Disclaimer: All characters from the Harry Potter universe belong to J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Publishing, Scholastic Inc., AOL/Time Warner and associated companies. No offence, legal or otherwise, is intended by the online publication of this story. Neither is profit. Make love, not lawsuits!

Notes: Not everyone wants the same things. Sometimes, it doesn't matter. Written for Victoria P., who asked for Bill/Remus.

A Journey In Ten Lies
by

 1.

In the days after Sirius dies, everyone avoids talking to Remus. It's almost like they don't know what to say, and don't want to risk saying something wrong. Or perhaps they just find it inconvenient to talk to a grieving man. Yes. That could be it.

Grimmauld Place suits him now, although it had never suited him before--now the darkness of it, the mustiness of it, seems so much a part of himself. He imagines how Sirius must have felt prowling here--a caged beast--but Remus feels nothing of the sort, only a deep, never-ending calm, reaching down to open his dead heart, filling it with silence.

Light filters oddly through the kitchen window here, pale with dawn--and it settles over everything like dust, a mantle of silver that blurs the edges of everything--tables desk chair stove--so that Remus can almost believe that he is in some middle-world, some non-existent place, where no one exists and nothing matters.

He gets used to it, in the lull between missions--he's still needed in the Order, after all, and Remus was never one to shirk his duty. He spends many mornings here, watching the room lighten with the first rays of dawn, listening to the first, faint sounds of the birds outside.

Whenever other members of the Order stumble in and see him with his cup of tea--the tea long gone cold, of course--they blink and stutter and edge around him as though he were a bomb, reaching for the milk and sugar and making themselves a drink before beating a hasty retreat.

It's almost amusing, and Remus finds himself smiling slightly as he sips his cold tea--the sweetness of it flooding his bitter mouth with a temporary distraction, and he closes his eyes for a moment. He wonders if he should feel angry with Sirius for leaving him the care of this house--for trapping him here, in this strange half-life, in this limbo--but then he realizes that it would be the same anywhere, anywhere, and at least here he has the Order to intrude upon his silence.

2.

It is on one of those mornings, tea cold in his mouth and thoughts cold in his mind, that he first sees Bill Weasley.

Oh, he's seen him before--casually--but when Weasley strides in now, he brings along with him a strangely familiar scent of leather, of sunlight--and before he even knows it Remus is looking up quickly, expecting dark hair instead of red, blue eyes instead of brown.

But no.

Of course not.

The way Weasley walks, though, the way that leather jacket hangs upon his shoulders--Remus finds himself watching with a sharp, smothering pain in his throat--because that was Sirius, years ago and just returned from a journey on his bike, hair wind-whipped and mouth smiling.

No. Remus tells himself. No.

The sudden memory evokes a sharp pang that shatters the numb silence of Remus' mind--and this morning has been ruined, hasn't it, this last refuge has been stolen from him--and now the light here isn't hazy at all, isn't unreal, but bringing out the sharp edges of everything.

If Weasley notices his discomfiture, he says nothing. He doesn't act like everyone else does, glancing uncomfortably at Remus before sidling away--no. Bill Weasley moves around with an easy grace, never hurrying, never hesitating, hands careful on the ceramic cup that he holds in his hands, the scent of coffee rising from it in a fresh waft of warmth. And then Weasley's sitting across from him, as casually as though nothing had changed since Sirius' death, as though the kitchen wasn't Remus' territory now.

A quiet anger floods Remus' veins--a heat that startles him away from his cold tea, from the cold table beneath his fingers--and he wants to tell Weasley: Get out, get out, but of course he can't, so he doesn't, and watches Weasley sip his coffee instead.

A silent fifteen minutes pass. Weasley doesn't look uncomfortable when Remus doesn't talk to him. He finishes his coffee easily, closing his eyes at every warm swallow, gazing out of the window and cradling his cup, looking thoughtful as though he were alone.

The tension builds--or perhaps it's just inside Remus, since Weasley gives no sign--but then Weasley's getting up, walking over to the sink, and spelling his empty cup clean before placing it carefully on the rack.

'Good morning,' Weasley says as he leaves--and the words shock Remus into almost-replying, because they're the first words, the first real words, not just platitudes or commands for a mission--that anyone's spoken to him since Sirius' death.

But then Weasley has left, taking his scent of leather and sunlight with him, and Remus is left sitting in the empty kitchen, in a silence that suddenly feels inadequate, clutching his cold cup in a grip that is too tight.

3.

Weasley makes a regular appearance after that. Remus refuses to move from the kitchen, even though he knows that he's being childish and territorial and stubborn--and that he shouldn't firm his jaw like that whenever Weasley enters the kitchen, as though he's daring Weasley to leave.

But Weasley never leaves--he's always on time to watch the rising of the sun--up early and looking disgustingly fresh, red hair tied back in a neat ponytail, single fang earring glinting in the faint light. He even takes to smiling at Remus, when he enters, as though he doesn't know that Remus doesn't want him here--and he continues to sip his coffee as though he can't feel it, Remus' silent demand that he leave, and one morning he even brings a copy of the Prophet along with him to read.

