a l l . t h e . a n s w e r s . ( c a l l . a n d . r e s p o n s e . r e m i x )

All the Answers
(Call and Response Remix)
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG

Summary: Harry asks some questions Remus would rather not answer.

Notes: A remix of All the Answers by imogenedisease. Thanks to Devil Doll and luzdeestrellas for betaing.

Date finished: March 20, 2006
Date posted: March 26, 2006

The rehearsal dinner had gone as well as could be expected, with a house full of Weasleys and Veelas, and now Remus sits by the hearth in the kitchen, legs stretched out and eyes closed, glass of firewhisky in hand. He appreciates being included, but it's a little overwhelming. The sense of happiness tinged with hysteria reminds him of the first war, of late nights spent drinking and laughing so they wouldn't cry. Of lying sweaty and sated on soft, cotton sheets, his body and Sirius's closely entangled, even in sleep.

If Sirius were here, he'd know exactly what to say to shatter Remus's growing sentimentality, to spark it into something more meaningful. But he's not, and Remus is almost used to it again. A small part of him still hopes to see Sirius swing into the kitchen, eyes alight with mischief, but he only rarely indulges that fantasy anymore, and only when everyone else is asleep and he's alone with his nightly glass of whisky.

He's beginning to doze and should probably head upstairs to bed; tomorrow looks like it will be a long day. Before he can even get himself moving, though, a voice in the darkness startles him to alertness.

"Professor Lupin?"

Harry is not James, and yet sometimes, catching a glimpse of the curve of his jaw or the fall of his hair in his peripheral vision, Remus has to close his eyes and breathe deeply, even now, and remind himself that James is dead, and has been for a very long time.

Just now, Harry wears a fierce expression that reminds Remus of James at his most relentless, Lily's determination written in the set of his lips and shoulders.

Remus sets his glass down on the table and nods, attempting a smile that probably looks as pathetic and false as it feels. Since the day Dumbledore died, since Tonks's outburst in the infirmary, Harry has been looking at him with questions--accusations--in his eyes. Questions Remus has done his best to avoid. "What can I do for you, Harry?"

Harry pushes his glasses up on his nose, eyes bright behind the lenses. "Sirius--" Harry stops, looks away, and Remus takes a deep breath, counts slowly to five before letting it out. He knows he and Harry should have this conversation about Sirius--any conversation about Sirius--but he's still not ready for it. He doesn't know if he ever will be. Still, he owes it to Harry to try. "You and he were--How long were you together?"

"Two years, Moony. Can you believe it?" Sirius reaches up to brush the fringe off Remus's forehead, his hand warm and gentle, gilded in the morning light, blue veins like lace under his skin.

"Two years?" Remus looks at him in puzzlement, still not quite awake, and it takes a moment for Sirius's meaning to sink in.

"Don't tell me you don't remember." Sirius runs a foot up his calf, grinning lasciviously.

Of course he remembers, though he'd never expected Sirius to.

Their first kiss, two years ago to the day, stolen in the dust-filled stacks of the library, lamplight flickering across laughing faces, all wet heat, dust and ginger snaps. Now Sirius kisses him, tasting of sleep and the promise of morning, the possibility that they'll all live through this stupid war.

He slips a hand into Sirius's shorts, squeezes lightly. "Mmm," Sirius murmurs against his mouth.

"Just making sure you haven't turned into a girl."

"You'd love me anyway, wouldn't you, Moony?" Sirius rolls on top of him, grinning wildly. "Wouldn't you?"

Remus doesn't answer; instead, he pulls Sirius's face down for another kiss.

"How long did it take you?" Harry's question interrupts his reverie.

Remus freezes, pushing down the unexpected fury flooding him at Harry's presumption. "What do you mean?" he asks, keeping his voice tightly controlled.

"To replace him." Harry spits out the words, caught in a fury of his own. "Is he that easy to forget?"

A handful of men and women over the long, lonely years--just sex at first, with black-haired, blue-eyed strangers in back alleys and flophouses from London to Cairo and back; then, after a few years of self-loathing and celibacy, a relationship or two, bittersweet memories now, but still comforting in the knowledge that he could--can--live without Sirius, can be content without him.

"You knew him," Remus says in reproach, anger checked by wistfulness now. "I don't think anyone who ever met him forgot him. Loved or hated, yes, but forgot? Never."

"And after Azkaban--"

Remus smiles sadly. "Yes."

He looks up as he approaches the house, which looms over the square like a malevolent beast from some stygian nightmare. A curtain twitches at the upstairs window, and he knows Sirius will greet him at the door. The aches and pains of his last mission--unsuccessful yet again--begin to fade as he anticipates this reunion. Every moment they have together now blessed, cherished, because he never expected to have any moments with Sirius again.

Since that June night in the Shrieking Shack, Remus has secretly been living in a dream, and even as the world falls apart around them, he begins to believe that this time, the dream is real, and he and Sirius will be together, the long darkness past.

He taps the door with his wand, a dozen unlocking charms and spells released, and steps into Sirius's waiting arms, face turned up for a kiss. The door swings shut behind him, charms and spells rewoven to keep the world at bay. Remus only notices because Sirius pushes him back against it, mouth hot and sweet and hungry over his.

"Is that why you're with Tonks?"

The leap in conversation is troubling, and the anger on Harry's face, in his voice, isn't reminiscent of James or Lily now, but of Sirius. Remus closes his eyes against the evidence of the legacy Sirius has left his godson.

"Excuse me?" he asks warily.

"Does she look like him when you--"

Long black hair, laughing grey eyes, thin mobile mouth--beauty that commanded his attention even after the ravages of Azkaban. Remus will never see him again. Remus will never stop seeing him, in the faces of strangers, enemies, friends. In the dreams that come during his fitful hours of sleep. In his mind's eye, falling gracefully through the fluttering veil.

She offers once, tears in her eyes and whisky on her breath, the two of them falling on each other in an orgy of grief and need so strong he still can't extricate himself from it, and isn't sure he wants to anymore.

"That's enough, Harry. It's none of your business." His voice is sharp and cold, the way his heart feels in his chest--frozen and rimmed with jagged edges that may never be smoothed. "But since you ask, no, she doesn't. She's not a, a replacement, and God damn you for suggesting she is." He's so angry his hands are shaking and he has to clench them into fists so Harry won't see.

Harry is unmoved by this rare display of temper, caught up as he is in his own. "So you're over it then? Moved on, got a nice girl to shag now, maybe pop out a few sprogs after I kill Voldemort? I heard Mrs. Weasley and Tonks this afternoon, talking about how lovely it'd be if you were next to get married."

Remus tenses, actually has to stop himself from throwing a punch at Harry. His nails dig into his palms with the effort it takes to control himself. He's more tired than he thought, or had too much to drink, or--

"Shut up, you sanctimonious prick," he growls. "I love Sirius, more than I've ever loved anyone or anything in my life, but he is dead, and nothing can change that. He can't be replaced--no one can, Harry. People cannot be replaced, but when they die, we keep living. Do you think Sirius would want me to bury myself in grief, to stop living, to stop fighting for what he believed in, for what he gave his life for? How dare you?" His voice, his whole body, shakes with emotion.

Harry stares at him, wide-eyed, for a long moment, then whispers, "Thank you, Professor," before slipping away into the darkness.

Remus sinks into a chair and rubs a hand across his face, worn out by anger, truth, and grief.

fin

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