Chapter Text
1. Rattlebark
He'd lived alone in the mansion for two years. It was towering and dark, almost fifty rooms unused and untended. He only kept enough house elves to feed him and keep two small rooms in the South annex habitable. Dust gathered in the halls and the gardens went to weed and vines outside the forbidding stone walls.
The house, in its fifth century, stood on a precipice overlooking the Irish Sea; the view from the West was sheer cliffs, jagged rock and rolling, slate grey water. The East and North faces overlooked the garden and the park, and from the South came the meandering road, once paved and banked by trimmed elms, now half-overgrown and covered in dead leaves. The estate had been empty since the end of the war, and Draco hadn't felt like restoring anything. He covered himself in decay and dilapidation and stayed in his rooms, reading or working in the extensive potions laboratory he'd set up in his study.
"Master is weary?" a house elf said behind him, distracting him from the bubbling cauldron. The mirror potion (which would produce a mirrored copy of whoever drank it, for a limited time) would not turn out right. It showed pale green flecks in the bright red. The powdered rattlebark had gone off, and there was nowhere Draco could turn to replenish his supply.
"Turn the bed over, Silky," he said, tiredly. The rattlebark was the last he'd found in his father's poison cupboard. It must have been at least ten years old. "Unless you can bring me some rattlebark that hasn't fossilised. I should give up on all this. Might as well go to a Muggle lab for all the good this does me."
There was a rustle and a pop, and Silky reappeared on the other side of the desk. She held up a small bottle with a bright aquamarine powder. The rattlebark in Draco's jar had faded to a pale peridot.
"Where did you find this?"
"In the poison cupboard, Master."
"Not in this one."
The elf turned large, colourless eyes to him, shining with devotion and concern. "The poison cupboard in the lower dungeons, Master. Young Master's father--"
"Show me."
It occurred to him, as he followed in Silky's dainty footsteps down winding stairways, irritably casting a repelling spell on himself to keep the cobwebs out of his face and hair, that he might have benefited from actually talking to the house elves sometimes.
On the other hand, how was he to know they'd know anything? They weren't exactly stimulating company.
For the first time in five years, he let himself miss Hogwarts and his friends.
He cut off the line of thought before he could start longing for his enemies.
*
2. Houndshead
One thing the war brought with it - even after the end of it all - was a distinct lowering of profiles all over the wizarding world. If they'd been attempting to be inconspicuous before, they were cowering in fear now.
Remus Lupin left his wand home when he went to the grocery store or the post office in Houndshead these days, just so he wouldn't even be tempted to use it. He always walked the five miles. Apparating felt criminally dangerous, and he had never learned how to drive. Sirius asked him how he could live in the Muggle world for over ten years and never learn to drive, but then, Sirius was one to talk; he never even left the house in human form.
Round, black-nosed Shropshire sheep bleated in distress and skittered off the road and out into the field, fairly falling over each other trying to get as far away from the large dog as possible. The dog tensed next to Lupin, and he said, conversationally, "Don't even think about it, Padfoot."
Padfoot shot him a glance and grinned a wide, untrustworthy canine grin, but ignored the sheep stoically.
Owl post had trickled through slower and slower in the past three years. The former Ministry of Magic, former Council of War Against the Dark Forces, former Victory Coalition, current Committee of Magic, had disbanded the service, and the only owls that flew were private and secret.
Lupin picked up his newspapers at the Muggle Post Office in the village, while Padfoot basked in the attention of a young lady outside.
"Hello, Mr. Lupin," she said when he came out again, the week's mail under his arm. She was freckled and tawny-haired, perhaps fifteen years old. Lupin recognised her as the daughter of Williams the grocer. He wasn't too old to admire her figure, although he was certainly too old to follow that line of thought any further. "Can I give Paddy a treat?"
Padfoot let out a soft whuff and rubbed his large, black head with its lopsided white fleck against the Williams girl's tanned leg. Lupin raised an eyebrow. Sirius, in canine form or otherwise, had always been a hit with the opposite sex. "Go ahead, Miss Williams," Lupin said. "He's free to ruin his appetite any way he pleases."
He turned his face to the midday sun and waited while the girl fed Padfoot ginger snaps and petted his glossy fur. It was still summer, but today, for the first time, Lupin felt the oncoming shift in seasons in the crisp air and the subtle sharpness of the breeze.
"Mr. Lupin?" He looked down and saw that the girl - he should remember her first name, but he didn't. Claire? Clara? Lucy? Something with light - had pushed her hands into the thick ruff around Padfoot's neck and found the collar. "What's this?"
The pendant rested in her palm like a gumdrop, dull green. Lupin felt the breeze grow chillier, creeping up his back under the Muggle shirt he was wearing. It had been a day just like this. The wind had been in his face then, and he'd been wearing robes. They'd flapped like crow's wings around him where he'd stood frozen and helpless. He hadn't even been able to turn his eyes away from the blinding green light.
