Intention

By knitmeapony
E-Mail: knitmeapony@gmail.com
Rating: R
Pairings: Remus/Sirius, Hermione/Ron, Remus/Tonks
Beta: Figgy 

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“I don’t understand this.”

“Should we tell Harry, Albus?”

“No.”

Magic is funny.

Magic is full of rituals, precision, circles cut in stone with dimensions measured in hairsbreadths. It occasionally requires precisely twenty-three and one thirty-seventh grams of dragonfly wings, a flick of a wand that lasts one and one-quarter seconds, and levi-o-sa, not levio-sa. It is a science beyond science.

Wizards today know this well. They have been taught experimentation and potion-making, charms and artificing. Magic today is knowledge codified into a three-quarter decade of learning.

But they have forgotten its root. They have forgotten that before schools, before well-made wands and cauldrons, before measuring tools and grimoires, magic was about will. The first spell was not cast with wand in hand. The first spell was cast by a wizard with nothing more than the earth at his feet and meaning in his wordless cry.

The source of all magic is intention.

And he had no intention of dying.

“According to my calculations…”

“Sod your calculations, Hermione, what the hell does it mean?”

“It just means something is wrong.”

“We have to tell Harry.”

“I’m afraid, Miss Granger, that I can not allow that.”

He was falling, that much he knew.

He was falling with an easy grace and an unbearable speed. The wind, such as it was, was tearing at his skin, his hair, his eyes. His eyes… there was nothing to see anyway, so he closed them tight, protected them well. His arms wrapped around his body, his knees tucked in.

He felt himself getting older, than younger. There was an absolute fluidity to everything, clothes shifting with discomforting regularity, sliding across his skin like snakes. He was clothed in snakes, and then he flung his arms akimbo to rid himself of them and they were fur, and then silk, and then some nameless material, one that was wet and slick and slid across his skin and made him cold.

The wind had stopped, but everything around him was formless.

He was falling. He was still. There was nothing around him. Everything. Voices. Light.

Absence of all.

He opened his mouth, and there was nothing to breathe, and then he caught a breath.

“Stop…”

It wasn’t a shout, just a hissing, but everything was suddenly en pointe, quivering to listen to his voice, listen for a command. And since it seemed to work, he tried again.

“Let there be light.”

And there was light.

He started laughing, an ugly, pained, coughing sound.

But there was light.

“Professor, I don’t understand. Why not?”

“You know as well as I what Mr Potter would do with such information.”

“But if there’s a chance…”

“It’s the barest chance. Others can look into it. And he… after all this, he deserves a rest.”

Earth. He made a grove of trees, a lake, fish in the lake. He made robes for himself, shed them, became Padfoot and ran. He barked in joy, in absolute glee. He made a sky and a moon for howling. Stars, and five constellations, and made them dash about the sky while he watched below.

He made a cottage, and then a fine meal that he set on a newly hewn table. He ate every bite, found a bottle of wine in a convenient cupboard and drank every drop. For dessert, there was pie, and for after dinner there was coffee.

He ran outside, shedding his clothes again, and dove into the river to wash and catch a few fish for tomorrow’s breakfast. There was a nest with wild eggs, and he had hands, suddenly, to collect them and cradle them back to the cottage, tuck them in an icebox.

All this in silence, until he sorted what was wrong and made sound. All at once, there was wind in the trees, water in the brook, grass against the walls. There. Still too quiet, but better. He made a phonograph and settled in with some fine music, out of place in this soft locale. He made a bed and a sunset, and listened to the gentle strains of The Animals as he settled in to sleep.

It was the strangest thing: he couldn’t sleep. Still too quiet, he supposed. It was the wrong sound. It was all missing something. He walked outside, into the copse that became a wood. He startled a few rabbits, was eye-to-eye with a treed raccoon, and found the path where a fox and her kits had slipped through the shadows no more than an hour ago.

He walked, and he wandered, and finally he came out the other side. There was a cliff, and then there was nothing.

The moon was high, and softly in the distance he could hear a wolf’s cry.

And then he knew.

“Home,” he demanded, and when a fluttering veil showed itself on the edge of a cliff, he stepped through.

