washing off the dirt and blood either.

* * *

"A proper old crone, she looks like she eats children for breakfast," Peter was complaining to James while they sat sweating in the sauna. Sirius and Remus were waiting their turn in the small anteroom.

Both of them were completely out of it, slumped on a worn-out old sofa covered with a moth-eaten, damp-smelling tapestry. A pile of washed and starched linen lay on the edge. The air in the little bathhouse was hard to breathe and the light was yellowish because the windows had yellow glass panes. It smelled of fir and timber – not the worst smell.

"I don't know, Wormtail, she looks better than the other villagers," James was right – she wasn’t exactly a darling of the gods, but she didn’t resemble the sleepwalking elders that seemed to be everywhere, as if someone had kicked them out of a care home and left them here to wait for death. Remus would have shuddered at the thought if his mind weren’t so foggy.

"The house looks like a wicked witch’s hut," Peter sighed. "And that disgusting smell. Did you see what she was cooking on the stove? That bone sticking out of the pot was far too big. Have you seen a single large animal around here?"

Sirius and Remus exchanged a glance. Peter and his imagination.

"Not sure I’ll be able to sleep there."

On that, all three were hard to disagree with. The sun had already started to set, and the thought of spending the night there was far from comforting.

At last, James appeared in the doorway, a towel wrapped around his hips. Droplets ran down his well-trained athletic torso. He bent to grab his glasses from the table in front of the sofa, where Remus's legs were resting. Sirius gave a low whistle and bit his lip as he watched his friend. Moony rolled his eyes, but couldn’t stop a smile either.

"Clean in body, pure in soul," James winked smugly at them as he adjusted his glasses on his nose. "Come on, Wormtail, we’re not wanted here."

Peter appeared a moment later, and they spent a while gathering their things, getting dressed and packing whatever they needed. Finally, Sirius and Remus were left alone. It was quiet, and for the first time all day, peaceful. Padfoot was watching the dust motes dance in the rays of the setting sun. Neither of them was in a rush to move.

"Why did I even come here?" Sirius's voice sounded as if his mind were far, far beyond the confines of the small, stuffy room. Or maybe it was Remus who could no longer think clearly. He didn’t reply, knowing it was rhetorical. "Couldn’t stay at home," Sirius answered his own question, eyes dropping to the floor. "Thought if I didn’t run, I’d suffocate."

That was a dangerous turn in the conversation. Remus didn’t like it. He stood up, swaying slightly, and walked over to a little cabinet that must have once served someone as a bar, back when there had still been some sort of life here. Every bottle was coated in a finger-thick layer of dust, but wasn’t alcohol supposed to improve with age?

"It’s treatable," Remus smiled at Sirius, turning to him with the first bottle that came to hand. Padfoot twisted his mouth, catching the veiled reference to Remus’s illness.

They drank only a little, from mismatched shot glasses. It wasn’t as pleasant as drinking spring water in a monastery, and definitely not something to do on an empty stomach. The liquor scorched their insides instantly. It had a strange effect on Moony’s mind – it seemed to clear it rather than cloud it further.

Sirius set his glass down on the table, and Remus couldn’t help noticing how elegant and fine his fingers were. His wrist too. All of him, really. No matter how much he hated his family, their genes were incredible. Remus placed his own glass beside Sirius’s with a sudden motion and kissed him on his liquor-bitter lips, placing a hand on his cheek. Padfoot responded immediately, kissing him with desperation.

"If there’s no love, then what’s the point of it all?" he asked, pulling back just briefly, looking into Remus’s eyes. "Without it, nothing’s real."

Remus didn’t understand why he said that. Instead of replying, he pressed his lips to Sirius’s again and placed a hand on his thigh, squeezing. They undressed quickly, trying not to break contact for even a second.

The light was so warm, chimerical shadows danced across the walls, and the scent of herbs was stiflingly intense. Sirius’s eyes rolled back from pleasure, from heat, from the desire to lose himself. His hands gripped Remus’s shoulders, scratching and clenching, grounding himself, trying to stay in the moment. He wanted to think only of him, to feel only him.

It was strange, because Remus had always resisted intimacy – it was too risky for him. He was always cautious, always found a reason to avoid sex. Deep down, Sirius feared that it was only happening because he wasn’t himself. Since they’d arrived in this godforsaken place, he’d been like a restless soul. Still, it was pleasant. Perhaps the only pleasant thing that had happened to them here.

Sirius lazily traced a finger along Remus’s torso, resting his head on his shoulder. Every now and then, he glanced at him, and Moony smiled tenderly and kissed his temple. They needed to get up and wash, they needed to head back before dark, they needed food. But all they wanted was to lie there like that.

Sirius’s finger reached the spot on Moony’s leg where the shard had entered during the accident. He suddenly sat up, pulling the sheet off both of them.

"What’s that?"

Where there should have been a wound, there was only a faint mark. But from the closed-up scar protruded a tiny fishing hook, embedded in the skin.

Chapter Text

By the time Sirius and Remus returned to the house, it was already dark outside. James and Peter were helping Merope prepare sleeping arrangements in the common room. Sirius was shocked to discover that they would have to sleep on the floor. Despite it being summer, a draught swept across their legs. And he still hadn’t recovered from the dinner their hostess had served.

As they set up their sleeping area, they heard someone coughing in the only locked room – the one Merope had forbidden them to enter. She immediately hurried towards it.

Prongs moved over to the dresser, examining the framed photographs. It was easy to guess that the young couple in them were Merope and her husband. Clearly, they had a son, as in several photos they were holding a child. But there were no pictures of him as an adult. James found that strange – perhaps even sad. Something might have happened to the boy.

At last, they settled into their makeshift beds. James was ready to fall asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, exhausted by everything that had happened that day. The others were just as worn out.

"I left my phone in the bathhouse!" Peter shattered James’s hopes of rest. He was frantically rummaging through his bag, trying to find it. "Mum was supposed to call me in the evening, she’s definitely already realised I’m gone!"

"I’ll come with you," James sighed, reaching for his glasses again.

"Wait, Prongs," said Remus, propping himself up on his elbows. His voice carried a trace of irritation but there was no mockery in it. "Isn’t this the perfect chance to face your fears? Go on your own and see if it’s there."

"Remus," James lifted his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He didn’t like this atmosphere. It would be simpler to go with Peter.

"Fine!" Peter suddenly showed some backbone. He threw his bag to the floor and jumped up. Before James could stop him, he had already dashed out the door.

Prongs pushed off his blanket, about to follow, but Remus interrupted him again.

"Leave him. It’ll do him good," he said, turning away from James to lie facing Sirius and pulling the blanket over his ear. "He can’t go on being afraid of everything and relying on us. He’s not a child anymore."

As he finished speaking, the last source of light – the hallway lamp – went out. Merope poked her head out from the room where someone was still coughing occasionally. It was apparently the master bedroom.

"The power’s out, I’ll bring you some candles just in case," she said, quickly closing the door behind her. "We’ve frequent problems with the electricity – the village is already listed as uninhabited."

She returned with several candleholders, each with long, crooked candles. James helped her place them in different corners of the room. He only lit one – the one by Peter’s bed – so that he would have some light and not be as frightened when he returned. There was no point lighting the others. Remus and Sirius were already asleep. Even in sleep, they were holding hands – just as they had during the crash.

The crash. Bloody hell, why did James feel like that was only the beginning of their trials? Initiative truly was punished.

Merope had long since gone back to her room. It was quiet and cool. James lay back down, but he couldn’t sleep, still waiting for Peter. Time felt strange here. Prongs couldn’t tell whether Peter had only just left or whether a long while had passed. He took off his glasses to rest his eyes for a moment, and didn’t even notice when exhaustion finally overtook him.

* * *

"Wake up, I've made you some eggs," Merope said, she seemed to be in a good mood that morning. Remus could not return the sentiment. He had been feverish during the night and did not feel the slightest bit rested. "And where's your fourth? Weren't there four of you?"

At that, Remus and James immediately sat up in their beds. Sirius was still asleep, he was never easy to wake. Only his black curls were visible from beneath the blanket. Remus rubbed his temples, trying to push through the wave of weakness. Every morning, it felt like he had to relearn how to walk upright. James jumped up straight away, pulling on his trousers.

Peter was gone. The bed was untouched, and his bag lay exactly where he had thrown it in a fit of frustration. The candle James had left for him had long since burned out. Prongs tried to convince himself that it was too early to panic, that Peter might be in the yard or somewhere else. Anywhere. But deep down, he knew Peter was nowhere nearby. Because that would be the worst possible outcome, and in this bloody place, only the worst seemed to happen to them.

Remus gently tried to wake Sirius, careful not to startle him.

"Rise and shine, beautiful, it's morning." Sirius only curled up tighter, tugging the blanket back from Remus. Waking up was always physically painful for him. "Come on, Padfoot." Remus leaned down to his ear and whispered, "The old hag’s made us breakfast. I know how much you love her cooking. Get up, or we'll eat without you." Then he kissed Sirius noisily on the ear. James was far too preoccupied to notice them.

Moony eventually managed to pry Padfoot out of bed. He washed his face lazily in the basin, tying back his long hair in a bun. Even when they told him Peter was missing, Padfoot was still too groggy to process it. Remus persuaded James to sit down and eat something before they started searching. Merope brought them greyish scrambled eggs that smelled of damp and took another plate to the master bedroom.

"We need a system," James said without even glancing at the food. He was on edge, understandably so. "We’ll go through the village and search every place methodically. Merope said he's not in the bathhouse or the yard, she was already there doing chores."

Sirius sat down at the table between them, picked up a fork, poked the eggs, then pushed the plate away. Remus handed him some bread, which looked reasonably normal, and a cup of tea. He had nearly finished his own.

"Do we have any cigarettes?" Moony looked questioningly at tousled and sleepy Sirius. He nodded.

"Prongs and I bought a whole carton at the petrol station."

"Do you even care?" James shot up, roughly pushing back his chair. "A person’s gone missing, our friend! Cigarettes? Breakfast? The sooner we start searching, the better."

"He can't just have disappeared," Remus sighed, getting up. He took a pack of cigarettes from Sirius's bag and returned to the kitchen. "He's too much of a coward to have gone far. He's probably still nearby."

"The lad’s got a point," Merope said, appearing behind Remus with an empty tray.

"Prongs and I will go together," Remus pulled a cigarette from the pack using only his teeth. "And you’ll stay here and wait, in case he comes back." He nodded at Sirius, who still looked too groggy to be of any use for at least another hour.

"Off you go then, we’ll have our tea," Merope said with an exaggeratedly cheerful smile, refilling Sirius’s cup. Remus did not like it one bit. He did not want to leave Padfoot behind in this strange place. He was afraid Sirius might vanish like Peter, or worse. But he also could not abandon Prongs, eaten alive by guilt. It was already painful to look at him.

They stepped out onto the porch, and Moony finally lit his cigarette.

"Before you start blaming yourself for bringing him here," he said, stepping down the stairs and pulling on his jacket. Remus was always cold, despite the clear summer morning. "Let me remind you it was me who told you not to go after him yesterday."

"Like that makes it any better." James followed him, scanning every corner with his eyes. "He was scared, Moony. Instead of comforting a friend, I brushed him off."

"Padfoot once told me the sexiest thing about you," Remus exhaled smoke as he unlatched the gate. "Know what it was?" James did not reply, he was checking behind every corner and hidden spot like they were playing hide and seek. "Emotional intelligence. You’ve got it in spades, maybe even too much."

They walked onto the broad road – the village’s only real street – and went along the houses, asking the occasional old villagers about Peter. No one responded to their questions. They were like non-playable characters in a game.

"Why did you pick a Catholic monastery? Aren’t you a Hindu?" Remus gave up trying to talk to the locals. They started inspecting sheds and barns themselves, no one was stopping them anyway.

"I am," James muttered, biting his lip. Still no trace of Peter. He could think of nothing else. "But I’m open to all spiritual experiences. Isn’t Sirius’s family Catholic?"

"In their own way," Moony snorted, closing the door of yet another chicken coop. Even the chickens here seemed sluggish. "We came here to help him forget his grief and look, it worked. We knocked stress out with more stress."

James shot Remus an annoyed glance. Moony and his bluntness. He was right though, Sirius likely had not had a moment to grieve properly. Too much had happened in the past day.

"You and he – are you together?" Prongs asked deliberately. He knew they did not like talking about it. He also knew Sirius and Remus struggled to define their own relationship. But he could not shake the irritation, as though the air here was stirring up the worst in them. "Yesterday didn’t you two..."

But Remus stopped in front of a nearby fence and pointed at it. James followed his gaze slowly, already knowing he would not like what he saw. Peter’s trainers were hanging from the fence, tied together by their laces. The toes were splattered with blood and mud. Prongs froze.

Remus took the shoes down and stepped into the yard the fence enclosed. An old man with a bandage sat on a bench near the well. He likely had only one eye.

"What’s this? Where’s the boy these belonged to?" He showed the man the shoes, but he said nothing, just stared into the distance with his one good eye. Moony turned to look in the same direction. Over the river and forest, pinkish smoke curled in the air. They could not see the river from here, but Remus noted the direction. He had a good sense of orientation.

James went over to the barn in the old man’s yard. When he turned back to Remus, he just shook his head.

"Gramps is out of it."

The barn door was ajar, and a foul stench of carrion drifted out. Prongs looked at Remus again, he looked utterly helpless. Moony pulled up the collar of his jacket over his face to block the smell.

"A corpse doesn’t rot that fast," he said, hoping it might somehow calm James, grim as it sounded.

There was indeed no sign of Peter’s body inside, but there was nothing reassuring either. On the far wall hung a rope strung with a dozen dead rats. Flies swarmed around them. Remus slammed the door shut, shielding the stunned James.

When they were younger, they had made up nicknames that reflected their personalities. James became Prongs, noble and stubborn like a stag. Sirius, with his temperament and habits, was Padfoot. They called Remus Moony, even before the illness took hold, he struggled to sleep and often spent the nights reading or staring at the ceiling.

Peter, they called him Wormtail, for his tendency to go unnoticed, to hide behind others. Out of shyness or fear. He followed James and Sirius everywhere like a shadow. At first, he was offended by the name, there was nothing flattering about it. But eventually he got used to it. After all, they always used it fondly.

Once, he told James: "Rats aren’t that bad. They adapt to anything, and that’s why they survive so easily, isn’t it?" He had smiled, and Prongs never forgot that smile.
* * *

"Your friend is alive, just got himself lost," Merope said as she placed a bucket half-filled with potatoes in front of Sirius. They were preparing soup for lunch. Sirius was far too ashamed to admit that he didn’t know how to peel potatoes. James usually did the cooking. It seemed this was the moment he would have to learn. "The soil round here is crooked," she added.

For a while they sat in silence. Sirius struggled with the potatoes, trying not to slice his fingers with the knife. Merope watched him with a smile, then demonstrated how to do it properly. It would be a stretch to say Padfoot succeeded straight away, but he was trying.

Someone coughed again behind the wall, and Merope smiled fondly.

"My old man," she said, gesturing with the knife towards a photograph on top of the dresser in the common room. "That’s us when we were young. He courted me for ages, did it beautifully. Then they took him for the army, the navy. He was gone a long time. I waited for him. Once, I went to the town and three men caught me there – they raped me. No one punished them, one of them turned out to be the son of some bigwig," Merope lowered her gaze. Her eyes shimmered with tears, but she didn’t cry. "I prayed for just one thing, that Tom would forgive me. And he came back and proposed. Said it didn’t matter to him, that he still loved me. We got married. He made me tell him everything about those three," she gave a grim smile. "He found them all, imagine that. Found them and killed them. They gave him ten years. I waited again, wrote him letters. We’ve got a son too, named Tom as well. He lives in your city, has a job. He’s asking us to come. But my old man’s not well at all now, where would we go? And here, I’m the mistress of the house."

Sirius had no idea how to react to this story. He’d long forgotten about the potatoes and now sat completely stunned. For some reason, he felt calmer with a knife still in his hand.

"Why did you ask earlier if someone had died?" Padfoot asked, watching how deftly Merope handled her knife.

"Round here, we pray for the dead to come back."

"What do you mean?"

"Who have you lost?" the old woman fixed him with her piercing gaze.

"My younger brother," Sirius forced the words out. "He took his own life."

"You need to see our Father. I’ll take you."

Merope stood up immediately, wiping the knife on her apron.

"I don’t want to," Sirius lowered his eyes.

"Go, you fool," she insisted, her voice almost sympathetic. But it wasn’t the kind of sympathy shown by Jesus in that icon. Hers was curious, barely amused. Padfoot didn’t like it. "Go, he’ll teach you."

"I don’t want to ask for anything."

"Then why did you come?"

The old witch’s face twisted into a smirk, as if she knew she had caught him.

* * *

"Remember those missing person notices we saw?" James was striding forward with purpose. Peter’s trainers were slung over his shoulder. His thoughts raced, tumbling over one another.

"Exactly, Prongs – missing," Remus trailed a few steps behind. Unlike James, his thoughts felt sluggish, like treacle, and his body was weak after a rough night. "We need to get out of here."

"Peter’s missing!" Prongs stopped abruptly and spun around, nearly sending Remus crashing into him. "We’ll find him, then we’ll leave. He had a wound after the crash, didn’t he? A branch went through the windscreen and hit him in the temple. Maybe that’s the reason for the blood."

James thoughtfully brought the trainer closer to their faces for inspection.

"Oi, you two, who are you supposed to be?"

At the end of the street stood a police car. Remus recognised the model from old cop shows, they didn’t use ones like that anymore. A young officer sat on the bonnet. Despite the tone of his question, he was about the same age as them. James lit up and rushed over.

"Good morning, officer! Our friend went missing yesterday," Prongs blurted out, placing the trainers on the filthy bonnet next to the man. The officer visibly winced when he noticed the blood. "Here’s proof. The search should begin immediately."

"Excuse me, sir," Remus said with a cutting smile. "Would you mind introducing yourself?"

"Let’s say I’m Officer Crouch Jnr," the policeman replied, matching the sarcasm with a grin of his own.