Remus watches Weasley's fingers turn the pages--rough fingers, peasant fingers, chapped and broad and young. The long hair slips forward in a dance of red against Weasley's black jacket, against his pale throat--but Weasley doesn't push it back, lets it rest there, against his throat, just like Sirius used to do with his hair--and Remus wants to push his chair back, to shout, but he looks away instead.

The pages rustle. Steam rises from Weasley's cup as he reads, his small sips loud in the silence.

'Utter tripe,' Weasley murmurs under his breath as he reads, 'Utter tripe.' And Remus recognizes it for what it is, an invitation to talk, but he doesn't, until Weasley finally looks up at him and says: 'Are you always this stubborn, Lupin? Or are you just not a morning person?'

4.

It strikes Remus, days later, the sheer audacity of Bill Weasley--worming his way into Remus' company, ruining the fragile atmosphere of silence that Remus had built around himself--but instead he finds himself unable to think of that, remembering instead how awkward and hoarse his voice had been, trying to talk to someone, after so long a time of talking to no one at all.

He's not quite sure what to feel about Bill anymore--and yes, it's 'Bill' now, because the man keeps insisting--but he knows that he still resents him, for looking too much like Sirius, for talking too much like him, for making demands of Remus that Remus isn't ready to fulfil.

He finds himself sitting in near-silence, speaking only when required to, but mostly listening to Bill Weasley fill the air with talk--this Quidditch match and that team, this Death Eater and that mission--and sometimes he talks about Fleur, his girlfriend, and his eyes brighten and his face becomes animated.

Remus watches all of this, all, with a strange mix of envy and wonder--thinking that once he used to be so young, so free, so carried away with the events of each day.

If he finds himself looking a little too attentively as Bill wipes a smear of coffee from his mouth--in a gesture that is too much, too much like Sirius--Remus doesn't ask himself why. If he notices the long stretch of Bill's legs under the table, the tips of his dragonhide boots slightly brushing the tips of Remus' more humble shoes, he says nothing either. Instead he feels a strange flowering in him, every time Bill makes a gesture that reminds him of Sirius--the same bold, open soul that Sirius had had when he was young--and Remus isn't sure if that flowering is of rage or desire, grief or tenderness, so he does nothing about it at all.

One day a young Auror walks in--the same one who had flinched when she'd seen Remus alone in the kitchen three weeks ago--and she gapes at the sight of Bill Weasley sprawled across a chair as though he belongs there, gesturing as he talks, as though he isn't aware of the atmosphere of grief that surely still lurks around Remus Lupin.

After that, things begin to change--and while people still don't intrude upon his kitchen more often, they do talk to him outside. It feels strangely like waking up from a very long, very dreamless sleep--and Remus finds himself answering, almost without realizing it, and soon people are smiling and laughing with him again. All conversations aren't just about missions anymore--and while Remus still feels rather bruised, rather tired, if someone talks to him for too long--he still finds that he doesn't mind it as much as he thought he would. Not that much at all.

5.

Other things begin to change too. Remus recognizes, instantly, that things are going down the wrong path.

He isn't sure how it started. Perhaps it was when he and Bill were assigned to a mission together, and they were poring over the map of their scouting positions--and Remus was pointing at Dunn Stone, their Apparation point, when Bill leaned over him to point at Wyvern instead.

There it was: that sudden, close scent of young skin, warm and tinged with the scent of leather--and Remus' mind thought: Sirius, and even without thinking of it he was leaning back, ever so slightly, before he realized who the body behind him belonged to--and he straightened immediately, voice faltering, only realizing too late that Bill hadn't pulled back.

They had stood frozen like that for a moment, Bill's breath warm against Remus' neck, before Bill had stepped back. He'd reached out to slide the map away from under Remus' hands, his fingers brushing Remus' as he rolled the parchment into a scroll. 'I'll take this to Snape and ask him what intelligence he has on the Apparation points,' he had said quietly, not quite looking at Remus, before turning and leaving the room.

And Remus had been left alone again, standing unsteadily by the table, running shaky hands through his hair.

6.

Remus knows that this is a dangerous game he's playing. Bill isn't Sirius' ghost--he isn't Sirius' body--he isn't Sirius at all, in any way, even though he reminds Remus, sometimes, of things that are long gone. He is only in his twenties. He has a girlfriend. He knows why Remus disappears once a month, and comes back with new scars--but if he were there to see him, he mightn't be so accommodating at all.

Remus knows this. He knows this very well. And yet the next time Bill moves close to him, ostensibly because they have to Apparate to Wyvern under Snape's instructions, Remus doesn't pull away. He doesn't pull away after the mission either, when his abdomen throbs with the pain of a dodged curse--and Bill takes him home, takes off Remus' shirt, and starts to tend to his wounds.

They're just soldiers, after all. Nothing about what they're doing is wrong.

But that starts to change, doesn't it? It starts to change when, after dressing Remus' wounds, close and warm in the dead of the night, Bill doesn't leave.