Remus never meant to turn into a crotchety old man, but it’d happened. Sometime just before his fortieth birthday, clearly. In the year when everyone was celebrating the end of a three-year hell, a new millenium, and a whole new world opening up, he was sitting just inside the Shrieking Shack, drinking single-malt scotch and throwing half-rotten apples at the tourists who would stop and point.

Five years. Five years, and before that fourteen, and before that four, and before that seven. Five since he was dead, fourteen since he was gone, four he couldn’t find a way to say it, seven he wouldn’t dare.

He was old, now, and he was tired, and though Hermione stopped by with news of the wedding and Ron and the Burrow, and though Harry sent postcards and sometimes called, he was alone. His whole family was gone, every one, even the ones he didn’t care for. Even Albus had left him, spirited Minerva away to some meeting or another, though the occasional hints that Remus picked up made him suspect there was no meeting, particularly not in the Bahamas, particularly not one that involved mai tais.

But, well, he’d expected this from the beginning. It was all going back to the beginning, wasn’t it? Here he was, elbows all but poking through the sleeves of an ancient robe (two sizes too small), sitting alone and wondering what would be next. No friends to speak of, no family that wanted to speak to him, waiting for something to come along and take him away.

And there’d be three fellows waiting for him, and they’d share a compartment as he headed off…. perhaps he was taking the metaphor a bit too far, there, eh? He sighed quietly, closed the door, and retreated to what passed for a bedroom, these days.

He was there, and he’d called and called, but Moony hadn’t said a word. It was peculiar, being ignored, particularly by the one who’d promised to never ignore him. He wasn’t hurt by it – the trip back through the second veil had brought all memories of his life back to him in startling detail, death and all, and he knew things were wrong.

Was he a ghost? No, even ghosts were visible, could talk. He watched as Remus stripped down to nothing, crawled between the sheets after hanging up his shirt and pants and tie in an otherwise empty closet, smoothing his robe over the back of a chair. There was tossing and turning, plenty of restless behavior, but no sleep.

Even dead or… whatever, he didn’t have the patience to watch his lover. And lacking the ability to wake him up and do terrible, horrible, no good very bad things to him, preferably involving that lovely cinnamon-scented lotion he always kept about, he’d have to settle for reacquainting himself with this place and sorting a way back into the real world.

An empty closet, an equally empty dresser… he found he could go through things if he merely wished, touch them if he wanted. It was intention, all over again. He was… what? An invisible god? He thoughtfully sniffed at what was left of Remus’ dinner – great merlin, but he didn’t eat much.

And couple that with no clothing, threadbare blankets, a shack with no heat… and no one around to notice. It was a slow moment dawning, as he searched through the cupboards, the front room… and found no store of food, no emergency cache.

He wasn’t sure if Remus realized what he was doing. But somehow Sirius knew that he was here, out in the woods, all alone… preparing for an end.

He padded back into the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, stretching out a hand as Remus finally began to sleep.

The room shifted. It was really inexplicable, and certainly undefinable, but it moved.

What was that? He blinked around, saw that small details had changed… here and there. Looked down, and saw that Remus had changed, more than a little. He was twenty-odd, now, free of scars and care. He rolled over and looked up, and smiled.

“Hello, Padfoot.” And suddenly Sirius was twenty-odd as well, all curls and jeans and attitude, and it was the most peculiar sensation. Was this… he turned and looked at the candle on the sideboard, unsurprised when it became whole, and then lit. It was…

“… you’re dreaming, Moony.” He offers, in a soft voice, and Remus laughs, a sound almost forgotten.

“Well of course I am... I always dream of you. It’s only the when that changes.”

Sirius toed off his shoes and rolled onto the bed properly, knee to knee, thigh pressed to thigh. “Only the when? When was your favourite when, do you think?”

The room shifted again. Stones, and broader beds, and uniforms…

“Mooooony.”

Remus did his level best to ignore the steady, plaintive sound. “Moooooony. Moonymoonymoonymoony.” There was a brief pause, and he felt something hit the back of his head. He didn’t turn around – it would have been hard, stretched out on his bed like he was, at any rate – but merely turned the page.