"Officer Crouch, where do we begin?" James tried to steer the conversation.

"Crouch Jnr," the officer corrected stubbornly. James could hardly believe his ears. Had everyone gone mad?

"Officer Crouch Jnr," Prongs repeated through gritted teeth, but the officer cut him off again:

"Checked the woods?" he asked lazily. "We’ve got a thousand square kilometres out here. Always start with the woods. Could be he went for a wander and got himself lost." He yawned.

"Unlikely," Remus was starting to find the situation amusing. "He’d be too scared to go into the woods alone."

"Scared or not, alive or not, makes no difference. You always start with the woods."

"Will you help us?" James had clearly lost all patience.

"No," Crouch smirked nastily. "Until forty-eight hours pass, your little problem isn’t my concern."

"That rule was scrapped thirty years ago," Remus pointed out.

"Maybe where you’re from. Here, it still stands," the officer sighed theatrically and turned to get into the car.

"We’ve got money," James rummaged through his pockets and showed him a few notes. "Just help us."

The cash had an almost magical effect. Crouch brightened immediately.

"Now that’s a different story," he said cheerfully, opening the door. "Get in, you can explain on the way."

"Officer Crouch Jnr," James began again once they were inside.

"Call me Barty," the officer replied. Capitalism had clearly triumphed even here, Remus thought drily as he leaned back in the rear seat. James sat up front next to Barty. The car reeked of cigarettes and stale alcohol. Before starting the engine, Crouch pulled a bottle of whisky from the glovebox and took a large swig. Remus barely resisted asking for one himself.

"Barty, shouldn’t we file a missing person report?" James was too anxious to lecture him on responsible driving.

"No need. We’ll find him ourselves, quietly," Crouch replied, surprisingly peaceably.

"We’re low on fuel. We had a crash, but there was a man who promised to tow the car out," Prongs was doing his best to get everyone out alive as quickly as possible.

"Can’t help with that," Barty sighed. "I’m nearly out myself. Got anyone else with you?"

Half an hour later, the three of them and Officer Crouch Jnr were walking through the woods, shouting Peter’s name. So far, the search had turned up nothing. But James remained hopeful. Remus made sure not to let Sirius out of his sight.

"How’s your leg?" Padfoot asked quietly, when they had fallen a little behind James and the officer. His hair was still tied up in a bun, which Remus found unbelievably charming. He had completely forgotten about the hook in his thigh.

"Not sure. It doesn’t hurt," Remus shrugged.

"Have you tried getting it out?" Sirius looked at him, concerned.

"Haven’t really had a moment alone," Moony replied with a crooked smile. "And it’s grown in. It’ll have to be ripped out."

"Don’t do that! Maybe we can file off the barb and ease it out gently?" Sirius was already thinking through options. "I’ll ask Merope for tools."

"You two getting along?" Remus smiled, holding back a branch so it wouldn’t smack Sirius in the face as he followed behind.

He turned to look at Padfoot again, but something suddenly dripped onto his forehead. Remus and Sirius slowly looked up and saw a large, blood-soaked sack hanging high above, tied to a branch.

Sirius’s eyes rolled back, and he fainted. Remus just managed to catch him before he smashed his head against a rock.

Chapter Text

Crouch climbed the tree with surprising ease to cut down the blood-soaked sack and inspect its contents. The other three waited below. With a penknife, he sliced through the rope, and the sack thudded heavily to the ground.

James stood tense and focused, his jaw tightly clenched as he tried to mentally prepare himself for the worst. Remus was holding Sirius, who had only just come round from a faint. Sirius could not bear to look and had buried his face in Remus's chest. Moony absent-mindedly stroked his hair, afraid he might not be ready himself for what was inside the sack. He had already wiped the blood from his forehead so as not to frighten Sirius any further.

Barty, meanwhile, appeared utterly unfazed. He approached the sack and cautiously nudged it with the toe of his boot. James gasped with rage – if it really was Peter’s body, or what was left of it, he would not allow it to be treated like that. He opened his mouth to say so, but Crouch crouched down quickly and, with a single movement, slashed the sack open, revealing its contents to all present.

Two half-decomposed heads tumbled out. One belonged to a large black dog, the other to a wolf. Maggots were crawling all over them.

"It’s not him, right?" Padfoot was staring only at Remus’s face. "Not Peter?"

Moony let go of Sirius and managed to turn away from him just in time before vomiting. Now it was Padfoot’s turn to bring him back to his senses.

James, stunned and dumbfounded, pointed at the heads and asked Barty, "What is that?"

Barty smirked lopsidedly, wiping his soiled knife on his trouser leg.

Crouch wore his uniform in a distinctly careless fashion and looked extremely dishevelled. His shirt was unbuttoned at the chest and his tie hung loose around his neck simply to show that he had one. His jacket dangled off his shoulders like it belonged to someone else. The toes of his boots were spattered with mud – it was obvious he never cleaned them.

"Animal heads, at first glance," he replied sarcastically.

"And that’s normal for you lot here?" James was doing his best to stay rational, to keep a clear mind, but the surrealism of it all was dragging him under like a swamp. "Someone’s out there killing animals, chopping their heads off!"

Crouch clicked his tongue as he put the knife away. He was clearly unimpressed by the situation. He had enjoyed Remus’s reaction, but James – clearly the leader of their group – was starting to irritate him.

"What’s it for? Who needs this?" Prongs persisted.

"I haven’t the faintest fucking clue," Barty responded with irritation.

Sirius, who was still gently rubbing Remus’s back a little way off and had heard the whole exchange, offered, "Could be some sadist."

"Or a nature lover," Crouch spat lazily to the side and stepped away from the sack. "Or local beliefs – who the fuck knows."

"If people are going missing around here," James began, his brow furrowed and his fists clenched, "and now this–"

Crouch grinned like a predator and stared him dead in the eye.

"We’ve had worse here, got it? You piss-poor hero."

"It could be a maniac. They usually start with animals," Remus was finally feeling a little better. He straightened up and turned to face Crouch, trying not to look at the heads. But the stench was unavoidable. "Then they move on to people."

Barty was completely unfazed by the remark.

"I prefer the local belief theory," he said, shifting his gaze to Remus.

"So do I," Sirius said in a conciliatory tone, taking Remus’s hand – a gesture that did not go unnoticed by Crouch. To everyone’s surprise, he did not react. "Why assume it’s a maniac straight away? Let’s just get out of here."

Padfoot covered his nose and mouth with his hand and tugged Remus away from the scene, but the latter was still looking at Crouch.

"They never admit it’s a maniac," James and Sirius knew well that Moony had never liked the police since his days in the orphanage. Sirius looked worried. "They chalk it up to domestic cases, just so they don’t have to investigate. Our police only protect themselves."

Officer Crouch Jnr’s bored expression shifted into a squint as he stepped closer to Remus. Sirius gently tugged Moony’s hand, still hoping to avoid a confrontation.

"And who came to visit us? Inspector bloody Cattani?" Barty’s words dripped with venom.

"You sit on your arse, won’t even take a missing persons report," Remus could feel the familiar, long-dulled teenage fury boiling back up with renewed strength.

"My arse alone covers a thousand square kilometres," Crouch shot back in the same tone. "We get by just fine without any maniacs – the locals manage on their own," he added warningly.

Sirius came closer, still holding Remus’s hand and feeling the grip tighten.

"What, is it really so hard to open a case?" Padfoot asked quietly. Barty looked him over – the dark circles under his eyes, the tousled hair tied up in a loose bun – and sighed. "Oh, go on. Please."

"My boy," Crouch addressed Padfoot. That was too much for Remus. He yanked his hand from Sirius’s grasp and stepped right up to the officer, ready to hit him.

"Fine, I’ll do it," Barty suddenly backed off, lifting his hands in mock politeness. His face was putting on a show of courtesy. It was plain he simply could not be bothered to argue. "Write in the report that he’d gone missing earlier."

Sirius was relieved to agree. He reached up towards James, who was still standing transfixed, staring at the maggots squirming in the rotting flesh. Sirius tugged him by the sleeve. Prongs already regretted getting involved with this officer.

"And be gone by tonight," Crouch added sternly.

Remus pulled a cigarette from his pocket and lit it, trying to cover the stench of decay in his nose. He was still irritated but allowed Sirius to pull them both away from the place.

"We’ll leave now and he’ll bury the case again," Moony continued to grumble, displeased that Sirius had asked that bastard for anything.

James hung back again to walk alongside Barty. He did not trust him one bit.

"We still need petrol," he reminded Crouch tiredly.

"I’ll get you your bloody petrol," came the grumpy reply.

When Remus tossed his cigarette butt into the moss, Crouch immediately stamped it out with his boot. James noticed that he looked as if Moony had desecrated something sacred. In this forest, he was the keeper.

* * *

Leaving them in his police car, Officer Crouch Jnr told them he needed to deal with the heads. He took a spade and a large plastic bag from the boot. They were supposed to wait for him, but Remus immediately grabbed the door handle to follow.

"Don’t," said Prongs grimly. The weight of guilt on his shoulders was unbearable. He glanced in the rear-view mirror at the exhausted faces of Remus and Sirius. Padfoot’s shaggy head was resting on Remus’s shoulder. "I’ll go. Stay here."

James crept after the policeman at a distance, since it was impossible to move silently in the forest.

It seemed Crouch could not care less about everything happening there. Whistling, he returned to the spot with the heads and carefully shovelled them into the bag along with the sack and the rope. To James’s surprise, he also used the spade to gather up all the maggots that had fallen out of the heads and, together with a small amount of soil, poured them back over them.

Hoisting the sack, Barty twisted it closed without tying it and slung it over his shoulder. Instead of returning to the car, he inexplicably headed deeper into the forest, not forgetting the spade.

James grew increasingly uneasy, realising they were going further and further into the woods. What if the deranged policeman was actually the maniac? What if he had noticed he was being followed and was now leading James to a swamp to drown him, or simply further away from the others to kill him?

But soon the forest cleared and Crouch came upon a strange dwelling. It was a caravan, though so old and battered it was difficult to recognise at first glance. In front of it stood a plastic table with a torn beach umbrella and a few mismatched chairs. Around the "house", twelve wooden logs had been driven into the ground in a circle. James later found out there were twelve.

Barty dropped the sack from his shoulder, stopping just in front of the circle, as if an invisible barrier protected the "house". He pulled out a packet of cigarettes and lit one.

"Oi, free people," he called as he lit up, "we need to talk."

No one replied. The doors of the "house" remained tightly shut, but it seemed Crouch knew the occupants were inside. He called again several times.

"The fresh ones lost a mate," he said firmly. "Young, stubborn. They’ll keep searching till they find him."

James saw no one in the "house", no movement behind the grimy windows. But soon a reply came – a hoarse male voice said:

"Couldn’t care less. Not our business."

Barty clicked his tongue and tapped off the ash. He was clearly unimpressed by the response.

"The sack wasn’t to be touched," the voice from the "house" continued. "It’s the Master’s sack. The fresh ones are finished now."

Even after overhearing this conversation, James only had more unanswered questions. Who were these "free people"? Were they involved in Peter’s disappearance or not? What did all this grotesque nonsense with the sack mean? And who was the Master? Why were they called "the fresh ones"?

The last remark seemed to hit a nerve with Crouch. He bit his lip, staring at the sack by his feet. James involuntarily grinned. He was the one who had cut the sack open. They had not even touched it. So, if there were any rules here, it was Barty who had broken them – not them. And the free people seemed to assume the policeman should have known that.

Annoyed, Officer Crouch Jr stubbed out his cigarette on one of the logs, staring directly at the "house" window, as if he could see the eyes of his interlocutors. Turning around, he picked up the sack and the spade and started back.

James would have rushed after him, but the door of the "house" creaked open. Someone was peeking through the gap, watching Crouch disappear into the forest. Soon a filthy and dishevelled man in his middle years emerged. He slowly and cautiously stepped down onto the ground, wary like a small animal sensing a predator.

In his hand was a headless rooster or hen. He flung the severed head away, outside the circle. Once certain the policeman had gone, he sprinkled the unfortunate bird’s blood over each of the twelve posts. James counted them silently. Satisfied with his work and visibly calmer, the man went back inside the "house".

There was nothing left to watch, and James set off after Crouch, no longer bothering to hide.

* * *

"Following me, Hercule Poirot?" Crouch looked disgustingly pleased with himself. He was waiting for James, once again perched on the bonnet of his car. The spade and sack were gone – presumably back in the boot. "That’s right, I don’t trust anyone either," he said with an approving wink at Prongs.

Before replying, James looked inside the car to check that Remus and Sirius were safe and unharmed. Moony still looked slightly irritated, and James had no way to reassure him.

"Who is the Master?" he asked Crouch directly and calmly. James was getting tired of these games and intended to be firm.

But Barty merely shrugged.

"People with complicated pasts, escaped convicts," he explained as if it were the most ordinary thing. "Heavy drinkers, talk a load of nonsense. Alcohol destroys neural connections," Crouch added in a patronising tone, flashing a crooked smile.

James recalled how he had seen him take a swig from a bottle more than once.

"Something you’re trying to forget, officer?" Prongs shot back with a smirk. Two could play at that game, he thought.

For a brief moment, something flickered in the policeman’s eyes – an old, deep pain. But he quickly blinked it away, and his expression reverted to its usual sarcastic smirk. He spread his arms, as if to say everyone has their own sorrows, then turned to get into the car.

James felt only fatigue and growing irritation. He tried his best to be a good person and always do the right thing, but this place and these people seemed determined to test his patience.

Crouch had promised to take them back to the village, but at the fork in the road he turned off in the opposite direction.

"For heaven’s sake, Barty! What the hell is this now?" James finally let his anger get the better of him and slammed his fist against the dashboard.

Sirius flinched and shut his eyes. He had trouble handling other people’s outbursts – they reminded him too much of his parents. He also knew James was capable of them, that he could be pushed too far despite his friendly, patient nature. Remus stroked his shoulder to calm him, inwardly pleased that he was not the only one who found Crouch’s smug, lazy face infuriating.

"Where are you taking us?" Prongs demanded angrily.

"To the station," Crouch muttered irritably, patting the dashboard like it was alive and needed comforting. "Get out of here while you still can. Train comes by once a day, but it always comes. You’ve still got time."

James grabbed him by the collar and shook him hard. The car swerved, but Barty managed to keep control.

"I told you we’re not leaving until we find Peter," Prongs hissed furiously. "Not until I figure out what the hell is going on here and who you’re covering for."

"Hands off, I’m on duty," Crouch shot back in the same tone. "And behind the wheel. Didn’t you screw up your mates like that last time?"

"James," Sirius said quietly.

"Stop the," James had to give in to the trick. His sense of responsibility was as strong as his sense of justice. But it seemed even that had limits, "car. Now."

They would have kept arguing, but they came to the river, on the opposite bank of which they had regained consciousness after the crash. Their car, still damaged but less so than they had first thought, stood on the roadside. There were no tracks in the sand, meaning the man with the coffin in the back of his truck had not lied, he really had pulled their car out.

Barty stopped the car at last and got out to take a look. James and the others followed. But from this side of the river, they could not see the damage properly, so Prongs moved towards the bridge, only for Crouch to place a hand on his chest to stop him. There was no aggression in the gesture.

"Is that yours?" the policeman asked, his voice unsteady for some reason. He turned to James, his expression troubled and serious. Not understanding the sudden change in demeanour, Prongs nodded. "You came here on purpose?"

He seemed to be asking all of them, but looked only at James.

"Yes, we came to the monastery. But we had an accident," James answered wearily. "I told you."

"And you met a bloke in a truck," Barty continued for him in a defeated tone. "He ferried you across the river?"

James frowned and was about to ask how he knew that. But Crouch no longer cared about his answer. He turned away and looked out at the river, and for a moment James thought he saw his eyes glisten.

"Fine, stay," Barty said quietly. He bowed his head and took off the cap and raked his dark, tangled hair with a desperate hand. "Look for whatever it is you’ve lost."

James noticed that he did not say "your friend". He said "whatever it is". Everyone here spoke in riddles.

"I can’t handle this alone anyway," Crouch added with a sigh, sounding more composed as he put his cap back on. "I’ll drop by tomorrow. Need to question the villagers."

Remus and Sirius climbed back into the car. James saw them embrace on the back seat, and Moony gently kissed Sirius on the top of the head, holding him close. It was good they had each other – it made it easier to get through all this.

"I can give you the rest of my money if you help me find Peter," he said to Crouch in a dull voice, still watching his friends. He had no energy left for anger. "If that’ll motivate you."

Barty was also watching Remus and Sirius, his gaze unreadable, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. But his tone changed, suddenly sober:

"You think everything can be bought?" he muttered, licking his lips and turning away from the car to look at the river. "I’d like to find my own."

James stared at him in surprise. Crouch snorted and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a missing person’s notice, just like the ones they had seen near the monastery. The photograph showed a young, handsome man, also in police uniform. Though the picture was black-and-white and the paper worn, it was clear he had fair hair and piercing eyes.

"My colleague," Barty said quietly. James knew it was more than that. "He disappeared here with his service weapon."

Prongs looked at the name above the photo and whispered it aloud: "Evan Rosier." Crouch closed his eyes for a moment, and his face twisted in anguish.

* * *

Barty left them on the riverbank, citing urgent business, and drove off. But before leaving, he warned them not to cross the bridge, hinting that the car was not worth the risk. As Remus climbed out of the vehicle, he irritably remarked once again that it sounded like a veiled threat, yet another instance of the bloody policeman threatening them.

James could no longer cope with any of it. He could not even admit to himself that he had no idea what they should do next. More and more, it felt like a struggle for the sake of struggle. His thoughts turned less to Peter and more to how they were going to get out of there alive.

Going down to the water’s edge, Prongs glanced at his reflection. The scratches on his face and arms were as fresh as they had been on the day of the crash. It seemed they had not even started to scab over. He removed his glasses and scooped water into his hands to wash his face.

