Chapter 165: The War: Dulce et Decorum est
Summary:
Grief is a big theme in this chapter, so read with care.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Sirius didn't speak again. At first Remus tried to be understanding; he did everything he could think of. He got up, he made tea, and offered whisky, though Sirius shook his head at that.
He tried talking to him, but Sirius just stared at the article.
"Is there anything you need? I'll get you anything at all, just say...?"
Nothing. Sirius just blinked, and began re-reading from the top. There was a photograph of a tall terraced house in a posh part of London, but Remus couldn't see much else, and Sirius was clutching the newspaper so hard his knuckles turned white.
It was frightening. Remus stood beside him, reached out and touched his shoulder, which was as stiff as a statue's. Sirius barely reacted. Remus left the room.
He went to the front door, where their two jackets were hung, one soft and brown, one silver studded black leather. He reached into the pocket of the leather jacket and pulled out the silver compact mirror inside. He cracked it open,
"Prongs?! Prongs!"
James's face appeared, dark eyed and concerned,
"Moony?"
"It's Sirius - something's happ--"
"I know," James cut him off, "I just saw the paper. I'll be two minutes."
He vanished, and the mirror just flashed back Remus's own distressed face. Still; that was a relief. James would know just what to do.
Remus hated himself for thinking it, but one thing kept blaring in his mind like a foghorn; was it werewolves? Was it Greyback? He needed to read the article; he needed to find out as much as possible.
The fireplace suddenly blazed green, and James stepped through, casting around. He looked at Remus.
"Bedroom." Remus said. James nodded and went straight through without a word.
Remus closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He could make more tea. He really wanted a proper drink, but it was early in the day, and if Sirius didn't want any then it would look pretty bad if Remus started on the gin. Fuck . Sirius had been so good when Hope died - how?! At the time Remus had taken it for granted, and now he couldn't think of a single useful thing to say or do.
Regulus was dead. Sirius's brother was dead.
Remus went back into the bedroom. James was sitting on the bed, an arm around Sirius, talking in his ear very low. Sirius looked as though he was only half listening as he stared into space. The paper had been dropped, finally, and lay on the floor, half under the bed.
"He made his choice a long time ago," James was saying, "You mustn't blame yourself, you mustn't let this--"
"It doesn't say what happened." Sirius said, finally speaking, his voice deeper than usual, "Does anyone know? Your dad, or Moody? Was there an attack last night, or--?"
James shook his head, arm still around Sirius,
"No, nothing that would suggest... but of course, we could have missed something. There's evidence that he - that Voldemort's been killing death eaters. To um. To keep them in line. Some of them are having doubts, you know."
Remus remembered the werewolves' sinister occupation. Perhaps Greyback hadn't been enough of a threat for some of the old families. Voldemort had to make an example. That made some sense. Apparently it did to Sirius, too. His eyes focussed, narrowing. He sniffed, though he hadn't shed one tear, and straightened his back, shrugging off James.