“Moooooooooooooooooooooooony.” Remus picked up his quill and began making notes in the margin of his text. DADA Makes You GAGA: Being a Complete Review For the Defense Against The Dark Arts NEWTs was a boring book, but he was hoping, maybe… if he got the highest score in the country, perhaps…

Slowly but surely, an out-of-control mop of black hair was rising over the side of the bed. It was followed by a forehead, and then two eyes, peering up at him plaintively. “Moony?”

“I believe the dog’s gotten hold of you again, Sirius.” He sighed and set down the quill. “I’m trying to study, you realize.”

“Possibly and aye!” The rest of Sirius’ face popped up so he could rest his chin on the edge of the mattress. “Moooony. Guess what day it is?”

“Leave your boyfriend alone so he can study for the damned NEWTs and potentially actually have a chance at a real job day?” He picked the quill up again and forced himself to fix his eyes on the book.

“No!” More of Sirius slides up, so his elbows are on the bed now, chin on hands. “It’s our anniversary.”

Remus blinks slowly, almost deliberately. “Anniversary? No, it isn’t.”

"Yes. It is. On this day, you asked me why I even bothered if I thought you were a bookish sod. And I told you I wanted to shag you rotten.” There’s a sage nod. “And everyone is gone, Moony. We’re all alone. With at least three beds we won’t get killed for using.”

Remus ignored the obvious implication and also the finger that daringly snuck up the duvet to trace along his forearm, curve ‘round his wrist. “You meant that? I thought you were joking!”

“Of course I meant it.” Sirius looks a bit wounded. “I never joke about shagging.”

“Padfoot,” Remus says, a bit shocked. “That was second year.” Nevermind that Remus had been absolutely head-over-heels since day one, since Sirius had burst into his quiet little compartment, laughing and smeared all over with soot and begging to be hidden under his seat for a while.

“Well, yes.” Sirius says, matter-of-factly. “You could have been my second. But no.” Remus slid over as he contemplated this, and Sirius delightedly hopped up into the empty space. Remus turned the page again, still pretending to read, though honestly he hadn’t really absorbed any of it.

“Moonymoonymoony… five years, Moony.” Sirius was determined, snuggling up against Remus and breathing on the back of his neck, peering down into the book over Remus’ shoulder before somehow engaging his toes to pull the cord and shut the curtains.

Five years, yes. Five years, and he’d somehow thought he’d been the only one. But no, he’d missed being the first. And the second, for that matter. He nibbled on the end of his quill for a long minute and then finally gave up the pretense of reading altogether.

He closed the book, quill inside to mark the place, and set it aside gently. There was always an odd intensity to him, something hard to put your finger on, and when he actually had purpose it was a startling fire in his eyes. He rolled up on his side, eyes searching over Sirius as if he could find telling marks on his body.

“How many?” Remus finally asks, propping his head up on his hand, pretending not to notice how quickly Sirius has managed to make their ties disappear, or the fact that his shirt is already well on it’s way to being unbuttoned. Or that it doesn’t matter at all.

Sirius tilts his head to one side, tongue sticking out in concentration as he tries to fiddle with Remus’ cuff links. “Not including you?” His tone is absent at best; he’d never bothered with such niceties as the links, and they frustrated him every time. “Three.”

Remus pulls away almost sharply and sits up to get rid of the cuff links himself. Three. Sirius’ eyes go from wounded to delighted as he shucks the shirt and folds it neatly, links inside so they won’t get lost. He would ask the obvious question – who – if it mattered. But Sirius is here, now. It doesn’t.

“Roll over, Sirius.” Remus says, in a deceptively soft tone. Sirius, who’d been flat on his stomach watching the undressing with glee, wrinkled his forehead curiously. “I said roll over.” Remus insists, discarding his shirt and leaning in. His voice took on a low, rough intensity. “It’s our anniversary.”

There’s only the briefest of pauses before the light of understanding goes on, and with a shiver of anticipation Sirius Black turns belly-up to a wolf. His shirt is open, and when Remus’ eyes rake down him, he feels more exposed with all his clothes on than he ever has naked.