Sirius tugged Remus along with him again, and they slowly made their way into the forest, giving James a moment to breathe alone. Soon, he could no longer hear their voices. Sitting down wearily right on the ground and putting his glasses back on, he thought lazily that splitting up was a bad idea, especially in the forest, but some time alone was exactly what he needed. He trusted Remus, who was probably capable of killing if Padfoot were in danger.

The nature around him was truly beautiful. They had had little opportunity to notice it, but here everything seemed almost untouched by man. Wild and alive. Trees, grasses, moss, the water in the river and the swamp, it all seemed to breathe and whisper behind their backs, disturbed by their presence.

If there had not been so many reasons to be stressed, James would have enjoyed all of it. He loved nature. If Regulus had been with them, he would have appreciated it too. He would probably have said that the real temple here was the forest, not those ruins.

At the thought of Regulus, Prongs bit his lip. He forbade himself from thinking about him, not to remind Sirius by accident, and not to drown in those thoughts himself. Regulus’s death weighed on him with an even greater sense of guilt than Peter’s disappearance.

James was about to get up and catch up with the others before they went too far. But then, ripples began to spread across the water near the reeds, as if something was happening beneath the surface. Transfixed and unnerved, James could not take his eyes off the edge.

A moment later, a dark crown of hair surfaced, followed by a pair of painfully familiar, captivating eyes. Prongs was convinced he was hallucinating. A hysterical laugh nearly escaped him. But he had to stay quiet, not to scare the vision away.

The eyes gleamed with curiosity. They watched James intently, and it felt to him as though they could see right through him, along with his foolish, misplaced love. Their gaze lingered on his neck.

The apparition lasted only a few seconds before James could truly register it. Regulus, or whatever was pretending to be him, vanished again beneath the surface. James never saw the full face, only the eyes. But when the creature disappeared, he could not ignore the wave of searing disappointment that hit him.

Climbing back up the steep riverbank, James could not shake the absurd thought that Regulus had drowned and was now living as a merman in some godforsaken backwater. And yet, he could not suppress the hysterical laugh.

* * *

During the spat with Crouch, Remus stood idle only because he was once again overcome by weakness and a dull ache. He was trying to be a pillar for Sirius, while needing support himself. But he could not ask for it. He generally found it hard to ask for such things, but especially now, when things were already going badly for them.

So he walked after Sirius through the forest and mist, teeth clenched in silence. Sirius said nothing either, his hair had come undone and now lay in beautiful waves. He stepped slowly and deliberately, as if he needed to be fully conscious of each next step. And Remus knew this happened when Sirius was too deep in thought, when the outside world ceased to exist for him.

The problem was, Sirius’s mind was not the safest place for him to be. It stored every dark memory, every fear, every hurt. It generated all the mad and sometimes dangerous ideas that helped him forget them. It was necessary to distract him, to say something. But Remus could not push through the pain to get to that place in his mind where words lived.

In desperation, Remus slipped a hand into his pocket and quietly took out a pill. It was off-schedule, unplanned, out of turn. But given their strange situation, did it really matter? Swallowing it dry was impossible, so Moony had to chew it, wincing at the bitterness.

He stopped and sat down on a stump, quickly untying the laces of his trainers. Sirius also stopped when he realised Remus was no longer behind him.

"What’s wrong? Are you tired?" Padfoot’s voice sounded concerned, though faint. He came back to Remus and placed a hand on his forehead. Remus closed his eyes for a moment, savouring the touch, then turned his neck to kiss the pale, delicate wrist.

Then he finished untying the laces and took off his trainers and socks. Holding them in one hand, he stepped barefoot onto the wet, cool moss.

"Don’t, you’ll get ill," Sirius said, alarmed, but Remus placed a hand on his head and ruffled his hair. He was nearly a head taller.

"I want to feel," he said, without regret. There was a flicker of understanding in Sirius’s eyes. He bent down to remove his own boots and join Remus.

They walked barefoot across the moss, holding hands and smiling at one another. From time to time, the sun pierced through the mist and the trees, its rays tangling in Sirius’s beautiful hair and reflecting in his anxious eyes. Remus was glad to do any reckless and foolish thing, if only it brought Sirius joy. If he managed to dull his sadness even for half an hour, then the day had not been wasted. Remus knew that Padfoot felt the same and did the same for him.

Moony longed desperately to kiss him, his red, beautifully shaped mouth curved in a smile. His own mouth still tasted bitter from the medicine, so Remus plucked a leaf from a tree and stuffed it in, chewing like a goat. Sirius first wrinkled his nose – Remus adored that endearing expression on his face – and then smiled even wider.

Remus spat out the green mush, which was no less unpleasant than the chemically bitter aftertaste of the tablet. Padfoot approached to wipe the remnants from his lower lip with his thumb. But before he could do so, Remus grabbed him by the waist and kissed him with abandon. At last, everything tasted sweet – in his mouth and in his heart.

Stealing kisses from each other, pushing and teasing, they forgot about James and simply wandered through the woods, enjoying each other’s company. Soon they reached a sunlit clearing and Sirius began picking flowers to weave garlands for them both, because garlands were, to him, an essential. Remus didn’t argue with that logic, but he didn’t join in either, as he wasn’t fond of being in direct sunlight.

He circled the clearing, remaining in the cool shade of the trees, and slowly wandered deeper in, never letting Sirius out of sight. From time to time Sirius lifted his head from the grass and flowers and smiled at him. Remus didn’t come across any flowers, as they didn’t grow in the shade, but he did find a mushroom that looked friendly and harmless. Carefully plucking it, Moony took a small bite. Not the wisest thing to do in a forest, but if one was to commune with nature, then one might as well go all in.

The mushroom tasted, predictably, like a mushroom. Remus took another small bite, chewing but not swallowing. He was still making his way around the clearing when he noticed something among the trees. A stone figure, a sculpture of a mourning angel. Moony walked straight towards it and found a small, old cemetery.

There weren’t many graves and all were relatively well kept. Only one had a sculpture. Remus stepped closer to read who it belonged to. "Tom Riddle" was written on the plaque, and he had died quite some time ago. But it wasn’t the name that caught Remus’s attention, it was the photograph. The image was already familiar to him, the same one hung in Merope’s home. It was her husband.

Next to Tom’s clearly expensive, well-made gravestone, there was another prepared. No photo, no name, Merope had likely left it for herself.

Remus spat out the remaining bits of mushroom. He squatted before Riddle’s grave and tried with all his might to make sense of what the hell was going on. Who was it, then, coughing in the master bedroom? They had definitely heard someone there. Even when the old woman wasn’t home.

Moony decided not to call Sirius, there was no point giving him more reasons to worry. Instead, he took out his phone and photographed the headstone several times, just to be sure.

So, the old woman had a Schrödinger’s husband – both alive and dead, until one opened the locked door and checked for oneself. The grave could be fake, but what would be the point of making one in the middle of nowhere, especially in a forest cemetery, in a village registered as uninhabited? The very fact they were living here already shielded them from the world.

That’s what Remus was thinking on his way back to the clearing, where a cheerful Sirius placed the prettiest garland on his head. The one he thought less successful was on his own. Moony wanted to tell him that it wasn’t the garland that made him beautiful, it was Sirius himself, smiling tenderly at him. But there was no need. Padfoot already knew, just by looking into Remus’s eyes, full of love and affection.

Chapter Text

The very first thing Remus did when he and Sirius returned home, tired but content, was go over to the sideboard. There was no doubt about it: the face staring at him from the framed photograph was the same serious, focused one he had seen on the gravestone in the forest cemetery. Just to be sure, he quickly pulled out his phone and checked. But there was no mistake. From behind the wall, as if in mockery, someone coughed again.

Remus glanced over at Sirius, who had just hung their garlands on a little hook in the hallway and was now scooping fresh water into a bucket with a small ladle to drink. Clutching his phone tightly, Remus approached the door to the master bedroom, behind which a television murmured quietly, and knocked firmly.

Merope’s tired voice replied, "You’ve scattered all your crossword clues again," followed by slow, cautious footsteps. Who in the world was she scolding, Remus thought bitterly, if her husband had long since died?

The door opened slightly and the old woman peered out, blocking the view into the room.

"Have you found your friend?" she asked with genuine interest. Remus thought there was something oddly eager in her tone, as though their search had been some kind of entertainment for her.

"No," said Remus easily. He was tempted to add that they had found something far more interesting, but held back. Instead, he added firmly, "No, but we’ll keep looking until we do."

Merope smirked and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind her at once.

"As you wish," she replied with a falsely sweet smile, but then her tone changed abruptly to one of irritation. "But it wouldn’t hurt to pay a little extra for room and board." She nodded towards Sirius, who had frozen in the kitchen mid-bite with an apple in his mouth.

Remus winced at her bluntness, but sighed and agreed, saying he would remind James. Merope seemed pleased with his promise. Turning to Sirius, she handed him the bucket.

"Oi, the pretty one, go fetch some water from the well. I’ll make you some tea," she said, winking at Remus, though he was far too distracted to notice – he couldn’t stop thinking about what was behind that door.

Sirius obediently disappeared, and Remus, feeling a fresh wave of weakness – the pill must have worn off – turned to the attentive old woman and said, "You know, I’m exhausted." He truly did feel drained. "I think I’ll lie down for a bit."

"Go on, get some rest," Merope said warmly, her expression that of a doting grandmother. She gently nudged Remus towards the sofa, and he lay down without protest, closed his eyes, and fell asleep at once – as if someone had covered him in sleep like a heavy, warm blanket pulled over his head.

* * *

When Remus woke up, he could hardly believe his eyes. In the kitchen, visible through the doorway, three people were sitting at the table. He immediately recognised Sirius's neat profile, gently lit by the rays of sunlight. Next to him sat Merope, pouring him some tea. But opposite them sat an elderly man, and even from the back, Remus instantly realised it was none other than Tom Riddle.

He sat up cautiously in bed, rubbing his eyes, hoping it might clear not only his vision but his thoughts as well. Yet when he opened them again, the old man was still seated at the table. Merope touched Sirius's shoulder.

"Wake your friend, let him join us."

Sirius twitched as if to get up, but Tom stopped him.

"No need, the lad's worn out, I expect," he said kindly. Sirius sat back down. "Let him sleep."

But Merope had already noticed that Remus was awake.

"You're up? Come join us," she called cheerfully. "We're just having tea."

Had Sirius not been so surprisingly calm and obedient, Remus would never in his life have sat at that table that looked ready for a spiritualist séance, nor would he have touched anything the old witch had brewed. But he had no intention of leaving Sirius alone with them either.

So, reluctantly, Remus got up and approached the table, placing himself squarely between Tom and Sirius, as if physically shielding one from the other. Merope stared at him intently, masking her curiosity with feigned goodwill. Perhaps they had managed to deceive Sirius, given his fragile emotional state. But not Remus – not a chance.

There were only three chairs, and nowhere for him to sit, but Tom stood up, gave Remus his seat, and moved to an armchair, still remaining part of the conversation.

Remus sat down and, taking a rather proprietorial attitude, pulled the plate of fresh vegetables towards himself, selecting a cucumber. In an everyday tone, he remarked:

"I thought you were dead," addressing Tom. He bit into the cucumber, staring the old man straight in the eye. Merope gave a dismissive snort, but Remus didn't break eye contact. Tom was not remotely perturbed by the remark.

"And I thought you were dead," Tom replied with a slight smirk. Unlike the old man, his words did manage to strike Remus. He stiffened, gesturing at himself with the cucumber.

"I'm alive," he said firmly.

"Oh, come off it," the old man chuckled again. "You don't think you ended up here by accident, do you?"

Involuntarily, Remus recalled the crash and the blood on the windscreen. But no one had been fatally injured, had they? He turned to look at Sirius, but he was simply drinking his tea quietly, eyes cast down. The scratch on his cheek was still fresh. Remus had never seen him so subdued, and he didn't like it one bit. Whether it was grief or something else, it didn't suit Sirius. He showed no intention of joining the conversation.

"Let's suppose," Remus said, turning back to the table. "We did have a crash. But we're all in one piece."

"It's either that, or the opposite," Tom replied philosophically. Remus wanted to laugh in his face, he opened his mouth to do so, but Sirius spoke first.

"I think it's the opposite," he whispered. He sounded like a photocopy of the Sirius Remus had known.

Moony could no longer take it. He turned fully towards Sirius and whispered:

"Oi, Padfoot," he said gently, taking his hand. Sirius looked at him with eyes full of tears and despair. "Why are you playing along with the dead? He's dead – I found his grave while you were picking flowers for your garlands."

Merope laughed indulgently, as if Remus were completely insane in her eyes. Remus dug into his pocket for his phone.

"One sec," he said. "I'll show you." He opened the gallery – it wasn't hard to find the right pictures, they were the most recent ones. Remus opened them, expecting the satisfaction of being right – but was met with a fresh shock. Perhaps even horror.

There weren't two photos. There were four. Each one showed a gravestone. Four photos in a row: Peter, James, Sirius – and finally, Remus himself. Their names and birthdates. The date of death was the same for all of them – the day they'd had the bloody crash.

Sirius let out a sob. He didn't even need to look at the phone. Remus placed the phone on the table and began to laugh hysterically, staring at the reverently smiling old couple.

"Well done," he said sarcastically through his laughter, admiring their masterful manipulation. "And where are we now, according to you?" He swept his arms to indicate the space around them.

"In the limbo," Tom replied calmly.

"What sort of limbo is this?" Remus asked, arching an eyebrow in mockery.

"Like a holding area," the old man picked up his teacup and took a sip. "Or a remand centre," he added, glancing at Sirius with a sly wink. Sirius pressed his lips together – clearly, the remark was a reference to their youth, to the time Riddle had gone to prison for killing his wife's rapists.

Remus didn't know about that. He was experiencing a proper existential crisis – quite literally.

"Am I explaining this clearly?" Tom looked at his wife for support. She placed a hand on his shoulder, gave it a small squeeze, and smiled.

"None of it makes any bloody sense," Remus replied stubbornly, taking another bite of cucumber.

"No one ever gets it straight away," Merope said with a sigh.

"Why am I even listening to you?" Remus grumbled, chewing and running a hand through his hair in frustration, trying not to lose what remained of his sanity. "All this talk about death – I want to live! I've got plans..."

Tom didn't let him finish. He leaned forward in his chair and pointed a finger at Remus.

"That's exactly what the limbo is for – to help you understand that you're dead," he said with slow emphasis. "Some people die and don't even realise it," he added, now turning to Merope with a patronising smile. "Keep bustling about, trying to finish their business," the old woman nodded in agreement. Tom turned back and addressed Remus without any emotion. "And you, calm down. There's no need to rush anymore."

Remus nearly choked on his cucumber but got a grip on himself. He leaned forward in his chair, bringing his face close to the old man's.

"Listen, mate," he said irritably, "I'm alive. I feel everything." He waved the stub of cucumber near his temple. "My head's splitting, for one."

Tom didn't seem the least bit impressed.

"You know how much phantom limbs hurt?" he retorted meaningfully.

Suddenly, Sirius got up. The legs of his chair scraped loudly across the wooden floor. He walked over to Remus and addressed him like one would a frightened, irrational child:

"Remus, don't be angry, and don't be scared," his voice was so soft and serene that listening to it felt like hearing a mountain stream flow. Remus's shoulders relaxed involuntarily – all his will to resist dissolved. "It's good James brought us here."

Remus furrowed his brow, struggling to break through the illusion, to resist the overpowering urge to surrender to Sirius and his gentleness. Through the haze he vaguely wondered – since they'd made up their nicknames, they had never called each other by name. Why was Padfoot calling him Remus now?

Sirius stroked his cheek, tracing the line of his cheekbone and the throbbing temple. For a moment, Remus thought even the pain had subsided. But Sirius's next question brought a far deeper ache – one so old that it had lived inside Remus his entire life.

"Don't you miss the dead?" Padfoot asked quietly, almost in a whisper. He meant Remus's parents – people he had barely known but missed every minute of his life in the orphanage. Unbidden, a tear slid down Remus's cheek. Sirius gently wiped it away with his thumb.

"What are you doing, Padfoot?" Remus murmured weakly, trying to get back to the point, to the photographs, to the gravestones. "I want to go back to the living."

Sirius gave him a sad, understanding smile. He pushed Remus's hair back as he often had before – but then suddenly grabbed a handful and slammed his face into the table with all his strength.

* * *

Sirius obediently trudged after Merope towards the monastery. The old woman had coaxed him out under the pretence of bringing some treats to the priest. In her hands was a basket covered with a clean embroidered cloth. Padfoot had gone with her more out of boredom and a reluctance to be left alone with his thoughts. He pulled his hood over his head, wishing to hide from the entire world.

"Maybe we should go back?" he said weakly, for what felt like the hundredth time. "The others will be looking for us."

But Merope was determined. She cut him off: "They won’t, we’ll be back before dark," and simply walked on.

Feeling a surge of irritation, Sirius asked loudly:

"Why did I even come with you?" He turned as if to head back, but the old woman immediately grabbed him by the hood – hair and all – and pulled him back.

"You agreed," she pointed out. "Came all this way, and now it’s just a matter of asking."

Just a matter. All his life, Sirius had done everything to avoid asking anyone for anything or kneeling before anyone. Except perhaps Remus. But that would count as a sin by local standards.

"You’ll tell him everything on your heart," Merope continued, now in a more conciliatory tone. "That it’s hard, that you miss him. And that you didn’t go to the funeral," she added meaningfully.

Sirius had never told her that he hadn’t gone to Regulus’s funeral.

"And what will he give me in return?" he asked stubbornly, recalling the pitying eyes of Jesus in the icon. "He’s the one who took him in the first place."

Merope shook her head.

"Why would you say such a thing?" she asked bitterly. "Why would he take him? He gave up his soul willingly – that’s a grave sin."

Padfoot bit his lip to stop himself from snapping, from screaming in desperation.

"He gave it up because he couldn’t live in that stifling air!" he shouted, flinging off his hood as if he himself could no longer breathe.

"Come along," said Merope calmly, extending her hand to him. "Stop resisting."

