Certain Dark Things || Book Three

xlii. twelve years of ruin

Twenty minutes after finishing his breakfast tea and a second buttered scone, Remus Lupin stood in a rose garden with his wand pointed at a serial killer.

It was not the way he'd expected his morning to go.

In the dark hours of night when he couldn't fall asleep, Remus had sat up in bed, staring at the wall or out the window, thinking of all the things he'd say if he ever encountered Sirius Black again. Most of the delusions ended with bloodied knuckles and vivid flashes of green, but more often than not, his ideas existed in the abstract, in a tangle of emotion and pain he could not decipher logic from. There was no coherent speech. Just a lot of screaming.

If he'd come upon Sirius Black a year ago, Remus thought he might have thrown himself at him, not caring at all if the bastard had a wand and if he ended up dead, so long as he got to throw his fist into his face and make him bleed. That had been a year ago though, when Remus had been living in a shoddy Knockturn flat, scraping out a living by part-timing in the Muggle world. Now, in contrast, he had a career and a purpose and a desire to live long enough to teach Harriet and...Elara. To see them grow up and get married if they wanted. To have families or careers or both.

So when he stumbled across a familiar shadow in the dormant rose garden, he didn't rally or rage; Remus took out his wand, his hand shaking, and put it to the man's neck.

"Don't. Move."

Black stiffened, and aside from the slightest tip of his head, held himself still. Even in the lowlight, Remus thought he looked like hell. Chilblains covered his dirty hands, his hair and beard both a matted, greasy tangle, his skin waxy, sunken, and raw from exposure. His eyes, though, both familiar and dreaded, didn't look different. They found Remus' face and widened.

"Remus?" Black rasped. "Wha—Morgana's knickers, what are you doing here?"

Remus doubled his grip on his wand until his knuckles were white. "I am a professor," he replied, voice cold and distant in a way that he didn't feel. A few students were across the courtyard, but they were otherwise alone and obscured from casual observation by the hedges. A mad thought flitted through his head, wondering if he could kill Black there and bury him under the roses—but Remus didn't want him here, not in any manner whatsoever, not even as a corpse rotting in the ground.

"A professor?" A slow smile spread across Black's haggard face, his teeth surprisingly clean and white. "Well, holy shit. Who said you can't teach an old dog new tricks? Congratulations!"

Remus drove the wand a little harder into the man's neck. At the moment, he felt like a Niffler who'd caught a Thunderbird by the tail; namely, he was uncertain of what to do next. Not summon the Dementors, no. He needed to alert Professor Dumbledore, but that would mean removing his wand from Black's person.

Stun him, you blundering baboon!

He sucked in a breath to do just that when Black said, "Wait," and his hands fidgeted. "Wait. Please, Moony—."

The wand jabbed harder into his pulse.

"Wait, for fuck's sake, I'm—I'm not here to hurt anyone, I swear—."

"I'm not inclined to believe you," Remus retorted through clenched teeth. "Not after you slaughtered twelve Muggles and Peter."

Like a thundercloud, Black's expression darkened and twisted, madness nibbling at the edges. "The fucking rat!"

Flames burst from the end of Remus' wand and Black moved, avoiding the worst of the damage, a wand finding its way into his shaking hand. Remus cursed himself for a fool as he found himself in a standoff with a wizard half tangled in the brambles, a nasty burn descending from his shoulder toward his chest, though his aim remained steady. Like the robes, Remus assumed Black had stolen the wand from somewhere. It wasn't challenging to find a spare—usually of dubious origins—floating about places like Knockturn Alley. Remus himself had one tucked into the very bottom of his luggage, given to him when he'd had to do some less than legal couriering in his truly desperate years.