“Sod your hopes of shagging me.” Remus tells him, in an almost conversational tone. He’s taken off his shirt and folded it neatly, discarded socks and tie and belt in a small pile in the unimportant space outside the bedcurtains. “What is about to happen here, Padfoot, is that I am going to put you through this mattress. Not once, but five times. Once for each year. Or, if you like, once to take care of each of your other lovers… and twice just for me.”

He hovered over Sirius with a grin. “All protests should be filed now.”

“Can we do it six times? Once more for luck?”

“Ah, so you don’t need to walk tomorrow. Excellent.” Remus tilted his head a bit, watching as his hand smoothed through Sirius’ hair with a gentle touch before tightening just a bit, enough to pull Sirius’ head back. “Padfoot?”

“Mmmm?”

“Stay.” And Sirius did, for as long as he was able.

He let it go on from there for hours and hours and hours. Remus had been having trouble sleeping the nights through – his body made up for it all, and for the moon four days past, by taking sixteen hours to wake.

He was shaken out of it all by Molly Weasley – damn that meddling woman anyway – who reminded Remus there were things for him to do, now and then. “And it isn’t that often we get together, anymore,” she reminds him, kindly, “so I knew you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

But he was content, now, understanding that everyone sleeps, every night, and with only a touch he could be there. The next stop was Harry, of course, having a long conversation near a house he never owned, under a tree that probably never existed, out in the country where he could run. They talked for hours the topic wandering the way the landscape kept shifting, from James and Lily in the autumn to football and Quidditch in the spring.

Then he darted up to give his cousin Nymphadora a pip pip hello from the other side – her dreams were messy and the colors ran together and it gave him a headache, so he didn’t stay for long. He may have detoured briefly to the Burrow, but it was only to tell Arthur hello, and certainly not to send rabid weasels into the dreams of a certain meddling housewife. Definitely not interspersed with gay sex in vivid detail.

Certainly not.

Time was passing in a peculiar fashion, he noticed. If he retreated into his own thoughts, he could simply let it melt away. It was already two days from when he’d first come to Remus, and he’d manage to catch two hours the next night, and another ten hours just this evening. He hummed to himself as he prepared for another evening…

And again...

And again...

He never missed a night, just lay down and let Moony wash over him. Dreams were all they had, but dreams are enough. This night, though, tonight, he wanted…

He wanted a pint, ‘swhat he wanted. No, strike that. He wanted to collect his boyfriend from work, and take him out for an end-of-the-day pint. But no. He’d been thwarted. He’d gotten to the shop and it’d been closed. Peculiar, that, but who really pays attention to what day it is, much less what time the shops close?

So he’d collected himself some lovely takeaway and headed back to the flat they shared.

“Moony?” He could tell he was home… the old victrola was cranked up to it’s highest volume, blasting some muggle music of some sort or another. “Moony, I popped ‘round to the shop and you weren’t there…”

And finally, here came Remus out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishcloth. “That’d be because I quit. Three days back. You didn’t have to go spend money on all that, I’ve been cooking…”

“You quit? Why?” Sirius’ forehead wrinkled, and he slid closer to Remus for a hello kiss. “And why is it shut?”

“They’re still cleaning up.”

“… oh.”

They’d come back, then. Some bastards with their faces covered, and this’d be the third time they’d smashed up the merchandise. Retribution, they said, for some monster taking the job of a real human. Sirius’ face was absolutely scarlet, his eyes steadily darkening pools.

“No.” Remus’ voice was firm. “No, they didn’t fire me. Alch’s a good man, he wanted to keep me on, but I couldn’t let that go on any longer.” Sirius opened his mouth to speak, and Remus just put one finger over his lips. “I said no, Padfoot. There’s no one to punish, at any rate.”

“We know who they are! I could show up and…” This time, it took a kiss to silence him, one long enough that he fumbled to set the food down next to him and get his arms ‘round Moony properly, one hard enough that he took a half step back when it was done.

“Thank you, Sirius.” Remus rested their foreheads together. “But there’s better battles to fight.”

“You know this is all backwards,” Sirius was rather breathless, long lashes resting on his cheeks. “You should be the one angry. I should be the one taking care of you.”