"I’m not going," Sirius replied, pure stubbornness in his voice. If there was one thing he hated more than asking and obeying, it was the patronising care of elders – the kind that had left him nothing but trauma. "There’s no one there anyway. If he were real," he added, hinting at God, "he wouldn’t have let any of this happen."

Sirius wasn’t even sure what he meant by "this" – his brother’s suicide, the crash, and everything that had followed, or their childhood filled with shouting, punishment and blame, which had been the root of it all. No one takes their own life for no reason.

"You’re such a difficult boy!" Merope said with exasperation. Padfoot, to his surprise, pictured her speaking the same way to her son – the one he had seen in photographs. "Bow and ask," she said firmly. "I prayed mine back," Sirius’s eyes widened as he realised she was speaking of her husband, "and you’ll pray yours back too."

"I said I’m not going," each refusal from him weaker than the last.

Suddenly, a priest appeared behind the old woman. As if sensing his arrival, she turned and greeted him warmly:

"Father Aberforth," she said, stepping closer and showing him the basket. "We’ve brought you some treats."

Sirius rolled his eyes.

* * *

When Remus woke up for the second time, he was drenched in sweat and feverish. The room was empty – as was the whole house. In the kitchen, there were traces of the teatime. Three cups remained on the table – two empty with tea stains at the bottom, and one still full, apparently left for him by Sirius. Neither he nor Merope were anywhere to be found. They had probably gone to the monastery, or somewhere else.

Moony approached the mirror to inspect his face. There was no sign of a blow on his forehead. He prodded, rubbed and stretched his face, trying to make sure he was really alive and that the whole conversation with Tom had just been a dream.

Suddenly, a rash on his neck caught his eye, and the moment he noticed it, it began to itch and burn. Oh, Remus knew perfectly well what a rash meant – that he had botched his therapy again and his immune system was weakening once more. With dull desperation, he scratched at the red skin, hurting himself in the process.

On the table lay the knife Merope had used to cut food. Picking it up and rinsing it under water, Remus absent-mindedly sliced his thumb. The blood still came freely – like from someone alive. The bloody old man had just been playing tricks on him.

Licking off a large drop of blood, Remus flung the knife back onto the table, not even bothering to wipe it clean. Suddenly, a strange sound caught his attention. Still sucking on his finger, Moony stepped into the larger room and looked around carefully.

Between the window frames was a tiny bird, evidently trapped when someone had accidentally shut the window, and now the poor thing was fluttering and crashing against the glass. Remus gently opened both panes and released the unfortunate creature into the open. It vanished in an instant.

Remus was still standing at the window, staring blankly into the yard, when James came into the house.

"What’s going on?" he asked cautiously, noticing the blood on Remus’s lips and hand. "Where is everyone?"

Moony quickly licked his lips and once again enclosed his thumb in his mouth, sucking away the blood. He turned to James, still in a strange, dazed state from his sleep.

"No idea," he said flatly. "I’ve only just woken up. Where were you?"

James stepped towards him slowly and moved Remus’s hand away from his face. He already held a clean napkin and gently wiped Moony’s thumb before wrapping it tightly to stop the bleeding.

"By the river," he replied calmly. "Looking for Wormtail" – but Remus could immediately tell he was lying. James was a terrible liar. "Where’s Padfoot gone?" Prongs asked quickly, changing the subject.

Remus shrugged, staring at his thumb and at James’s hands, which were still holding it in the napkin.

"No idea," he replied simply. "They were having tea with the old woman. I fell asleep – like I passed out. When I woke up, they were gone."

James was unsettled by Remus’s response. The last thing they needed was Sirius going missing too. He couldn't be left alone with Merope. And what was all this about passing out?

"Listen, Prongs," Remus suddenly pulled his hands from James’s and reached into his pocket. "This might sound strange," he warned quickly before showing James a photo of Riddle’s gravestone. Thankfully, there were no longer any photos of their own graves in his gallery.

James immediately caught on to what Remus was getting at and turned towards the dresser to compare the images.

"I dreamed that this old man," Moony pointed to the photo on his phone screen, "was alive. And it all felt real. He was right there, at that table," he pointed now to the actual table, "drinking tea with us. And he said we were all dead."

"That’s nonsense," Prongs replied at once. Remus felt enormous relief at his friend’s solid certainty. "But yeah, creepy – I’ll give you that," James added quickly. He could see how deeply shaken Moony was by the dream.

"I started thinking," Remus began pensively. He looked out the window again, biting his lip and remembering the little bird. "Maybe we really did die in the crash." James’s heart clenched at those words. "The old man said that people don’t realise straight away that they’ve died."

James needed to banish these thoughts – first and foremost from his own mind. They were dangerous thoughts, ones that could lead to despair. And James had the sense that someone really wanted them to despair.

"But there is no old man – not really," he said firmly. Remus looked at him again, his eyes pained and anxious. James pitied him – the pain seemed to be eating his friend alive, and his thoughts were growing darker and more disjointed. "The old woman buried her husband and misses him. Maybe she’s gone mad from grief. Sad, but it happens. We’ve never even seen him – just heard him. He never comes out of the room, right?"

Remus nodded slowly.

"Let’s go and meet him, then?" James stepped decisively towards the door to the master bedroom and looked back at Moony. He joined him, still unsure whether what he was experiencing was real. What if he was still dreaming – just in a different dream?

Prongs knocked politely. No answer came, but there was a soft, elderly cough from within. So James asked loudly:

"Sorry to intrude. Do you mind if we come in for a moment?" He looked back at Remus, but he was too out of it to support him and just watched silently.

Losing patience – something that had been happening to him with surprising frequency lately – James pushed the door open and stepped into the room. It was empty. Spotlessly clean. The double bed had been neatly made on both sides.

On the table sat a cage, tightly covered with a cloth. Driven by irritation and exhaustion, James yanked off the cloth – and they saw a parrot. An ordinary parrot, which had woken from the disturbance and immediately launched into a perfectly accurate old-man’s cough. Clearly, the poor bird had heard that sound so often during its owner’s illness that it had memorised it – and now repeated for the amusement of the grief-stricken old woman.

Remus burst into hysterical laughter. James wanted to calm him down but couldn’t help laughing himself – the situation was simply too absurd. They collapsed onto the floor, clutching their sides, laughing right there in the master bedroom.

"I saw Regulus by the river," James admitted through laughter and tears. Remus laughed even harder. The parrot continued coughing, encouraged by the reaction. "At first I followed you two with Padfoot, but I couldn’t handle it – I turned back. Sat there all day like a bloody idiot," Prongs went on, wiping away tears. It was hilarious, and heartbreakingly tragic all at once. Perhaps he was laughing out of sheer pity for himself.

"And I’ve got a hook in my thigh," Remus replied in the same tone. He pulled his jeans down slightly, nearly baring himself in front of James, and showed him. "Look."

They broke into laughter again, shedding the last fragments of their sanity. The parrot, too, screeched and flapped its wings as if it had gone completely mad.

* * *

"What was your brother’s name?" Father Aberforth asked patiently.

"What difference does it make?" Sirius replied irritably. His shoulders cramped with discomfort. Since childhood, emotional distress had always manifested physically for him.

"Who should I pray for?" the priest asked again, wearily closing his eyes. They were walking through the monastery galleries, the warm and pleasant evening light streaming through the broken windows. The light of the setting sun.

"You don’t need to pray for anyone," Sirius repeated for what felt like the hundredth time. He was losing patience, but he desperately did not want to descend into hysteria – especially not in a church.

"Pride is a mortal sin," Aberforth remarked gravely. Sirius caught, out of the corner of his eye, Merope nodding with a blissful smile on her lips. His teeth had already begun to grind.

"Isn’t everything a sin to you lot?" he asked loudly. "You can’t take a single step without sinning." Merope tugged his sleeve, but he jerked his arm away. Sirius was not the most patient of people, and he had already endured a whole day. "Just like our dear mother," he added venomously, coming to a stop.

Aberforth also stopped and turned to look at him.

"Will you say that God punished him because he couldn’t take it anymore?" Sirius asked quickly, his voice laced with pain, before the priest could say anything at all.

"What happened to him?" Father Aberforth rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"He drowned himself," Sirius spat, unable to contain his anger – as though Aberforth were personally to blame.

"God doesn’t punish like that," the priest answered calmly, continuing forward. His reply sounded as though he knew very well how God punishes. Sirius snorted. As if.

Father Aberforth led him back to the familiar place – the altar. He relit the candles that had gone out; the others seemed to have been burning for an eternity already, their wax pooling in chimera-like rivulets. The scent of incense and the stifling air in that dead-end corridor made Sirius’s head spin again. The priest crossed himself and began:

"Memento, Domine, famuli tui," Aberforth turned to Sirius, who muttered his name begrudgingly. The priest snorted at the name before continuing, "Sirius, et praesta ei gratiam et protectionem."

He turned to bless Sirius, who reluctantly stepped forward, head slightly bowed. Merope stood motionless by the wall like a silent shadow. She seemed especially moved by the holiness of the moment.

"Benedicat te omnipotens Deus," Aberforth recited the words of the blessing in a tone so routine it was clear he had long since grown bored of the priest’s path. Sirius bore the ministrations obediently, listening to himself, trying to hear the voice of God within. "Pater, et Filius, et Spiritus Sanctus."

Finally, Father Aberforth stepped aside from the icon and gestured for Sirius to take his place before it.

"Stand here and say everything you didn’t get to say to your brother," he said calmly.

He and Merope left.

Now Sirius was free to leave too – and he hesitated. It was the first time in a long while that he was entirely alone. James, Remus, or Peter had always been nearby. The silence was so complete, it briefly felt to Sirius as though he had gone deaf.

Biting his lip, Sirius slowly sank to his knees before the icon. Just a matter of asking, right?

He had to think deeply to find even a few words. What hadn’t he said to Regulus? He hadn’t said anything. They had seen little of each other since Sirius had left home, and had grown only more distant over time.

The elder brother had become someone else. He had found new people, a new family, and fought against everything his origins represented. He had gained independence and tried to learn how to live with his trauma.

The younger brother, on the other hand, had sunk deeper into the family, wrapping himself in its toxic atmosphere like a cocoon. Of course he had wished their family were different – "normal" – but that was not to be. So he tried to be content with what he had. He had no intention of leaving, no matter how cruelly it wounded him.

And there was plenty to wound. The truth of Regulus’s identity had been hidden from the outside world by their parents, but Sirius – and the rest of the family – had always known. Their mother, a skilled manipulator, played Regulus like an instrument. She had given him life a second time, allowing him to transition and conceal it. In exchange for that gift, she twisted him around her finger.

No matter how Sirius had tried to pull his brother free from her grasp – or from their spineless father – it had been in vain. Even after spending a few nights with James and Sirius, Regulus always returned to his parents. The family pulled him back like a bog.

Until, clearly, something Sirius didn’t know about became the final straw. They had spoken the night before, and Regulus had been his usual distant self. Finishing school hadn’t stirred any inspiration in him – he simply let their parents decide his every step. Perhaps he had simply grown tired of being their puppet.

Sirius didn’t know. But the guilt of leaving him in that house, of not fighting harder for him, consumed him. And when his brother finally died, it drowned him too. The burden was unbearable. He couldn’t share it with James or with Remus – they weren’t part of his blood family. They only saw the tip of the iceberg. The monstrous mass beneath the surface lived in Sirius’s memory, pulsing and aching with every moment.

Pressing his forehead to the cold stone floor and letting the tears roll freely down his cheeks, Sirius whispered:

"Forgive me." It was the only thing he could say. Raising his head, as if awaiting a response, he looked into the damp and gentle eyes of Jesus. It was no longer clear whether he was asking forgiveness from his brother or from God.

"Forgive me for leaving you with them," he added, his voice strangled, as his heart clenched in that now-familiar way. Now it seemed clearer that this was for Regulus.

Droplets of water trickled slowly down the icon, glinting silver in the candlelight, and the sparkle transfixed Sirius. He watched them as if they were the answer to his faltering prayer. As though the icon – or the one depicted upon it – shared his grief. The stream of water grew before his eyes, extinguishing the candles on the wooden stand beneath the image.

Sirius felt a draught at his back. The wind blew through this place ceaselessly. But behind the rustle of air came a strange shuffling sound. Rising slowly on unsteady legs, drawn by an unknown force, Sirius followed the galleries.

In the final room – utterly bare – he was met by a great heap of fresh, loose soil spread across a vast sheet of plastic. He froze in the arched portal of the gallery, forgetting how to breathe. Because the earth was moving, as if someone were trapped within it. Among the dark mass were fragments of black lacquered wood and, inexplicably, scraps of white satin. Sirius could have sworn he had seen both the cloth and the wood before.

At last, a pale, thin hand emerged from the soil. On its index finger was a family ring Sirius knew all too well. Someone was suffocating beneath the mound, struggling to escape.

* * *

Barty Crouch slapped himself several times across the face to gather his senses. He was standing beside his car at the edge of that damned village. Spread out on the bonnet in front of him were the few things he had managed to collect while searching for Evan. He had to stay sane – and preferably sober – but it was bloody hard to survive in this place without a swig of burning whisky.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Remus – wet, naked, and furious – was brushing his teeth in Merope’s yard with a kind of desperate ferocity. Technically, he wasn’t completely naked; a towel was wrapped around his hips, but that didn’t seem to matter. He was hoping the cold would sober him up.

A little earlier, he had discovered ulcers in his mouth and was now deliberately scraping them with the brush, running over them each time on purpose. He urgently needed to see Sirius. But their "bed" was empty. After Peter had disappeared and the level of desperation had rapidly begun to rise, they had stopped hiding and had slept in each other’s arms every night, ignoring the old woman’s mocking remarks.

They needed to talk about the sex they’d had – even if it had been protected – and, more importantly, about the sex they might still have. Because Remus’s condition was clearly getting worse. He scratched nervously at the rash on his neck, remembering it.

But Sirius had slipped away quietly like a mouse at sunrise.

James, sleepy and dishevelled, shirtless too, stepped out onto the porch with a piece of paper in his hand.

"I’ve gone with Merope to the monastery for the whole day," he read aloud in a hoarse, early-morning voice. His eyes were still adjusting to the sunlight and to his glasses. "Back by nightfall. Sirius."

He showed the note to Remus, silently asking what the hell that was about. But Moony had already seen it, written in Sirius’s showily calligraphic handwriting.

"No idea," he replied irritably, rinsing his mouth with water from a mug and spitting the foamy, blood-tinged mixture into the grass. James grimaced but chose not to comment.

"Then we’re going to the monastery," Remus added resolutely, climbing the steps towards Prongs. "Padfoot’s over there with that old," he made a circling gesture by his temple, "mad hag."

He stepped into the hallway and filled his mug with more water. James leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, watching him.

"She definitely knows what’s going on around here," he said tensely.

"The copper," Remus jabbed a finger at James, "the copper definitely knows," then he drank greedily from the mug and disappeared into the room to get dressed.

James sighed. He didn’t like that Remus was locked in some unspoken war with the local policeman, didn’t like the strange, feverish state he was in. Didn’t like the way Sirius was acting. That there was still no progress in the search for Peter. And more than anything, he wished none of it concerned him anymore – that he could spend the whole bloody day staring at the still surface of the water, hoping the mysterious creature would show itself again.

* * *

The evening before, when Sirius Black saw the hand of his deceased younger brother protruding from the soil, he struggled to overcome his paralysis and help him. Several seconds passed before he was able to move at last, fall to his knees beside the grave soil, and begin digging out the terrified Regulus.

He could not breathe and was gasping harshly. At first, Padfoot assumed it was because of the soil, but upon seeing his brother, he realised the true cause. Regulus was soaked through, his funeral suit clinging to him like a second skin. He was gulping air, water streaming down his chin. Sirius did everything he could to help, but he was far too shocked himself.

"Hey," he said softly, pulling Regulus free from the mound of soil and onto the cold stone floor, cradling his head against his chest, "hey, it’s all right, you’re safe now."

He had often recited that mantra over his frightened little brother when their mother flew into a rage. Stroking Reg’s damp curls, he pressed his lips to the crown of his head, barely able to believe his luck. Perhaps holding him like this, gasping and drenched, wasn’t the best idea – but Sirius couldn’t help himself.

A moment later, Regulus pulled away. The water stopped flowing from his mouth. In a faint, almost unrecognisable voice, hoarse from strain, he said:

"I feel dizzy," and began peeling off his sodden jacket. Sirius helped him. As he brushed the hair back from his younger brother’s forehead, he froze. For the first time in years, they looked one another in the eyes.

"Why are you crying?" Reg asked in a childlike tone. They were still speaking French between them, just as they had always done. James used to complain he couldn’t understand a word when they murmured to each other like that.

"I’m not crying," Sirius replied quickly, wiping away the tears. That gesture too was a relic from childhood. He had always downplayed his own pain and grievances, turning them into jokes or flashes of irritation – anything but what they really were.

"Where are we?" Regulus looked around, his eyes darting from the broken window, where the light of the setting sun was pouring through, to the strange scene around him – the sheeting, the soil, the shattered coffin – before returning to his brother, kneeling frozen in the centre of the room.

Sirius felt a wall inside himself at the thought of Regulus’s death. Not only was it difficult to accept himself, he also instinctively knew he shouldn’t tell his brother that he had died. Instead, he said carefully:

"We’re in a monastery," and, lowering his head, added in a near-whisper, as though ashamed, "it’s miraculous."

Regulus didn’t like that answer. He edged closer to his brother and asked:

"Did maman and papa send us to a monastery?" His voice was still weak, but Sirius caught the tremor of panic in it straight away. "Are they here too?" His eyes flicked towards the archway. Padfoot raised his hands to calm him, but Regulus quickly dropped his gaze. "Why can’t I remember anything?" He looked at his hands in the soil.

It felt to Regulus as though he were on another planet, one whose atmosphere was not made for humans. Everything felt wrong, as though he wasn’t meant to be there. His body wasn’t cooperating, breathing was difficult. He felt dizzy, like he had a severe hangover. He swallowed thick, bitter saliva and looked at Sirius, who was watching him with a mix of worry and guilt.