Padfoot whined softly and Lupin blinked. "Mr Lupin?" the girl said. Grace Williams was her name; named for Grace Kelly, her father had told Lupin proudly. Claire was her sister. It seemed impossible to forget now, for some reason.
"Yes, Grace?" he said, relaxing one muscle at a time. Sirius's bright eyes stared up at him from Padfoot's hairy face.
"Are you feeling all right? You look a little--" He tore his eyes from Sirius's and swallowed. "--green."
"Just a little tired." He tapped his temple lightly with a finger. "Migraines. We'll be going back now."
"Have a nice day, Mr Lupin," she said with a flash of a smile that made her look hopelessly, heartbreakingly innocent. If he hadn't known before, that smile confirmed her as a Muggle. Magical folk weren't that innocent anymore.
"Give your father my regards, Grace. Padfoot." The dog gave the girl a gruff bark of farewell and bounded towards Lupin.
When the girl was out of sight, Padfoot licked Lupin's hand briefly and ran ahead. Lupin smiled and followed slowly. He hadn't lied about the migraines; he could feel one coming now, like a tickle deepening to an itch somewhere behind his eyes.
Sirius waited for him with a goblet of Deep Relief Potion. "All right?" he asked. There was a strain around his eyes that hadn't been there this morning.
"All right," Lupin lied and drained the goblet. The amulet hung mute in the sharp hollow between Sirius's collarbones.
"Liar," Sirius said. "You looked ready to keel over. If it weren't too late already, I'd say she gave you grey hairs."
Lupin pulled his hand through his fine, dry hair without regret. There hadn't been any brown in the silver since...the end of the war. "It gives me a sophisticated air," he said. Sirius's hair was still thick and black, save for the one white lock at his temple where the ricochet of Voldemort's last curse had grazed him. It had been a bald spot for six months before the white hair grew in.
"No, it makes you look old," Sirius said, ever the paragon of tact. "Sometimes I forget that you're not."
"I am old, Sirius."
Sirius touched the amulet. Lupin knew it felt cold against bare skin, almost freezing, but Sirius had worn it constantly for five years, since the day Albus Dumbledore put it in his hand. When he first put it on, it had shone with a deep, secret light, painting Sirius's skin in streaks of emerald and peridot and turquoise.
He sat down heavily and rubbed his face. The pile of mail and newspapers lay on the table in front of him, but he ignored them. There was really nothing newsworthy in the world.
Sirius's hands lit on his head, soft pets and strokes, and Lupin leaned in, pressed his face against Sirius's chest. Sirius bent down to embrace him and the amulet fell cold and numbing against Lupin's forehead.
*
3. The Poison Cupboard
The Daily Prophet had a special edition out, commemorating the fifth anniversary of Dumbledore's death. There had been another special two months ago. Draco wasn't sure if they had been celebrating the demise of Voldemort or still mourning the death of their hero, their shining knight, The Boy Who Died.
The fuss over Dumbledore was more straightforward - a great man, died at a highly advanced age, he was a cornerstone of our society, such a kind and gentle, yet powerful soul, and on and on until Draco's morning coffee was mud in his mouth.
There was a picture of Dumbledore with Potter, at Potter's (and Draco's) graduation. Dumbledore's eyes were crinkled, the only sign of a smile you could see through the mass of white beard, and Potter was grinning like someone had put a Ridus hex on him. The wind that made his dress robes flap around his skinny legs also pushed the hair away from his forehead. The scar glowed a threatening dark crimson. The last battle had been only six weeks later.
He threw the paper on the fire and watched Potter burn without satisfaction. Then he went back down to the basement and his father's secret poison cupboard.
Silky the house elf had brought him a pewter mug of soup against the chill, but he'd forgotten it on the desk. It was cold now, but he'd warmed up from the effort of lifting heavy jars and pots off high shelves. It was an amazingly extensive collection of magical ingredients, at least half of them banned by Committee law. I've been sitting right on top of this treasure for two years, Draco thought, but the waste of time didn't really bother him. Time was all he had, after all.
The cupboard was more a small room than a cupboard, hidden behind sliding doors that opened with a tap of his wand and a muttered, "Forem aperio!"
A rug covered the stone floor, deep green with runes traced in silver blackened with age. The shelves stood ten feet, from floor to high ceiling, sturdy in polished oak under their burden of deathly, secret, forbidden substances.
Draco hadn't let the elves clean in here yet. He wanted to go through everything first, see where the dust lay thickest, where it had been disturbed. Trace his father's work through the crackling scrolls and stained notebooks.