Remus laughed, a gentle sound. “The day I get angry before you do, Sirius, the skys’ll turn red and the seas run with bitter.” He leaned in for a kiss, warm and rich and promising. “But for now, there’s…”

Too late to get that bit out – he was being kissed again, pulled in and close and in retaliation, he felt he simply must push three steps forward until Sirius’ knees hit the back of the sofa, and down he went. “There’s what?” Sirius was laughing as Remus pulled off his shirt in one easy motion. “There’s takeaway.” He pointed out, trying for a reasonable tone as a hand snaked up his thigh and simply squeezed. “...there’s an off chance I’ll be taking off my trousers in a minute, if you…”

“Sirius, you’ve really got to learn.” Remus smirked and squeezed again. “None of this ‘in a minute’ nonsense.” There was a small jerk that made short work of Sirius’ fly, and half a breath later Remus was on him, pressed up and kissing, moving in all sorts of delightful ways that made him see sparks and make feral little sounds.

There was no sense in him doing much more than sliding his hands up and around Remus; he knew what this was. It was one-half gratitude and one-half absolute adoration and one-half a claiming of sorts – and damned the math or the logic or really English. This was Remus touching him in places he usually couldn’t reach, and draining all that anger right out of him.

This was Remus, needing and needy, and this was how it worked; he’d only be satisfied when Sirius had everything he wanted. There was nipping and sucking and soothing, sudden moves that drew a yip from his throat and lovely long strokes that made him groan. And there was Remus, drawing it out as long as he could, the bastard. Longer, and longer, and then there’s no more to draw out, and he just arched up and the neighbors could go to hell if they complained, Remus deserved the compliment of his name echoing through the whole damn building.

He felt warm breath on his ear (oh not that, he couldn’t take that, not now) and slowly as his mind filtered in and out of consciousness he started to sort the breaths into words. “There was something I was going to tell you.” Remus murmured, nuzzling and then gently licking along his jaw.

There was a small sound from the doorway, and Remus snorted and lifted his head from Sirius’ shoulder. “Oh. Right. That was it. Sirius, James and Lily have stopped by. Sorry, Lily,” he offered, sheepishly. “Er, that’s the timer. Could you take the pie out of the oven?”

Sirius cracked an eye open, grinned at the gawping redhead, and then dropped back his head, exhausted. “There’s pie?”

It was a sleepy question, and Remus knew he’d probably end up snoring through dinner, and perhaps even miss dessert, though he’d certainly dream of it. And, of course...

Dreams were enough to change things.

Things had changed, over the months. He’d had some strange craving, spent half the afternoon with Tonks in a grocery and filled two carts. It’d filled his cupboards, and then his closets looked empty, so they’d gone back out and loaded it up with winter robes and the latest fashions, and half a dozen shirts he never intended to wear.

It was the dreams. He knew it was the dreams. He’d been keeping track, each and every one, and he was starting to get a bit concerned.

Every night, there was Sirius. And it made him feel alive, and it made him feel right again. But it was dreams.

And were dreams enough?

It’s what he’d been thinking the night they’d all gotten together for Ron and Hermione’s anniversary, the night there was lamb and candied carrots, and Tonks’d been sitting next to him at the family dinner. There were so many people there, no one had noticed the two of them had dropped into their usual little conversations, pulling away from the rest of the crowd.

They’d learned to laugh on cue and pretend to participate, so otherwise they were left to their devices, and when they offered to do the washing up everyone had retired out to the backyard, delighted.

It’d started with a cleaning spell gone wrong, and a wet shirt, and coffee grounds, far as the eye can see. It ended with them popping off – literally -- for something a bit nicer to drink and softer to sit on, laughing their heads off.

It was the laughter that really made it happen, more than anything. It’d been so long since he’d laughed that hard. And the last person…. the last one… that was Sirius.

So when she kissed him, when she did it one more time, that was when he gave in. She was a beautiful woman, and he’d never been averse to that. It was ordinary. Lovely, but ordinary.

It was after, when he was curled up around her and she was stroking his hair and smiling at the sounds he made in his sleep, that things happened.

He couldn’t be angry, not really. How would he ever convince Remus that this was more than just a dream? And it was Tonks, who was his favorite cousin, always, and who was taking care of him even now…

All right then. It would be all right, leaving him there.

He only went in to say goodbye.