"You left us," Sirius confessed, sounding defeated. Tears welled up again in his eyes as he lowered his hands to his knees, clenching them tightly.

Oh yes – that, Regulus remembered. His own resolve, the cold, deliberate calculations of his preparations, the agonising wait for the opportunity. The wind and the water that had called him. The fear, when it closed over his head and cut him off from everything. And Sirius’s name – his final word.

"It was unbearable with you lot," he said, unfastening the top buttons of his shirt with irritation. He stretched out his uncooperative legs and shook his head. "Where’s James? Aren’t you two always joined at the hip like communicating vessels or conjoined twins?" It was meant to sound teasing, but came out without malice.

"He’s here," Sirius replied, quickly wiping his nose. "Not right here, not in the monastery. He’s in the village," when he was nervous, his thoughts always tangled and his words fell apart into nonsense. He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to pull himself together. Regulus wouldn’t know which village he meant. "Anyway, he’s with me."

Regulus nodded, hiding a smile. He propped himself up on his hands, watching his brother intently. It was an interesting experience – seeing how the person closest to him reacted to his death.

"I don’t remember anything after the water," he admitted cautiously.

"You must’ve been scared?" Sirius asked, his voice aching with pain.

You have no idea, Regulus wanted to say, but he only nodded.

Padfoot suddenly stood up, pulling off his leather jacket. He draped it over Reg’s shoulders and helped him up. He had to support him, as Regulus was struggling to stay upright.

"You need sunlight – you’re soaking wet," Sirius said with concern.

Slowly and carefully, they made their way towards the exit of the monastery, climbing the staircase that led to the first level. The further they moved from the altar, the weaker Regulus felt. He tried to keep it hidden from his brother, but his weight was becoming deadweight, until he finally slumped onto the steps.

"It’s so heavy," he whispered, gesturing to his head. Sirius crouched before him, frantically trying to think what to do. He desperately missed James’s steady shoulder and his unshakable confidence.

Padfoot looked around to see how far they were from the entrance, and where the hell Merope and the priest had gone – but there was no one nearby, and they were only halfway to the door. Sirius wanted to scream from despair, as Regulus slowly slipped into unconsciousness.

* * *

James and Remus were making their way through grass as tall as a man. Grasshoppers and other insects that lived within it were screeching wildly. Remus’s head, still reeling from his morning pill as he waited for it to take effect, was splitting from the cacophony.

Prongs, walking ahead, regretted not bringing the scythe he’d seen in Merope’s yard. The grass tangled underfoot as if alive.

"What is this dump?" he asked irritably, disentangling his leg from a creeping weed. "How do people live in such utter shite?"

Remus clicked his tongue in annoyance behind him – it was much easier walking second.

"I’m from somewhere not much better than this," he pointed out. "You know that perfectly well. It’s in dumps like these that the most interesting things happen," he added with a smirk, alluding to all the madness they had witnessed. "Unlike your and Sirius’s aristocratic little life," he began slyly, curling his tongue against his cheek and agitating the ulcers there, "not life at all, more like a princess’s afternoon nap," he added with a note of masochistic relish, knowing just how much it would get under James’s skin. "Welcome to reality…"

He didn’t get to finish. Prongs spun around so fast that Remus barely had time to react. His face was inches from Remus’s and blazing with fury.

"Sod this kind of reality," he said slowly and viciously. Then he turned and went down to the river. They had just reached the bank, having crossed the overgrown meadow. James took off his glasses, washed his face, and pressed his cold hands against his skin, trying to calm himself.

Remus followed leisurely and unhurriedly. Oh no, he wasn’t done yet – the heat of the argument was still fuelling his blood, and he couldn’t resist the urge to vent everything he had built up, especially against someone who could handle it.

"People don’t seem to mind," he started again. "The copper over there is doing just fine," he added, gesturing back towards the village, returning to his favourite subject.

What is wrong with you, James wanted to shout in reply, but he had to be above that – better than that. He couldn’t exploit the emotional instability of a friend suffering through illness. Slowly, he lowered his hands from his face, ready to howl with frustration.

"The copper’s looking for Rosier," he said quietly, and, ignoring the mocking, confused look on Remus’s face, went on, "Stop needling him. I know you don’t respect the police, but Crouch is the only one here who might actually help us."

Remus practically choked on that statement.

"Yes," he said loudly, "yes, I do hate the police! But you," he pointed a finger at James, "you bloody love them, don’t you?"

"Since when," Prongs asked flatly, "have you cared so much about social issues?"

Each line was adding fuel to the fire. Remus stepped quickly towards James and stopped beside him on the pier. James rose from his crouch, shaking the water from his hands.

"I’ve always cared. Or wasn’t it me who went with you to protests, then sat in the station afterwards?" Moony said hotly.

"That’s not the same," James replied wearily. "I went because I actually care. You went because your anger’s always boiling over and you’ve got nowhere else to put it. And because you’re still carrying childhood wounds that are poisoning you," he explained with the patience of a parent.

"You went," Remus began bitterly, "to ogle Lily and impress her. You always dragged her to cafés afterwards to treat her. I remember," he said, pretending to recall, "I remember you even came to that protest for trans rights. Always something personal, right, Prongs? I’m not the only one…"

James didn’t wait for him to finish. He grabbed Remus by the collar and chucked him into the water to cool him down. As he fell, Remus managed to trip James, and they both went in. Luckily, it wasn’t too deep near the bank. Orienting himself in the water, James grabbed Remus again.

"Why are you so jumpy since we got here?" Moony asked with manic glee. He desperately needed James to punch him in the face – it was the only way to push his shitty mood to the background.

"I’m not jumpy," James replied, enunciating every word.

"Didn’t you bring us here, huh? Nearly killed us in a crash, lost Wormtail," Remus went on, babbling, eyes wild, closing the distance as though he was about to kiss him. And he would have, if he thought it might truly send James over the edge.

But that wasn’t necessary. Prongs raised a fist, but Remus, high on adrenaline, egged him on:

"Go on, what are you waiting for?" He danced in front of James’s face, mocking him.

"You never really cared about him," Prongs said bitterly, lowering his hand. He meant Peter. "And you don’t give a toss about society and its problems," he added, suddenly drained of all energy and anger. He stepped back, nearly slipping on the silty riverbed.

Remus shoved him in frustration, realising the moment had passed. He climbed out onto the pier, spat to the side, and looked with pity at James, still standing waist-deep in the water.

"Can’t compete with a knight in shining armour," he muttered darkly, turning away toward the road leading to the monastery. "Not ready for reality, were you? As soon as the shit hit the fan, you started throwing money at everyone, trying to buy your way through. By the way, you forgot to give the hag cash for bed and board, bloody human rights crusader."

He pulled out his cigarettes as he walked and lit one, finally reaching the path. Remus had intended to find Sirius, but changed his mind halfway. He needed to be alone. Fighting with Padfoot too wasn’t something he wanted right now.

Meanwhile, James fell back into the water, lying flat on his back, letting the calm surface hold him afloat and carry him along. His head was buzzing with emptiness. He didn’t want to analyse what had just happened. He and Moony never really fought, and James had no idea thoughts like that had been stewing in his head.

Time blurred again. And Prongs lazily let it, releasing all his worries, if only for a few moments. He drifted on the surface of the river, trying not to think at all.

He couldn’t be the leader anymore – the anchor, the rock, the wall, or whatever else he had tried to be for everyone. Suddenly, he really wanted to speak to his parents, whom he had nearly forgotten about in the midst of this madness. Or have a cigarette. Sirius and Remus were always smoking – there must be something soothing about it.

For a second, James thought he might fall asleep just like that, floating on the water – but then he noticed someone sitting on a stone behind the reeds, watching him closely.

He was forced to return to reality – or at least to the version of reality in which a completely naked and divinely beautiful Regulus was sitting on the rock, legs crossed just so to conceal himself, gazing at him with tender curiosity.

Carefully, so as not to startle him, James moved closer, gliding through the water as if through a dream. In silence, Regulus held something out to him, dangling from one of his long, slender fingers. Squinting, James recognised the keys to his car.

He reached out to take them, but just as he did, Regulus tossed the keys to him. Disappointed not to have touched him – not to confirm the reality of the moment – James wanted to thank Reg for the gesture, even though the car was completely wrecked. But Regulus had already leapt gracefully into the water, disappearing beneath its depths. Ripples spread across the surface.

Clutching the strange offering in his hand, James swam back to shore. He could have dived in and followed the vision, but something told him not to. Even when Regulus was alive, invading his personal space had always been a very bad idea.

If merman-Regulus wanted distance, James would give him distance. He was ready to play by any rules, just to see him this vividly alive again.

* * *

Sirius had no memory of himself as he ran through the galleries in search of Father Aberforth and Merope. He thought he might have even fallen, grazing his palms against the rough stone floor. When he burst outside, he saw the old woman and the priest calmly conversing, blissful smiles on their faces. Rushing over and falling to his knees again, Sirius began to babble:

"I was kneeling, then a draught and a noise, I went and saw the soil," he looked from Aberforth to Merope in turn, both of whom stood frozen in confusion, trying to make sense of what he was saying. Never had Sirius hated his own inarticulacy under stress more than now. He wanted to hit himself on the head to make it work better. "A hand came out of the soil, with a ring on it," he pointed to his own hand, hoping the visual might help get the point across. "It was him," Sirius turned helplessly to Merope, grabbing her cardigan, tears in his eyes. "It was Regulus, he..." He trailed off, searching for the right word. Tears rolled down his cheeks. "He came back to life. But he was soaking wet and freezing. We went outside, into the sunlight. But his head," he pointed at his own, "was spinning the whole time. And then he fell, Father, he fell," he turned now to Aberforth, who was looking at him with sympathy.

Then something happened that had happened to Sirius before, though not often. For a moment, he lost his sense of self. His head seemed detached from his body, and overall, it felt as though he were watching himself from the outside, unable to control what he was doing. This triggered a fresh wave of panic, and he began to struggle for breath. Merope unceremoniously hauled him up, trying to get him off his knees, but his legs would not obey. So she raised her hand and slapped him across the cheek. Pain immediately flared up. Sirius came back to his senses. But slaps always reminded him vividly of his mother, so he lowered his head, trying to appear smaller and less noticeable, pressing his palm to his cheek.

James would have handled this better than anyone. Bloody hell, why wasn’t he here now, Sirius thought desperately.

Merope leaned down and began stroking his hair, murmuring:

"You did pray him back after all," her voice was pleased and soothing. "Well done, clever boy. Come on now, up you get."

But Sirius couldn’t get up, he had fallen apart completely, unsure what he was supposed to be feeling. It was as though every emotion, good and bad, had crashed over him all at once.

"Your brother needs to regain his strength," Aberforth said calmly. Sirius lifted his red, swollen eyes to him. "He’s come back from the other side."

Merope’s bony hand continued to stroke Padfoot’s soft hair. He wanted to tell her to stop, but didn’t get the chance. A police car pulled up outside the monastery.

Crouch climbed out, looking both crumpled and energetic. Without greeting anyone, he nodded towards Sirius, who was still on his knees.

"Where are the other fresh ones?"

Merope gave him a displeased glance and muttered in reply:

"In the village."

Mustering all his strength and leaning on the old woman’s arm, Padfoot got to his feet. He had no desire at all for that bloody Crouch to see him in such a state.

"Have they found their friend?" the policeman asked again, as if Sirius weren’t even there.

"No," Merope replied in the same disgruntled tone. She and Sirius began to slowly move away from the monastery, passing by Crouch’s car. He didn’t stop them. Instead, he turned to the priest.

"Been out again, Father?" he asked cheerfully, hinting at the priest’s frequent suicide attempts. "People have been looking for you."

"Where would I go from here," Aberforth replied, placing weight on the final word. He clearly didn’t share the policeman’s good humour.

"Quite right," Crouch nodded with a sigh. "Just like us," he patted the car roof, "always on duty."

"Who was asking?" Aberforth asked, disinterested.

"Those fresh ones," Crouch jerked his head towards the retreating Merope and Sirius. "Asking about miracles," he snorted. "You provided them with one, didn’t you, Father?"

Crouch’s lips twisted into a sly grin.

"What’s it to you, you don’t even believe," the priest remarked indifferently.

"Not entirely true, I do a bit," said Barty, adjusting the loosely hanging tie around his neck. "I just don’t believe in God," he nodded upwards, towards the sky. Then he lowered his gaze, hinting at the underworld. "That’s a different office altogether."

"Want to bring back Rosier?" Aberforth asked with a smile.

Crouch’s smirk vanished at once, and his face turned blank.

"Not like them," he nodded at Sirius and Merope again, "not that way," and he looked firmly at the priest. Aberforth spread his arms and turned away to head back into the church.

A few metres away from the monastery, Sirius suddenly came to his senses and rushed back, remembering that Regulus was still there. Unconscious, on the steps. But Merope stopped him.

"Father Aberforth will look after your brother, don’t worry."

With childish naivety, Sirius glanced back over his shoulder, hoping to see Regulus in a monastery window – but there was no one there. So he allowed the old woman to lead him away. After all, it seemed she genuinely did know best. They hadn’t taken more than a few steps when Crouch’s car blocked their path.

"Hop in, I’ll give you a lift, worshippers," he offered with a chuckle. Merope agreed reluctantly.

"Out for a stroll at this hour?" Crouch scolded them with mock seriousness as they got in. "The fresh ones might not know the rules, but you, Merope, ought to."

The old woman shot him a look of contempt.

She and Sirius sat in the back. As always after an episode, Padfoot couldn’t feel his body – it seemed almost weightless. So he leaned his cheek against the window and relaxed, stretching like a dog. There was a faint but blissful smile on his lips.

"The Lord will protect us," Merope replied testily.

Sirius consciously let go of the thread of the conversation.

"Let’s hope so," Crouch replied quite peaceably, but then added, "You’d better pray hard, though. Didn’t do much to save your mate there," he nodded at Sirius.

Sirius ran a finger across the glass, smeared with street grime on the outside, making it nearly impossible to see through. He said dreamily:

"Those pink clouds are actually rather beautiful," they were driving along the river, above which the strange pink smoke was swirling.

"Hell’s forge," Merope spat out hatefully in the direction of the chemical plant.

"Living off their handouts and still talking like that," Barty snorted. "You’d have eaten each other alive by now if it weren’t for that hellish forge. The triumphs of the chemical industry," he explained over his shoulder to Sirius, who nodded solemnly, as if he were capable of understanding anything at the moment.

Back at the house, a tired but content Sirius collapsed into James’s arms, who was sitting with his legs stretched out on the old sofa. When James asked in surprise why he’d come to him instead of Remus, Padfoot replied that he’d missed him. James didn’t mind. He let Sirius bury his cold nose into his neck, gently stroking his black silk curls. Everyone liked Sirius’s hair.

Remus wasn’t jealous – he too was in a strange fugue after his encounter with the parrot. Sitting at the dining table, he was rubbing his face.

"What’s wrong with you?" Crouch asked in confusion, settling into a chair. No one had invited him in, and Merope hissed in displeasure as she begrudgingly set the table.

"Lymphatic drainage massage," Moony replied with authority. Barty snorted, but said nothing.

"Right then," he began business-like, surveying the three miserable tourists. "Don’t go poking your noses out before morning," he wagged a finger at all three, lingering longest on James – the most headstrong one. "I was in the centre, barely made it back," he continued with an air of great importance. "I’ve requested reinforcements. They’ll be here in two or three days. You lot," he gestured again, "on the first train home."

James and Sirius both leapt up at once in protest. Something was already holding them here – and it wasn’t Peter. Barty didn’t want to hear any of it. He left the house, slamming the door behind him. After all, he’d fallen for the exact same trick before getting stuck here himself.

Chapter Text

Clutching the key to his car so tightly it hurt, James stubbornly made his way towards the river again. He was fully aware that there was something unhealthy in it – as if he were unable to resist the pull – but he couldn’t bring himself to stay away.

Sitting down on the sand at the riverbank, he prepared for a long wait. He even adjusted his glasses on his nose, eyes fixed attentively on the water’s edge, where sunlight played cheerfully. But he didn’t have to wait long.

First, a dark crown emerged above the surface, then a pair of curious eyes. James froze, holding his breath. He was determined not to mess it up, not to do anything stupid. But today, the beautiful creature seemed in a good mood. With graceful ease, it climbed onto a rock not far from James and sat down, legs crossed again.

Prongs stared at the water, acting as though he barely minded the company, out of both feigned indifference and politeness. This Regulus still ignored the concept of clothing.

They sat in a strange silence. James didn’t know where to begin – or whether to begin at all – while Regulus watched him with amused curiosity. Out of the corner of his eye, James saw that he was smiling gently.

Some time passed. Prongs couldn’t tell if he was simply enjoying Regulus’s presence or too anxious that he might scare him off. His thoughts raced ahead at incredible speed, trying to calculate all possible outcomes as though it were sport. Lost in thought, he stretched out his numb leg, and at once the merman-Regulus flinched, ready to disappear under the water. But James stopped him, raising his hands placatingly, desperation in his voice.

"I won’t touch you if I’m not allowed," he said – the first thing that came to mind. Regulus froze warily, studying James carefully. He looked just as captivating as he had during their last encounter, only now there was something supernaturally magnetic about him – an inner glow, like a haze surrounding him. James felt as though it physically hurt to look at him directly. "Can we just sit like this?" he added, his voice tired and defeated – not at all how he’d planned to sound, but it seemed to amuse Regulus.

James smiled involuntarily in response, lowering his hands. He was utterly undone. That had always pleased the ordinary Reg – at least something about him made sense to James. They both returned to their places.

"We’ve lost a friend," James began cautiously. "Peter – do you remember Peter?" Regulus listened attentively but gave no reply. "Do you know anything about it, perhaps?"

Hearing the sorrow in James’s voice, the creature seemed to take pity and shook its head. Prongs had expected as much. He lowered his head, struggling against a surge of despair.

"You can’t change anything here," Regulus said suddenly. His voice was both exactly the same and entirely different – as if it had passed through a thousand filters, as if he truly spoke from the other side.