He didn't notice how tired he was until he stumbled on the edge of the rug and dropped a stone jar on the floor. It cracked and spilled its contents on the stones. The liquid dribbled through cracks, sought paths over the uneven surface in an almost sentient fashion, disappeared under the rug. Draco picked up a pair of tongs from the table and lifted the jar carefully. It was unmarked save for a small squiggle on the bottom. It could be a stylised drawing of a snake.
"Young Master's wish?" a voice he didn't recognise said somewhere behind and below him. He spun around to see a strange house elf stand to attention right at the edge of the green rug. It was dressed in a small, form-fitting waistcoat and tiny shortpants. It was the best dressed house elf Draco had ever seen, and there was something terribly wrong about it.
"Who are you?" Draco asked sharply. The elf looked him straight in the eye - there was a large part of the wrongness; that fearless gaze.
"Bathorus, Young Master. Will Young Master be wishing to open the chamber?"
What chamber? Draco almost asked, but the elf seemed to know much more than he did and that was the other part of the wrongness. "Yes," he said instead, sternly, and put down the broken jar on the table.
"Bathorus wait five year, Bathorus think Young Master will never be coming," the elf said with something like relief, if the creature could feel such a thing.
"I'm here now," Draco said and then fell silent as the elf threw the rug aside with a sharp gesture. Fitted in the stone floor under it, a rune-covered trapdoor showed like a black and silver square in the grey slate.
Bathorus closed his unsettlingly un-elfish eyes and stilled. The trapdoor fell open with a dull boom. Dust rose in a mushroom cloud of sparkling grey. Draco coughed and blinked and when he could see clearly again, soft, green light was dancing over his face from the opening in the floor.
"What's--" he started, but changed his mind. He wouldn't ask the elf anything. This was his house.
The stone steps were worn smooth and felt suspiciously soft under his boots, as if they were carpet in the pattern and shape of rock.
The stairs ended in a small antechamber, lit by a green rock set in the wall. An oak door glided soundlessly open when Draco's foot left the last step. In the room beyond, a man with shaggy black hair flowing in wild tangles down his bare back sat crouched on a low bed.
Draco stopped in the doorway. The man turned his head slowly, as if he didn't quite remember how to move. His beard hung in mangy, listless strands almost to his breastbone. His eyes met Draco's, wide and green and myopic.
"Potter?" Draco said, stunned.
*
4. The Green Amulet
Lupin opened his eyes. Sometimes in the night, the wind had gathered force and grown into a storm, and the shutters banged against the wall outside the bedroom. Rain tapped a nervous, gusty staccato on the roof.
That didn't quite account for the soft, green glow in the room. Lupin rubbed his eyes and saw Sirius lying still and relaxed in sleep, bathed in sickly green. The amulet lay on his throat, alive again and pulsing lightly in a rhythm that jarred with his breaths.
Heat plunged through Lupin's body, burning the inside of his throat, searing his stomach wall.
"Sirius," he croaked, coughed painfully and tried again. "Sirius, wake up."
Sirius's eyes flew open and he twisted around, turned into Padfoot and growled.
Lupin waited a beat and said, "It's me, Sirius."
"What is it?" Sirius asked grumpily when he'd turned back. Sirius was notoriously dangerous to rouse from sleep.
Lupin didn't have to answer. The light seemed to grow even stronger, drowning out even the sound of the storm with beating silence.
They sat at the kitchen table, nursing cups of strong coffee and staring at the amulet. Sirius had taken it off and laid it next to the copper coffee-pot on the smooth pine tabletop.
Sirius's hands lay empty next to the amulet, opening and closing convulsively. Lupin put his hands over them and Sirius squeezed back hard. His face was startlingly pale. Neither of them had spoken in fifteen minutes.
"We should-" Lupin started. He didn't go on. He had no idea what they should do. Dumbledore was five years dead.
"He's alive," Sirius said. Sirius had always been the brave one; the one to speak out loud what everyone else hardly dared to think.
"Five years," Lupin said. "Seems hardly likely."
"He's alive," Sirius said, and he was right. The amulet was not a sentient being. It couldn't lie. If Harry Potter breathed, if his heart beat, the amulet would glow. Lupin had witnessed its creation himself.
"We should-" Lupin said again. "We should...tell someone." It sounded feeble, indecisive. If Harry was alive, everything was turned on its head.
"Who?" said Sirius, and they were both thinking about Dumbledore, Lupin knew. "We don't know anything. Except that he lives."
Lupin released one of Sirius's hands and gulped down his coffee so fast it burned his tongue and throat. He felt more awake now. He could hear the storm again. He tried to rise, but Sirius wouldn't release his hand. "Lives," Sirius said. "Alive." And he tugged hard on Lupin's hand and pulled him clumsily across the table to hold him close. "Alive," he whispered into Lupin's hair, and Lupin's stomach twisted and dropped. Alive.