He couldn’t tell Moony what it was about, of course – no sense interrupting the one and only adult decision he’d ever made – but he could make it sweet and special.

She couldn’t be upset or sad that in his sleep, he was talking about Sirius. You’d think, so many years in love, he’d never be past it when he was awake, even. So she just listened as he talked, slurred but audible, and leaned in to give him a little murmur. “Tell uncle Sirius I said hello, would you?”

“Tonks says hello.” Remus offered, feet up in Sirius’ lap.

“Well then. Tell her hello back.” Sirius said, absently tracing the whorls on each toe.

“He says hello.” She smiled, wistfully. If only it were that simple.

Sirius froze. If he could… he’d never really forgotten that Remus talked in his sleep, but he’d never thought that… “Remus. You’re going to think me daft, but I need you to say some things aloud.”

Less than an hour later, she was convinced.

“Oi! He was there.” Tonks was perched up on the counter, gesturing a bit wildly. “We’re not making this up, and…”

Amidst the crash of her falling off the countertop, Remus was agreeing. “There’s no doubt, I have all these notes in my journal… he’s been here, with me, for months. Months, and I never realized. I just thought… I always dream about him.”

“We were right, then.” Hermione’s voice broke into the stillness – the news was so startling no one had noticed she and Ron arriving. “Ron and I. We… did a bit of research on the veil. Sorry, Harry, Dumbledore told us not to tell you.”

“Dumbledore and McGonagall.” Ron added, firmly. “So it’s certainly not our fault.”

“The veil, it’s actually from Rome. It’s called Portaisogni in all the books we found. Which is a shorthand, I think, for porta ai sogni… Italian for door to dreams.” All eyes were on her as she found a seat, lowered herself tiredly into it. “It’s a bit like Erised, and a bit of a… a dimensional gateway, I suppose?” She found herself met with a long row of blank stares. "It's a sort of an IDIC concept! I think Mr Spock had the best explain...er... bugger."

There was a moment of silence, and then… “Have you ever imagined a world with no shrimp?”

“You’re quiet tonight.” It was three days ago – fifteen years ahead – no, three days ago that they’d learned everything. That he’d woken up and Tonks had told him. Told him he hadn’t gone mad, and that the dreams were real.

She hadn’t stayed, not the next night or the next, which suited them both just fine. Remus was afraid he’d hurt her, but she’d seemed all right and when Sirius went to say hello again, he’d been forced to wait three hours until she and some young dusky-skinned woman were finished getting acquainted.

“Just thinking. Sirius, we can’t go on like this.”

“... I've broken out of jail and come back from the dead for you, .”

“No, no, nothing of the sort. I couldn’t leave you if I tried.” He leaned in for a kiss, and right in the middle pulled away. “Padfoot, listen, I’ve a plan…”

“You’ll come back, won’t you?” Harry watched the veil as one might a viper, staying perhaps closer to Remus than was strictly necessary. “You will come back…” It’d been a hard decision, leaving, and a harder discussion with Sirius, but they’d decided…

“Harry, didn’t you know? Magic is all about intention.” He rested a hand on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. “And we have no intention of leaving you behind. We’ll be back, one way or another. Until we manage our bodies… just fall asleep thinking of us. You always remember that sort of dream.”

Hermione stepped forward and passed him a thick binder of information. “This is everything we know… well. Everything I know. If it doesn’t make it in there, I kept a copy, and…” She flushed, slightly. “It’ll be published, in a bit.” What could be done then but to fold her into a hug and then pass her back to her husband?

“Give him a good telling off.” Ron added, arms already around her tightly. “He still owes me ten quid.”

And Remus laughed, kissed Tonks on her forehead and nodded to them all. “I will. I solemnly swear.”

And without hesitation, he took a step back and fell through.

“Moony?”

“I’m here, Sirius.”

“You brought a great stonking load of luggage, didn’t you?”

“Mostly socks and chocolate, I assure you. Show me how to find people? I want Harry to know we’re all right.”

“Not before my hello shag.”

“…Padfoot…”

“Possibly an ‘off to find Harry’ shag after that.”

“Padfoot.”

“ And there’s always…”

“SIRIUS.”

“Hmm?”

“Stay.”