James looked up quickly and met those familiar, compassionate eyes. Regulus bit his lip and lowered his gaze, just as he always used to when trying to hide his emotions. James adored that expression. Truth be told, he adored every expression Regulus made.

"You’re wearing the jewellery I gave you," Regulus murmured softly, pointing to James’s neck. James remembered it had already caught merman-Reg’s eye. It was a trio of gold chains on a single clasp. One held a tiny om symbol pendant, another a small sun that always rested precisely at the hollow between the James’s collarbones. The middle one was crafted in a technique used only in India, with a distinctive method of linking the chain. It was one of James’s most treasured possessions. He rarely took it off. Instinctively, he reached up and gently touched the sun.

"Do you remember when I was younger," Regulus went on, squinting slightly as the sunlight from the water dazzled him, "I was hopelessly in love with you. You and Sirius always teased me." James smiled warmly at the memory. Suddenly, he felt a pang of guilt – they had indeed picked on little Regulus and made him blush. "Such nonsense," the present, ephemeral Regulus added dismissively, flicking his foot and splashing water with his toes.

The words cut James to the heart. And it seemed Regulus knew it, as if reminding him on purpose. Cruel, he continued:

"And you? Weren’t you in love with Lily Evans?" he asked, gazing into the distance, his tone thoughtful, as though he didn’t really care about the answer. James didn’t respond. He had no answer.

For a long time, he truly believed he was in love with Lily. She was so brilliant that it had been easy to fall for her. So he had followed her around, pestering her with his attentions. The less interest she showed, the more determined he became, and they played that little game for quite some time.

Lily was wonderful – perhaps the best girl he had ever known. And it wasn’t as if he lacked attention from others. But over time, he began to realise that his feelings for her were more like sporting fervour. The more unattainable she seemed, the more he wanted her. James admired her – respected her sharp mind and equally sharp tongue. She could withstand his relentless energy almost as well as Sirius. Perhaps that’s why the two of them didn’t get on – and why Padfoot had always been jealous of James’s interest in her.

But deep down, James harboured a secret, burning fondness for his younger brother. In some ways, it resembled his dynamic with Lily. Regulus never gave in to James either – most of the time, he couldn’t even understand his words or actions. Reg always sent mixed signals that made James’s head spin. He slipped through his fingers like water before James could take even the smallest step.

The difference was that with Regulus, James felt a strange sort of desperation – as if he were willing to leap into fire and water for him. As if Regulus’s answer determined whether James could go on living and breathing. With Lily, it had all been much simpler.

And so James stubbornly carried on courting Evans, deep down knowing that there was less and less romance in it. Inwardly he ached from that odd, piercing affection for Regulus – someone he knew mostly through Sirius’s stories and rare glimpses. Not conversations or shared time – only observations, because Regulus had never been a fan of company, especially not noisy company like James, who always filled every space he entered.

"Like the sun," Regulus had once said when he gave him the chain. "You try to warm everyone." James had just turned twenty then. Regulus had barely turned eighteen and had already started his transition. James hadn’t known how to express support delicately, but he had longed to shield Reg from anything that caused him pain.

So yes – the sun had tried to warm everyone. Lily and Regulus. And not burn itself out in the hell of tangled, incomprehensible feelings.

Lost in these memories, James didn’t notice Regulus quietly shifting closer. He jumped when a cold finger touched his neck, just above the chains. A hot wave of arousal and euphoria flooded him from the intimacy of the gesture, rising from deep in his stomach and fogging his mind completely. James parted his lips and exhaled, barely suppressing a quiet moan. There was something strange about this Regulus.

Smiling at his reaction, the beautiful creature leaned in and brushed James’s neck with his lips. James tilted his head back, keeping his hands pressed against the ground so he wouldn’t do something foolish. His eyes closed when he felt Regulus kissing his neck. He wanted to say something, to confess what had been tormenting him for years, but the words caught in his throat, his thoughts tangled and collapsed into one another.

Suddenly, he felt a sharp pain in his neck. Not a bite, more like being pricked with something sharp. Frowning, still dazed from the sweetness of it all, James let Regulus thread a fishing hook through the delicate skin with his tongue. A drop of blood trickled down his neck, but before it could reach the chains, Regulus gently wiped it with his finger and licked it.

James reluctantly opened his eyes, watching Regulus lick his finger. Unbidden, he recalled how Remus had done the same thing in that strange state. Gently, James brushed Regulus’s hand aside, staring in fascination at his lips, glistening with saliva. He ran his thumb along the lower lip, pressing it slightly. Regulus obediently took the finger into his mouth, looking James directly in the eye. James had never in his life felt desire so sharp.

But then Regulus bit down – hard – with his sharp teeth, and when James pulled his hand back, he was greeted by a sad smile and feigned sympathy.

"You were supposed to have left this place," Reg sang softly.

"I can’t leave you," James replied, tangled in whom he was really seeking, Peter or Regulus, then quickly corrected himself, "without you," as the dull pain in his neck intensified.

"I quite like it here," Regulus said contentedly. Then, with a final wink, he slipped back beneath the water, leaving behind ripples James now recognised well.

Prongs sat frozen, unsure whether he had just lived through something real – or survived something impossible.

Chapter Text

At night, Remus lay awake. The fever had returned, and his whole body ached. The ulcers in his mouth, the rash on his neck, the hook in his thigh, even the small cut on his finger – he felt it all acutely. The wounds kept accumulating, refusing to heal. Restless and irritable, Remus listened to Merope through the wall, scolding her late husband: " Stop tossing and turning – you’ll throw me out of bed."

Turning his head to the side, Moony looked at Sirius, curled under the blanket like a kitten. Moonlight lit his face, and Remus felt that familiar pang in his chest – he was painfully beautiful. With a sigh, Remus gently ran his fingers over his cheek. Sirius frowned in his sleep but didn’t wake, so Remus had to be more persistent. He genuinely didn’t want to wake him.

But he could never catch Padfoot during the day – he followed the old woman to the monastery every morning as if it were a job. So now was perfect. James, exhausted from the day, was sprawled across the mattress, gently snoring.

"Hey, Padfoot," Remus whispered, carefully touching Sirius’s bare shoulder. "Come on, wake up."

Sirius had always struggled to wake. He sank into sleep like into a deep pit, unreachable, unhearing. Battling with himself, he cracked open one eye, trying to focus.

"Moony," he murmured sleepily. "What is it? Are you unwell?"

"I can’t sleep," Remus admitted wearily. "Listen, how did Merope behave at the monastery?"

Sirius blinked slowly, trying to ground himself. He rolled onto his back and rubbed his eyes.

"I don’t know – normal." Though the old woman hadn’t said anything, Sirius knew better than to mention the resurrection. "Why?" he asked cautiously.

"I found her husband’s grave in the cemetery," Remus whispered quickly, moving closer to Padfoot. "She’s sitting alone in that room – he died ages ago. James and I checked, there’s a parrot in a cage and it coughs constantly."

Sirius couldn’t help smiling. It seemed like they were talking about the same thing, but their level of understanding was completely different. He placed his hands on Remus’s cheeks and pulled him close, kissing him softly on the lips.

"Let’s get out of here," Remus said desperately, locking eyes with Sirius. "I’m getting worse, look." He showed him the ulcers and rashes – he’d found a new one on his stomach not long ago. Sirius examined him with growing concern, his fingers cool and cautious.

"None of the wounds are healing," Remus said, gently brushing the scrape on Sirius’s cheek. "The crash was days ago, and your cut is still fresh." He sighed and looked down. "Listen, if James," he nodded over his shoulder at their peacefully sleeping friend, "wants to keep searching for Wormtail, let him. But you and I, we should go."

"No, don’t say that," Padfoot objected at once. "I won’t abandon Prongs and Wormtail," he said firmly, frowning. Then his expression softened, and he continued in a mysterious tone, as though sharing a secret. "This place is special," – Remus barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes – "we just have to ask. Let’s ask for help with your illness," he added hopefully.

"Ask who?" Moony felt like he was talking to a madman. Sirius was starting to sound like the locals. "There’s no one in the monastery. There’s no priest."

Sirius looked surprised.

"There is – I saw him today," he said slowly.

"You spoke to him?" Remus asked sharply. He remembered clearly seeing the priest hang himself – and then rise again. On their very first day. But he’d assumed it was a hallucination brought on by illness and stress. Moony couldn’t believe the boundary between the dead and the living was truly broken in this place. It was unthinkable.

Sirius nodded. His eyes were full of sympathy – he reached to embrace Remus, but Remus broke away and sat up. Reaching for his jacket, he found the pills in the pocket and chewed one violently. What madness was this? Sirius embraced him from behind, pressing his lips to his bare shoulder.

"Please, go see Father Aberforth," he whispered, stroking Remus’s tense shoulders. "He’ll help you…"

Moony shook him off, anger rising.

"I’m not going anywhere." He loomed over Sirius, who didn’t look frightened, just troubled. Remus leaned down and silenced him with a kiss. Warm and yielding, Sirius returned it, wrapping his arms around Remus and pressing close.

Next to them, on the floor, the forgotten blister pack lay in the moonlight. Only two pills remained.

* * *

Father Aberforth finished his final entry in the thick parish register and closed it carefully. Then he took a piece of charcoal from the table, climbed onto his bed, and slowly wrote one word on the wall in large letters: "Begone". The stool and the rope were already waiting. Each movement was routine, practised, almost automatic. Knowing in advance that it was all in vain, he still kept trying. And every time he opened his eyes afterwards, he remembered what his schoolteacher had once told them about Tantalus and his torment years ago.

* * *

In the morning, James was doing pull-ups on an old rusty bar not far from Merope's yard, trying to remember how he had once maintained athletic discipline in his previous, normal life. He was shirtless, and the hook in his neck glinted cheerfully in the sun. Upon waking, James had been horrified to discover that it hadn't been a dream – now not only Remus but he himself had this strange piercing.

Feeling anxiety, irritation and despair creeping up on him, Prongs jumped down to the ground and stepped out of the thicket from which the bar protruded. He wiped his face with his already filthy T-shirt. Peter's trainers still hung on the fence in front of him, a silent reminder of the search that had come to nothing. James had no new ideas.

Stuffing the T-shirt into the waistband of his jeans, he took his friend's shoes from the fence and sat on the bench to put them on in place of his own trainers. They had always worn the same size, despite the height difference. The socks and laces were still spattered with blood – James's heart clenched. He decided he would wear them from now on without taking them off, as a constant reminder of why he was still here.

He hadn't yet finished tying the laces when he heard a police car driving down the road past him. No one else drove out here, even the man who had transported the coffin hadn't returned. It was such a remote place that the sound of any car was surprising.

Tugging the laces tight, James decided to follow the policeman. Perhaps Remus had been right, and Crouch did in fact know something. After all, the whole episode with the "free people" was strange enough on its own.

Fortunately, he didn't have to go far. The car pulled into the courtyard of a large building at the end of the street. Barty jumped out of the car with a stack of folders and bounded up the porch steps two at a time before vanishing inside. James followed him with determined steps.

Someone had begun dismantling the wooden railing around the porch, apparently for firewood, as a large axe with a long handle had been driven into a stump near the entrance. It took some effort, but Prongs managed to wrench it free. There weren't many other ways to defend himself.

The building turned out to be an old, abandoned school. Unusually large for the local architecture and spacious within, it held only memories and dust. Like a museum, everything here stood in its place, untouched and forgotten.

Prongs stepped carefully across the dry, creaking floorboards, keeping the axe at the ready. Barty was nowhere to be seen or heard. Using the sharp side of the axe, James gently pushed open one of the doors and entered a dark, cool classroom – and nearly stumbled backwards when he came face to face with a deer. Or rather, the head of a stuffed deer, mounted on the wall. Never in his life would James have imagined putting something like that in a school classroom.

Grimacing, Prongs lowered the axe and began to inspect the room. The furnishings were typical of a school: a blackboard, a teacher's desk, student desks, books, and old stationery scattered about. Posters adorned the walls.

Taking a random book from the cupboard, James did what he and Sirius often did when they were bored – he picked a page and a line, hoping for some kind of sign from the universe or useful advice. Finding the designated spot, Prongs read aloud:

"When a fish swallows bait with a hook, it often doesn't feel pain immediately, because fish lack pain receptors in their oral cavity like mammals do," James winced with phantom pain. "This allows the angler to strike – a sudden motion with the rod to lodge the hook into the mouth tissue. It is the strike, not the swallowing, that most often leads to a successful catch."

Contemplating the allegorical meaning of the passage, James slowly closed the book. The cover read: "Theory and Practice of Fishing". He snorted and tossed the book back onto the shelf. Divination only worked with abstract or literary books, never textbooks.

Hoisting the axe back onto his shoulder, James turned to leave the room – probably a biology classroom – only to find Crouch standing in the doorway.

"Lost something else?" Barty asked in his usual lazily sarcastic manner, eyeing James's bare torso with a smirk. Prongs had nothing to be ashamed of – he squared his shoulders and met the look with defiance. Any jibes about Peter were far from amusing now. Besides, Crouch was blocking the exit.

"The road's washed out. Can't get through either way," he added, leaning against the doorframe. James didn't recall any rain the day before. "Enjoy," he said acidly. "Looks like you'll be stuck here with me." He gave a theatrical sigh.

"I don't intend to sit around," James replied firmly. "I've got a plan." Crouch rolled his eyes. "I want to talk to the 'free people'."

The policeman rubbed the bridge of his nose irritably but didn't argue.

"I'll take you," he said, resigned. "Otherwise you'll get yourself killed out there, and at least this way I can see the three of you off on a train." He waved sarcastically, miming a farewell at the platform. "Just put on something warm," Barty added with a snort. "We've got a bit of a weather anomaly."

Then his gaze slid to James's neck, and he squinted, peering closely. James instinctively covered the hook with his hand, but Crouch had already seen it. His expression darkened.

Prongs climbed into the car with the axe, placing it between his legs. Crouch smirked but made no comment. He drove with a slightly jittery manner, and James couldn't tell whether it was due to his naturally edgy temperament or because of how much he’d drunk.

"How do you breathe in this stuff?" James asked, pointing at the pinkish mist hanging over the water.

"We just do," Barty snorted, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and lighting one. " You're lucky if you've made it to fifty," he added grimly. "Your hostess's husband died of cancer, by the way." He cracked open the window, tapped ash outside, and stared at the road with slightly bloodshot eyes.

Glancing at the back seat, James noticed the folders and documents Crouch had taken into the school. One photograph peeked out from the pile, showing a handsome, serious-looking Rosier staring straight at him.

* * *

"Bring lunch to Father Aberforth," Merope requested, peering from behind the door of her bedroom. Sirius sat on the old sofa beside Remus, his legs draped across Remus's lap. When the old hag appeared, Padfoot flinched instinctively to remove them, but Remus held the legs in place with a firm hand, staring the old woman down.

"Aren't you going?" Sirius asked tensely.

"My back's seized up," Merope announced dramatically, placing a hand on her lower back and rubbing it with emphasis.

The food had already been prepared and packed on the kitchen table. The old woman pointed to it and then slipped back into her room.

"Moony, you've got to come with me," Sirius whispered urgently, cupping Remus's cheeks and trying to draw his attention.

"Why?" Remus asked lazily, his head flopped back against the sofa's backrest. He was exhausted.

"What if God really does exist?" Sirius asked in a mysterious tone.

Remus pulled a wry smile and lifted an eyebrow.

"What are you on about? Forget it," he tried to shut down the conversation. He leaned down to the basket by their feet and pulled out one of the green apples Sirius had picked in the garden on the crone’s orders. Something strange was happening to him – he had somehow become her Cinderella.

"Come with me," Sirius took his free hand and kissed his knuckles. His eyes actually glowed with hope. And although Remus found it pleasant to see him so, something about him felt off and foreign, tensing up Moony, "they'll help you there."

Remus regarded him with condescending doubt. Help him, right. He took a loud bite of the juicy apple and sank back against the sofa, chewing.

"I'm not going anywhere, nor am I letting you go," he told Sirius, wagging a mock-scolding finger. swallowing, he pulled him close, laying him across his chest and kissing the top of his head. "Let’s just lie here instead," he said. It really was the best medicine.

"Merope asked me," said Padfoot uncertainly, struggling to free himself from Remus's strong grip. A gentle smile played on his lips. He enjoyed it when Remus showed strength, because he knew he would never use it against Sirius. "If you don't want to go, then don't," he said at last, freeing himself, rising abruptly. Scooping up the bag of food, Padfoot disappeared through the door.

Moony felt sluggish, but with Sirius gone it was as if the sun had vanished too – and with it, any comfort. Besides, it was clear this mattered a great deal to him. So, with a reluctant sigh, Remus got up, the apple still between his teeth, and shrugged on his jacket.

Fortunately, Sirius hadn't gone far. Remus quickly caught him up and took the heavy bag from him. Taking one last bite of the apple, he flung it into the distant bushes.

"Why the sulk?" he asked the genuinely sulking Sirius. His displeasure was more for show. He tilted his head slightly, hiding a smile.

"I'm not sulking," Sirius replied softly.

"Then why so Sirius?" The pun with the name had worked since childhood. Sirius lunged at Remus – as always after one of these flat jokes – but it was futile, Moony was stronger. He hoisted the kicking Sirius onto his shoulder and carried him and the bag part of the way to the monastery.

Not all his strength had been sapped by illness. In the end, Peter had been right – Remus still had plenty of strength, not just physical, and an immense will to live.

When they stopped in front of the door in the monastery and Sirius knocked politely, no one answered. Padfoot called out the priest’s name a few times.

"He’s not there," Remus concluded tiredly, slumping onto an old carved wooden chair. They were in the same room with the coat racks and the old tap, where on the first day he had drunk water and witnessed the priest’s suicide.

"The door’s locked from the inside," Sirius noted. He suspected Aberforth was wary of strangers and simply didn’t want to open up. "I’m not crazy and I didn’t imagine it," he added firmly. "We saw him yesterday."

"Why did I get mixed up in all this?" Remus asked rhetorically, closing his eyes and tilting his head back so the bright sunlight shone on his face through the shattered windowpane. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to contain a wave of irritation. "How stupid do I have to be," he muttered under his breath. Then, pulling himself together, he rose from the chair and slapped his thighs. "Right, let’s go and look, then."

"Oi, Padre, where are you?" Remus called loudly, wandering through the galleries and peering behind every door. He was fairly certain no one was here. But he was ready to do this – just to see Sirius’s face alight with joy and hope. "Hello?"

"He really was here," Sirius repeated, following him. "Ask Merope."

"Better ask the parrot," Remus quipped dryly. He was itching for a cigarette, but despite the monastery being abandoned, it still felt wrong to light one here.

They reached the staircase to the second floor and froze.

"Come with me, I’m scared," Padfoot whispered. He felt a little ashamed of the manipulation, but it was vital that Remus accompany him.

"I’m scared too," Remus admitted honestly. He was referring more to his illness, its potentially tragic outcome, and their whole situation in general. He took Sirius’s hand. They began to climb together.

Knowing Sirius was leading him somewhere specific, Remus allowed himself to be guided by the hand through the upper floor galleries until they reached the final one – where everything looked as if someone had just been exhumed. Plastic sheeting, soil with planks and silk scraps – all that was missing was a body.

To Moony’s surprise, Sirius dropped to his knees and started digging frantically in the soil, as though genuinely trying to find someone. Before Remus could say anything, a melodic, slightly mocking voice sounded behind them.

"Hello," Regulus waved theatrically with just his fingers. "Looking for me?"

Sirius let out a breath so full of relief that for a moment, Regulus actually pitied him. There were tears in his brother’s eyes – clearly, he had thought the miracle had evaporated.

"You see him, don’t you?" Sirius asked with immense hope, wiping his dirty hands on his jeans. Slowly, as if through cotton wool, Remus realised the old Padfoot would never have done that – appearances were too important to him. Clearly, to charm everyone.

Remus looked at Regulus, who tilted his head and offered him an almost cordial smile, and nodded.

"I see him," he confirmed. He wanted a cigarette more than ever. "Hello, Regulus. How’s he here?" Moony asked dumbly, turning to Sirius. Padfoot was still sitting on the cold stone floor beside the mound of earth, tears in his eyes, but indecently happy.

"A miracle," Sirius replied simply. "I prayed him back," he said, still looking only at Regulus. The younger brother frowned at that. "I brought you something to eat," Sirius suddenly remembered and jumped up, grabbing the forgotten food bag from the stunned Remus. So that’s who it was for, Moony realised. His thoughts were sluggish and thick.

"Not hungry," Regulus replied, to Sirius’s disappointment. "But I wouldn’t say no to a cigarette," he added, looking at Remus as if he could read his mind. And Remus desperately needed a smoke – which they then went off to do.

In the neighbouring room, similar to the first, Regulus and Remus sat on a table by the window and lit up. Sirius declined and sat on a low bench opposite them. It was clear that Regulus was uncomfortable being in the room with his own disturbed grave.

"I didn’t know you smoked," Sirius remarked in surprise, watching his younger brother light the cigarette with practiced ease and take the first drag with visible pleasure. He and Remus sat with the sun behind them, golden light glowing around their heads like halos. Padfoot stared at them openly, overjoyed to see the two people he loved almost alive and almost healthy. All that was missing was James. And Peter.

"So you’re actually, like, alive?" Remus asked cautiously, studying Regulus, who sat cross-legged in front of him. He tried to sound neutral, but curiosity was winning out. Regulus gave a sad, understanding smile.

"Unfortunately," he said with a melancholy tone. "Doesn’t really look it, does it?" It might have come off as sarcastic, but at the end of the sentence, Regulus faltered and broke into a fit of coughing. Remus figured it was the cigarettes and felt guilty.

Sirius immediately jumped up and ran towards the staircase, calling, "I’ll bring some water!" Most likely he meant the tap – the same one where Remus had drunk on the first day.

Regulus lowered his hand from his face and showed Remus that water was trickling from his throat.

"Bloody water makes me sick already," he croaked.

That was the last straw for Remus. He slid off the table and quickly followed Sirius.

Padfoot was just finishing filling the enamel mug from the tap – the one that looked like it belonged in a WWII museum. Remus abruptly snatched it from his hands and downed the entire thing. The forgotten cigarette was still smouldering between his fingers.

"How the hell did he end up here?" he demanded of Sirius, who stood frozen.

"I just prayed, and the Lord gave him back to me," Padfoot repeated with a blissful smile. For the first time in his life, Remus wanted to hit him. Shake some sense into him.

"Oh, come off it," he said flatly instead. He filled the mug again and took several more gulps. "He resurrected? Like Jesus?"

Either ignoring the sarcasm or not noticing it, Sirius nodded enthusiastically.

"You saw him. I was scared you wouldn’t. Thought maybe I really had lost it," he added, awkwardly tucking a strand of hair behind his ear – something he always did when embarrassed.

"I saw him," Remus admitted cautiously. It was bad enough witnessing something so unreal with no idea how to process it – but he also had to tread carefully with Sirius, who clearly wasn’t in his right mind. "What are you going to do now?"

Sirius lit up with joy at the fact Moony wasn’t arguing or calling him mad.

"He’s still weak, but when he’s stronger..." he trailed off. Honestly, he hadn’t really thought that far ahead. So instead, he began to ramble in his usual scattered way: "I don’t even know. You get it, right? It can’t be explained. It’s just a miracle!.."

Remus knew that when Sirius got into these euphoric spirals and started spilling words without pause, the best way to ground him was with a hug. He and James had long since learnt that comforting Sirius was its own form of emotional first aid – almost an art. So he did what he always did: pulled him close and kissed the top of his head again.

"I get it," he said.

He couldn’t help but remember James’s story about meeting Regulus-the-merman by the river. Now there were two supernatural Regulus-es. Brilliant.

"If he came back," Sirius murmured, his voice muffled by Remus’s chest, where he had buried his face, worn out from happiness, "then maybe you can ask for healing too."

"Ask who?" Remus said, exhausted. He was tired of being shocked. Tired of not understanding anything.

"Him," Sirius said, pulling away a little and pointing upwards. They both looked up and saw the cracked mosaic of the Holy Trinity on the high ceiling. "The Lord."

Exhausted by miracles too, Remus was ready to surrender.

"I don’t know any prayers," he confessed honestly, still staring at the fresco.

"Are you baptised?" Sirius asked quickly, trying not to scare him off.

"Yeah. I went to Sunday school," Moony replied slowly. It had been part of his orphanage’s programme.

"Then you’re already known to God," Sirius said, practically beaming. "He knows you. Just go and ask."

Remus finally looked down and met Sirius’s eyes, which were brimming with hope.

"Don’t fancy asking for anything," he muttered with a sigh.

"That’s all right – He’s merciful," Sirius said at once, tugging him gently by the hand back up to the second floor, towards the altar.

"I don’t like begging. That’s not who I am," Remus said stubbornly. He felt again like someone was trying to tangle his mind, confuse him – through Sirius, no less. And that felt like a low blow. "He might know me, but I’ve never seen Him," he added, meaning God.

"That’s pride talking," Padfoot repeated the same thing Aberforth had told him. They were nearly at the altar. "You’re hoping. That means you want to believe," he said with conviction.

They stopped in front of the icon and the candles. Moony stared at the image of Jesus with the weariness of a man condemned. He reached into his pocket for his medication – there was no way he could manage all this while in pain. But Sirius snatched the blister pack from his hand.

"You need to do this on your own," he said firmly. Instead, he handed him the last of the water from the mug. Remus drank it without protest.

He no longer had the strength to resist. So he knelt before the icon, bowing his head low like someone awaiting a sentence. Which, in a way, he was – kneeling before the one who had sentenced him.

"You lot forget about me? Where’s my water?" Regulus interrupted the moment’s solemnity. Sirius sheepishly held up the empty mug, but Reg didn’t look too bothered. What caught his attention instead was Remus kneeling. "What’s he doing?"

"He needs to ask too," Sirius replied quietly.

"Bloody hard to ask for anything when you two are chatting behind me," Remus muttered, visibly struggling without his meds. "Don’t look at me. I can’t do it like this," he admitted in a low voice.

"Mate, who are you even planning to ask?" Regulus asked with sharp curiosity. "That wooden painting? God? He’s dead. Ever read Nietzsche’s Zarathustra?" Reg understood that kind of despair, when you’re ready to beg anyone for relief. But he also knew there was no one to help. Sirius gently tried to steer him out into the next gallery. "Weren’t you the sane one? Or did you catch something off Siri when you slept with him?" The remark struck where it hurt most. Both Sirius and Remus winced. Padfoot started pushing his younger brother more forcefully. "Is this some kind of cult?" Reg laughed, just before Sirius finally shoved him out.

"Just shut up for one bloody minute," his older brother pleaded.

"Shame. Lupin was always my favourite," Regulus said with mock sadness.

In desperation, Sirius covered his mouth with his hand. Most of the time, you couldn’t get a word out of Regulus – but when he started, he’d go on and on until he knew he’d struck a nerve. Sadly, Sirius knew that too well. He was the same. They’d both inherited it from their mother.

Suddenly, Regulus seized Sirius’s hand and pulled it away from his face to examine it. The slender palm was scraped – injuries from when Sirius had braced himself with his hands while running to Aberforth and Merope after Regulus had collapsed the day before. But now, in the deepest of those scrapes, a tiny fishing hook was embedded. Regulus had felt it with his lips when Sirius had clamped his hand over his mouth.

"What’s this?" Regulus asked, alarmed.

"Nothing," Sirius replied lightly. He was just too happy that Regulus was back. That Remus would be healed. That everything would be all right. Very, very all right.

They were interrupted by a scream of pain – more like a howl. Sirius dashed back to Remus, falling to his knees beside him. Moony was writhing on the floor, doubled over and begging for his medicine. Padfoot’s heart clenched, but he forced himself to stay firm.

"You can’t give up," he told him, placing Remus’s head on his lap and stroking his hair. Remus growled in agony, his entire body tightening as if in seizure. Sirius was terrified. He kept stroking him, holding him close. "You’re not yourself," he whispered, his voice trembling. Looking around, he saw that Regulus was gone. He must have decided not to follow, giving them privacy – or unwilling to see this.

Not knowing what else to do, Sirius turned to his last hope. Gathering all his strength, he began quietly: "Pater noster, qui es in cælis…" Words remembered from childhood.

Chapter Text

"You have arrived, Your Excellency," Crouch announced ceremonially as the car came to a stop on the edge of the forest. From here, the caravan where the so-called "free people" lived was already visible.

James glanced sideways at Barty’s smirking face but said nothing. Swinging the axe onto his shoulder, he stepped out of the car with practised ease and, without waiting for the policeman’s permission, strode firmly towards the "house". Crouch clicked his tongue in irritation and followed.

When Prongs approached the circle, he intended to step straight over the imaginary boundary and go to the door, but Barty stopped him, placing a hand on his chest.

"Let’s not be rude. We’ll call out first," he said in a conciliatory tone.

James had no interest in playing along with their theatre. Before Barty could say another word, he called out loudly:

"Good sirs," and rapped the axe handle against the nearest wooden log that marked the circle. Crouch clicked his tongue again. This James was really getting on his nerves.

While the two men glared at one another, neither noticed the filthy curtain at the window twitch aside, as someone cautiously peered out to see who these uninvited guests were.

A moment later, one of the "free people" stepped out onto the makeshift "porch". James swiftly shifted the axe back onto his shoulder and tried to steady himself for whatever might come.

"Weather’s something, isn’t it," Crouch said, squinting at the overcast sky. "Where’s your mate? Eaten him already out of hunger?" he added with a nasty grin. James felt a chill run down his spine.

"Making jokes now, are we, officer?" the "free" man replied with a crooked smirk of his own.

"Look who I’ve brought you," Barty said cheerfully, patting James on the shoulder. "He’s looking for his friend."

Prongs shrugged off his hand sharply and gripped the axe handle tighter. He’d had enough of the small talk.

"Who’s this Master you mentioned?" he demanded. "The one who keeps the whole area in fear? Who’s been beheading animals?"

The "free" man snorted and shoved his hands into the pockets of his tracksuit bottoms.

"That’d be our fisherman," he replied with a chuckle, winking at Crouch.

"And what do fishermen have to do with severed heads?" James asked, frowning. He genuinely couldn’t see the connection.

"He uses maggots for bait," the man answered impatiently, clearly wishing they’d just leave. "Breeds them in heads."

Crouch spread his arms and smiled as if everything had suddenly made sense.

"Even I didn’t know that," he said, sounding pleased. "One for the housewife’s notebook," he added with a wink at James.

Prongs could feel the performance unfolding in front of him. His blood, by now used to boiling, did exactly that.

"Shut it," he said to Crouch, quietly but with clear menace. Crouch stepped back and raised his hands, showing he meant no harm.

"So there’s no Master, then?" James asked again, turning back to the "free" man.

"No idea what you’re on about," the man replied mockingly.

James smiled, lowering his head slightly as if admitting he’d been a fool. Then he suddenly turned and shoved the startled Crouch forcefully into the circle.

"He’ll have your heads for this!" the "free" man bellowed, shocked.

"What the hell are you doing, you nutter?" Crouch cried, stunned, still sitting on the ground beyond the circle’s edge, making no move to get up. His cap had fallen off and lay beside him. He looked at James in horror.

"No Master, eh?" James repeated, smirking. Once again, he’d proven that two could play this game.

"You’ll see for yourselves now!" the "free" man shouted in reply, backing towards the door of the "house". "Not our problem, we live by the rules."

James didn’t get the chance to ask what rules he meant, as the man had already disappeared inside. Instead, he turned to look at Barty, who looked furious and – if James wasn’t mistaken – terrified.

"You’re in on this with them, are you?" he asked suspiciously, lifting the axe off his shoulder. "Where’s Peter?"

Before Barty could answer, Prongs’s head snapped up. The door had creaked open again, and someone was watching them through the crack. Adrenaline surged through him. He leapt straight over Crouch and burst into the house before anyone could stop him.

Inside the "house" it smelled of rotting vegetables and old rags. The filth was appalling – the floor was so sticky that James’s shoes clung with every step. But there was no time to take in the surroundings. The second "free" man had a knife – he had been peeling potatoes before they arrived, and the peels still lay scattered across the table. James raised the axe as if to strike, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it for real.

"I’d gut you right here," the second man said with sadistic pleasure, pointing the grimy knife at James. "But there’s no need to get my hands dirty. The Master will gut you himself," he added contentedly.

"So there is a Master after all," James replied. He was doing everything he could to keep his nerve. "Why is the policeman so scared of him?"

"Because he’s got a head on his shoulders," answered the first "free" man. He was sitting on what passed for a bed – a pile of tattered old rags – with his knees drawn up and his hands still shoved in his pockets. He looked like a sparrow battered by life.

"Look, lads," James began in a more conciliatory tone, lowering the axe. Perhaps it was time to change tactics. "You’ve got your way of life, I’ve got mine. Our friend’s gone missing – vanished without a trace. But you lot seem decent enough, I can tell," he said, trying hopefully to suggest they might help.

The "free" men exchanged a glance. The second replied indifferently:

"The Master’s probably taken him."

James felt a surge of despair so strong he could have roared.

"What Master, for fuck’s sake? Where do I find him?" he snapped, lifting the axe again.

"You don’t need to find him, you idiot," the first man said with a mocking grin. "He’ll find you now. Just give it time."

"You think that’s meant to scare me?" James shot back with a matching smirk, turning to him. "I don’t give a toss about your local ghost stories," he went on bitterly, all pretence of politeness gone. "I’m not worried for myself – it’s my friend I care about."

Taking a deep breath, Prongs lowered the axe once more.

"Listen, we just need to find the lad," he said, as calmly as he could manage. "So we can go home. He’s lost, scared, cold by now, probably. Not eaten anything..." James was startled to realise this was the first time he’d truly thought about that. And it was a terrifying thought – it made his chest ache.

Suddenly the "free" men burst out laughing.

"And where exactly do you think you’re going?" asked the first one through his laughter. "Go on, try it! You haven’t even tried leaving yet, have you, clown?"

"What’s so funny?" James asked darkly. It was true – they hadn’t tried.

"Doesn’t matter which way you go – north, south," the second explained, "you always end up back at this bloody swamp."

"Oh, give it a rest," James said wearily. He refused to believe it.

"Took us ages to work it out too," the second went on, "but it’s like sitting inside a glass bubble, you get me?"

"Yeah," James nodded with forced understanding, then added flatly, "Utter bollocks. Crouch was in the centre and called for backup."

"And where is it?" the second asked simply.

James bit his lip, a creeping realisation beginning to settle in.

"The roads were washed out," he answered weakly. "Once they dry, they’ll come here – and we’ll get out."

"Washed out," the first man scoffed, nudging the second with his elbow. There hadn’t been any rain. "He never went anywhere. How many years has he been searching for his little lover boy here?"

James couldn’t take it anymore.

* * *

Having had his fill of miracles, Remus staggered out of the monastery like a drunk. He pulled out his cigarettes and lit one, barely conscious of himself. After the wave of pain – so intense it had knocked the breath out of him and, for the first time, truly erased his memory – his body felt limp and unresponsive.

In a complete daze, he sat down on a neatly stacked pile of firewood in the monastery courtyard, pulling his knees to his chest and resting his head on them. As if he needed to reflect on everything that had just happened, but his mind was filled only with ringing silence. The cigarette smouldered between his lips, but he didn’t take a single drag.

Inside the monastery, Regulus and Sirius were sitting on an old mattress they had found in one of the gallery rooms. The younger brother’s head lay in the elder’s lap, and Sirius’s fingers were tangled in dark curls just like his own. He had to be careful not to snag them on the fishing hook still embedded in his palm.

Regulus was complaining that it was hard to breathe here. Just dust and cold stone. No books, no sign of his beloved violin.

"But no parents either," Padfoot pointed out reasonably. "And that’s already an improvement."

But Regulus didn’t seem especially comforted by that fact.

"I miss them," he admitted, frightened to say it even to himself, let alone to his brother. "And I’m ashamed I killed myself and broke their hearts."

However dreadful their parents had been, it was still the truth. But Sirius, biting his lip, replied mercilessly all the same:

"They don’t have hearts. There’s nothing to break." Then, more reluctantly, he added, "Mum’s completely lost her mind."

That only made Regulus more miserable. He turned his head towards the window, through which they could see the sun beginning to set.

"It’s summer now, and the flowers are blooming," he said quietly, trying to change the subject. He was never one for the sun, but he did love summer. The warm air and riot of colours. The smells and sensations.

"When you were little, you used to press pretty leaves and flowers between the pages of books and diaries," Sirius recalled with a smile.

Regulus smiled too, squinting into the sun.

"Let’s at least go for a walk," he suggested. "I can get downstairs and to the front door now, I’ve checked," he added quickly when he noticed the worry in his brother’s eyes.

Biting his lip again, Padfoot agreed. Reg looked even paler and more translucent within the monastery walls – he clearly needed fresh air and sunlight. Besides, they couldn’t sit here forever like prisoners, could they?

"I’ll find you some paper and pencils," Sirius promised as they made their way down the stairs.

"And cigarettes," Regulus added, pushing open the heavy wooden front door, "and a lighter!"

Sirius was about to object that the resurrected probably weren’t supposed to smoke, but he didn’t get the chance. The moment Regulus stepped across the threshold, he began to choke – water poured from his mouth and his body convulsed violently. For the second time that day, Padfoot knelt helplessly beside someone he loved in agony. Regulus’s legs jerked as though in an epileptic fit. Sirius tried to pry his hands away from his throat, but he was clinging to him, gasping for air.

Remus came to himself when the forgotten cigarette burnt down and singed his fingers. When he looked up, he saw the entire scene unfolding in the monastery doorway. Rising to his feet on wooden legs, he approached the brothers.

Padfoot was cradling his younger brother, holding his head to his chest.

"His heart isn’t beating," he said to Remus in a broken voice. The entire monastery porch was flooded with water.

* * *

A tall, thin man in an impenetrable black coat was fishing from the pier. In a tin bucket at his feet, several large pike thrashed in their death throes. Blood was oozing from their gills. The man was just pulling a hook from the throat of the next catch, smiling contentedly at his bountiful haul.

* * *

"Come on, Padfoot, pull yourself together," Remus and Sirius were sitting over the lifeless body of Regulus. They had carried him back into the monastery and even managed to lift him to the second level, near the altar. Sirius was beside himself, and Moony had to shake him back to awareness. "Shall we try again? What did you read over me – the Lord’s Prayer?"

Sirius sobbed and nodded. Remus took his hands in his own. "Let’s do it together. I don’t remember the words, but I’ll repeat them after you."

"Pater noster, qui es in caelis," Padfoot began, stammering. He had to squeeze his eyes shut to concentrate – and to avoid seeing Reg so motionless. So dead. "Sanctificetur nomen tuum..."

Remus obediently repeated after him, trying to decipher the Latin by ear. His memories of Sunday school had long faded. He didn’t much believe the prayer would help, but something had to be done. And Remus was willing to do anything for Sirius.

"Et ne nos inducas in tentationem, sed libera nos a malo," by the end of the prayer Padfoot’s voice had grown stronger. Unlike Remus, he had no shortage of faith. "Amen," he whispered.

"Amen," Remus echoed.

No sooner had he spoken than Regulus gasped suddenly and sat up. His eyes flew wide open, and his hand instinctively went to his throat. He seemed to struggle to breathe, but he was definitely alive. Sirius’s tear-streaked face broke into a blissful, radiant smile.

Moony was stunned. He stared straight at Regulus as the boy tried to come to his senses. Collapsing weakly onto the stone floor, Remus struggled to make sense of what he had just witnessed.

Sirius looked at Remus as though this resurrection were meant to prove that miracles existed. His hand rubbed soothingly over Regulus’s back, but his gaze remained fixed on Moony’s tired and astonished eyes.

* * *

James emerged from the "free people’s" house defeated. Just when he thought he might finally be starting to understand something, the place had once again stripped him of all hope. On top of that, the bouts of irritation were utterly draining. Lowering the axe and bowing his head, he returned to Crouch’s car.

Barty was sitting on the bonnet, lazily sipping whisky. His cap was askew from when James had shoved him, but he didn’t seem to hold a grudge.

"Well?" he asked, nodding towards the "house". "Did those ghouls tell you anything useful?"

James was desperate to ask for a swig from the bottle, but he resisted.

"They did," he nodded and sat on the dusty bonnet next to the policeman.

"Like what?" Crouch asked with genuine curiosity.

"Like the whole of this land," Prongs gestured around with the axe in his hand, "belongs to the Master."

"Really now," Barty snorted, taking another swig. "Nice yarn. And did they tell you who this Master is?"

"Prospero," James muttered sourly, finally snatching the bottle from Crouch and taking a long swig. It scorched his throat instantly – but it wasn’t a sensation he was unfamiliar with.

"Who?" Crouch blinked. Clearly, he hadn’t read The Tempest at school.

"Never mind," Prongs waved him off, handing back the bottle.

"So we’re his subjects now, are we?" the policeman asked with irritation, gripping the bottle’s neck tightly. Perhaps he had read the play after all. James smiled.

"No, officer," he said, getting up and shifting his grip on the axe. "The lads say we’re his prey."

"Really now," Crouch repeated. Only now did James notice how red his eyes were – not from crying, more likely from sheer exhaustion. "I reckon we ought to inform the authorities," he added with a wry smile.

"Making jokes now, are we, chief?" James replied with a matching grin, repeating the same line the free man had used.

"I told you they are mad," Barty said calmly, tucking the bottle into the inside pocket of his jacket and opening the driver’s door. "Fifteen years in prison doesn’t leave your mind unscathed."

"You did say," James agreed. He was beginning to feel strangely comfortable in Crouch’s company. Under different circumstances, they might have been good friends. "But it was worth a try."

James was about to sit in the front passenger seat when he seemed to remember something and added, "And guess what else they say? That no matter where you go around here, you end up back in the village. Like one of those closed loops or something. Bunch of weedheads," he scoffed.

But Crouch didn’t look smug or amused. He gazed at the "house" with his inflamed eyes and said quietly, "What weedheads? What do they have to smoke around here? Tree bark?" He gave a mirthless chuckle. "More likely shroomers," he added knowingly.

He turned his head and looked James in the eye, as if trying to communicate something telepathically. But James, unfortunately, wasn’t good at picking up on hints. He was a very straightforward person. Sirius was far better at all those games of subtext – he was French, after all. Just the thought of Padfoot always warmed James’s heart.

As they drove away from the place where the free people lived, James couldn’t stop glancing at Barty. He was trying to work out what he’d meant. Was he a good man or not? How pointless would it be to expect help from him in a crisis? At the "house", James had the feeling he was in league with the Master and the free people. That all of them were collectively messing with their heads.

"So," Crouch asked lightly, eyes fixed on the road, "where to now?"

Probably not easy to drive after that much whisky. There were no pedestrians or other cars, so the worst that could happen was hitting a post or veering off the road. But lightning never strikes twice in the same place.

"Let’s go home – to the village," James replied with a burst of nervous cheer. "All roads lead there anyway. Like to Rome," and he winked at the grinning Crouch.

* * *

Remus stood by the altar, holding a thin church candle in one hand, shielding its flame from draughts with the other. Behind him, Sirius and Regulus sat on a mattress, wrapped in each other’s arms.

"I don’t want it to be like this," Regulus said in a strained voice. He still found it difficult to breathe or speak.

"You’re still weak," Padfoot replied gently, stroking his younger brother’s black curls.

"You’re the one keeping me here, Siri," Reg said accusingly, though it came out feeble and unconvincing. He was right, Remus thought with a flicker of unease. "What is this place, really?" Regulus lifted his eyes, scanning the crumbling mosaic across the monastery’s vaults. "Why do I feel so awful? Why can’t I leave?"

He was entirely justified in demanding answers – the problem was, Sirius didn’t have any. He released Regulus from the embrace to meet his piercing gaze.

Remus began to circle the space around the altar, candle in hand, tracing nearly a full loop. It seemed right to give the brothers some privacy, though he couldn’t leave Sirius alone with miracles. Given the absurdity of what was happening, he couldn’t even trust this Regulus.

"I can’t believe your explanation, Siri," Reg insisted. Sirius lowered his gaze to avoid his brother’s eyes.

"Tell him," Remus whispered as he passed them in his loop, "go on, tell him."

"Some sort of clinical death?" Regulus prompted.

"No, real death," Padfoot replied without looking up.

"How can that be? I’m here, and so are you," Regulus sat up, looking at his brother in disbelief. "Or are you dead too?" Sirius looked up in alarm – the shot had landed squarely. "Maybe you came to me, not the other way round?"

"I don’t know how," Sirius said tiredly, picking at a thread on his jeans. "You drowned." Regulus scoffed at the softened wording, but Sirius only shrugged and continued, "I came to the monastery, they asked me to pray. Regulus," he took his brother’s hand, "He brought you back," Sirius raised his eyes to the ceiling, referring to God. Regulus stared blankly at the peeling plaster overhead.

Having completed three full circuits, Remus placed his candle alongside the others on the altar and slowly sank to his knees. Inhaling deeply the scent of wax and incense, he folded his hands as if about to pray.

Jesus, on the icon, was weeping again – silently observing their struggle.

* * *

The moment the police car drove away, one of the free people emerged once more from the house. In a pen behind the trailer, live hens were kept. Seizing one and slitting its throat with a swift motion, the man moved along the circle of posts, sprinkling each one with the blood of the innocent bird. Renewing the protective barrier.

Merope knelt heavily on tired, aching knees by the pier to offer gifts to the water. On a wooden tray were apples, honey, a jug of milk, and a small piece of rich butter. As the current carried the offerings away, the old woman bent down and gently kissed the water’s edge, murmuring her thanks.

Later in the forest, she dug a small pit and placed inside it fresh bones that still bore scraps of flesh. Peter had been right when he said they were too large even for cattle. After burying them, Merope crossed the mound and placed a small, perfectly round white stone in the centre, as though marking the spot.

Rosy, almost living clouds crept slowly over the village.

* * *

Sirius and Remus sat on the monastery window ledge, smoking. Padfoot stared out of the window, biting his lip and fidgeting with the hook in his palm, while Remus couldn’t take his eyes off him. Strangely, this place had destroyed everything except that piercing tenderness in the chest, every time they looked at each other.

"How is he?" Moony asked hoarsely, breaking the silence.

Sirius shrugged and tapped ash into a beautiful saucer they had found among the rubbish. It had probably once been part of a festive set. Padfoot had joked that he was just like this saucer – fallen from his shining family set and left to gather dust in the middle of nowhere.

"Said he’s tired and wants to rest," they were speaking about Regulus, because his cycle of resurrections had pushed everything else from Sirius’s life. And Remus couldn’t blame him for that. "I don’t think he believes me."

"You know, I went through those stages too," Remus admitted reluctantly, lowering his gaze. "Anger, bargaining, acceptance. Didn’t do too well with acceptance, though. Mine was more like, ‘sod it all’. That was my version." He stubbed out his cigarette nervously. Sirius was watching him with that worried look that Moony was finding harder and harder to bear. He always wanted to say: "Don’t look at me like that, I’m not dead yet." He blinked away the bitter, uninvited tears. "‘We do not surrender’ type of acceptance, right? And here am I, with actual miracles."

Padfoot stubbed out his own cigarette too, and meant to hug Remus, but quickly realised that wasn’t what he needed. More than anything, he needed someone to finally listen. So Sirius forced himself to ignore the crushing ache in his chest.

"I’d only just got used to the idea of dying," Remus stared at the floor beneath their feet as tears freely rolled down his cheeks. "And now something’s stirred again in my soul. Hope or something." He snorted in annoyance at himself and wiped his nose sharply. "And now the bargaining’s back. What did I do that was so wrong, God can’t forgive me?"

Sirius squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head. Hearing this was torture.

"What have I done to deserve any of this?"

"Who said you can’t be forgiven?" Padfoot whispered, barely audible.

Remus turned sharply to him, drawing up his legs. His face was suddenly very close, his eyes burning feverishly.

"You know, it’s only because of all this that I’ve truly felt I’m going to die," he whispered. Padfoot wanted to say, "Stop, enough, don’t," but he listened, biting his lip until it bled. Because who else would do this for Remus? "Yes, I’m going to die soon. But it wasn’t my head that told me – it was here," he pointed at his heart. "I felt it in my heart, do you understand?"

Unable to bear any more, Sirius kissed him with tear-wet lips. Just to make Remus stop, to keep him from pumping Padfoot’s poor heart full of pure pain.

"I haven’t managed anything," Remus whispered, allowing the kisses to ravage his mouth. He didn’t kiss back – he seemed to be in a daze. So Sirius began to pepper his entire face with swift kisses, cupping his cheeks in his hands.

When he finally pulled back, their eyes met again. Remus thought that Sirius had a biblical face. Whether it was from spending so much time in the church, having touched the divine, or down to miraculous genetics, Moony couldn’t say. Unlike James, he didn’t need visions – his great love, of flesh and blood, was always right beside him.

Padfoot took him, stunned, by the hand and whispered:

"Come on."

* * *

When James went down to the river this time, he had the strange feeling that he knew exactly where to find Regulus. Pushing through the reeds, he saw him sitting with his back to him, once again completely naked, legs dangling in the water. James carefully lowered himself to the ground at a distance. Regulus gave no indication that he had noticed his arrival.

"I’ve been to see the free people in the forest," James began, speaking as though he had just sat down in his therapist’s office. "They told me about the Master. Said he’s coming here today and that the hunt’s going to start. And that it’s the end for me and Barty."

"Why?" Regulus asked, in a tone James found rather indifferent. Then again, he hadn’t exactly been a man of strong emotion in life either. Of all the feelings James could recall from him, boredom and irritation topped the list. Embarrassment was rare.

"We stepped into a forbidden circle," James answered, frowning at how ridiculous it sounded. "No one’s supposed to enter it except the free people. And for that – off with our heads!" He made a chopping motion across his neck. Regulus turned to follow his hand. James could have sworn there was a flicker of alarm in his eyes. "Is he seriously going to hunt us down?"

Regulus turned away again, and James stared at the pale skin of his back – at the perfectly even row of vertebrae running from his neck to the base of his spine. James had to look away just to recall what they had been talking about.

"What nonsense," he muttered in frustration, snapping a cattail to bat away the dragonflies flitting around them. From the road, they couldn’t be seen – Regulus and James were hidden by the thick reeds. "But I suppose you don’t care," he added under his breath, unable to stop himself.

But Regulus heard.

"What do you expect me to do?" he replied irritably, shrugging just like Sirius.

"Who else can I go to?" James asked helplessly, batting a curious dragonfly away from Regulus with his cattail. "The copper?"

"He won’t help either," Regulus said quietly.

"This has happened before, hasn’t it?" James guessed. "With Rosier, right?"

Regulus turned to face him, his eyes gleaming darkly.

"You’re not saying anything, and if you’re not saying anything, that means you know what’s going on," James concluded. He didn’t know whether he was making wild assumptions or still capable of actual reasoning. "I’m not asking anything from you," he added wearily, turning the cattail over in his hands. "I’d do it myself, if I just understood what’s happening here."

Regulus’s anger faded as quickly as it had come, and now he looked at James almost sympathetically.

"I wish I could talk to my parents," James admitted, lowering his eyes. He was close to the peak of despair.

As though taking pity on him, Regulus said slowly and cautiously, "There is one place," James looked up sharply. Regulus smiled and went on, "A big tree behind the monastery. An oak. If you climb it–"

"Can’t stay away, can you?" came Crouch’s irritated voice as he parted the reeds with a cigarette clamped between his teeth. His eyes were fixed on James. "I dropped you off by the house. How the hell did you end up here?"

Regulus’s lip curled in contempt, his eyes narrowing like a cat’s. He looked ready to hiss at the policeman. But Barty ignored him completely, focusing all his attention on James.

"The heart wants what it wants," James said, spreading his arms.

"Get out of here," Barty spat.

Despite the fact he had no authority over James, he obediently stood and began picking his way out of the reeds towards the road. The police car was parked at the roadside. James seemed to need someone to tell him to go – he wasn’t capable of leaving Regulus of his own accord. Glancing back, ру noticed that from the road, you really couldn’t see Regulus at all – only Barty’s head was visible. You had to know they were there to find them.

Casting one last glance over his shoulder, James climbed into the passenger seat. Like a good boy.

"Leave him," Crouch said sternly to Regulus, who only snorted in response. "He’s a twat, sure, but he’s a decent lad. He didn’t deserve this."

"Go to hell, Crouch," Regulus replied indifferently, slipping back into the water. "You tell him – I’ll tell too."

Barty clicked his tongue in annoyance but let the fish swim free. Once in the car, he said grimly to James:

"Your lot still aren’t home."

"What do you mean, not home?" James jolted, twisting round to face him.

"Exactly that," Crouch shrugged, flicking ash out the window. "They’ve gone off to the monastery. Everyone’s got their thing," he added sarcastically. "Some care about the body," he winked at James, "others care about the soul."

James had almost grown used to his humour and might even have smiled, if his throat hadn’t clenched with fear for Remus and Sirius. Losing them too would be unbearable.

"We’ve got to go meet them before something happens," he said quickly, fastening his seatbelt.

Barty smirked.

"And who’s paying for the petrol – you or the taxpayer?" he asked sharply.

James had begun to forget what a bastard he really was. He unbuckled the belt in one swift motion and got out of the car.

"Go fuck yourself," he said, flipping off the grinning Barty and starting off down the road. "I’ll walk."

Crouch started the engine, flicking the stub of his cigarette out the window, and drove after him. Cracking the window open, he called out cheerfully:

"What, are you sulking now?" He reached a hand towards James’s hair, but James just shook his head, visibly irritated.

They played that game a little longer, but in the end, Barty still gave James a lift to the monastery. Sunset was beginning to fall.