It changes when Bill runs his fingers down Remus' chest, a barely-there shiver of heat, and moves to take off his own shirt as well.

It changes when, slow as moonlight, cool as silk, Bill's long hair slips over Remus' hands. It changes when Bill's mouth opens to his, as inexorable and sweet as Sirius' had been, that first time, that very first time, so many years ago. It changes when he sees Bill's eyes open in the darkness, when he hears Bill's mouth gasp against his shoulder--it changes when Remus comes, arching long and slow and painful, whispering Sirius' name.

7.

This is a dangerous game he is playing. Remus knows it. At least, he thinks he does--but it always seems to slip his mind when Bill walks into his bedroom, not even meeting him at the door of Grimmauld Place anymore, and he has that same scent of leather and sunlight on him, and his hair long is just as long and sleek as it should be, and if Remus wants to, he can close his eyes and imagine that the soft silk he twines through his fingers is black.

Remus knows that what he's doing is unfair. Bill is young, Bill doesn't know what it's like to... to lose... and Remus is using him for some strange form of comfort, for some strange form of memory, and he should stop. He should stop because when he feels Bill's body on top of his, against his, hot skin on skin--then he realizes that the illusion he builds is false, that the lies he tells himself are false, because the shape of this body is different, too different, too young and too smooth and not Sirius at all.

He knows he should stop, even though this takes him back in time--to have a lover so young, so unscarred, so unbroken. Bill's legs flex in a river of gold, winding about him, and Bill's cock is sweet in Remus' mouth, a little too thick and a little too eager, not jaded enough, and Remus has to reach down to stroke himself a little more in order to get hard, which is ridiculous, because Bill is beautiful in his own way, and he doesn't deserve this.

I don't deserve this.

Guilt, guilt, as bitter as semen in the back of Remus' mouth.

8.

He doesn't know how they find out--it must have been because of the whispers Remus has heard behind his back, about Bill having a fight with Fleur, about them breaking up.

They were engaged, too, Remus hears a hushed voice saying--and the guilt is as sharp as a knife this time, cutting upwards through his throat and arriving like the taste of bile in his mouth--and that night he asks Bill: 'Is it true, did you...'--but Bill kisses him once, hard, and pushes him down on the bed.

'Bill...' He tries to say, stop, he tries to say, but Bill won't listen to him--mouth harsh and hurting on Remus' shoulder, teeth a little too sharp, hand a little too tight when it slips down to Remus' cock.

'You--' Can't do this, you must go back to her, you must, because I don't love you, not you, and it's not you I want. But Remus doesn't say this--maybe because Bill's tongue is in his mouth, maybe because he's a coward--and then Bill's hands are running up his scarred arms hungrily, more hungrily than usual, and when he sits up to straddle Remus, Remus can't help but arch.

Remus opens his mouth to speak once more--but Bill reaches down to grasp Remus' cock again, and he growls 'Shut up...'--and suddenly Remus recognizes the look in Bill's eyes, that dark, desperate, frightened look--he recognizes it because it had been the look on his own face, the first time he'd made love to Sirius after Azkaban--and he knows suddenly that this isn't a game anymore, that Bill gave up his future for him, and that look in his eyes says it all.

I know, says Bill's face, his hand on Remus, his mouth. I know. I know who you are. I know what you are. I know what you want. And I know. I know that I'm not--

Then Remus is coming, quick and hot over Bill's palm, and Bill's kisses grow gentler, gentle as they have always been, and Bill thinks that things are all right now.

But Remus knows the heaviness he feels in his own body--a heaviness that goes beyond the satiation of orgasm. It is a heaviness that feels a lot like grief, a lot like anger, because he never wanted this, he never wanted Bill, but that's what he has, that's all he has, and he made this mistake, and now they'll both pay for it, and he wants to tell Bill, just like he had that first time in the kitchen, Get out, get out, but he can't, so he doesn't, and leans down to kiss the sweat off Bill's mouth instead.

9.

Remus doesn't know how they find out--but it must be because of the rumors, and the fact that Bill comes to Grimmauld Place even when he doesn't have missions that warrant it, and that he often stays overnight.

In any case, they find out--and suddenly people are finding it strange to talk to Remus again, and just as strange to talk to Bill--and Remus doesn't bother seeing the expressions on their faces, whether it's pity or condemnation or both--because he knows what he's done, he knows what he's taken, and he knows that it was never his.

Perhaps this is why it doesn't surprise him when Molly Weasley comes to see him one morning--on a morning that Bill isn't in the kitchen with him, thank Merlin--and her lips are tight and her face is drawn, and she tries to speak civilly, she does, but before she leaves her voice has disintegrated into a shout of: You ruined my son! You ruined my son!--and she grows even angrier when Remus doesn't answer her, because he agrees with her, and when she leaves she slams the door--and somewhere in the house a portrait starts shrieking, but Remus pays it no mind.

In any case, they have found out. When he comes out of the kitchen, after having his breakfast, no one meets his eyes--and Remus wonders just how much the other members of the Order overheard.

Well.

It doesn't matter.

The days pass as they always have, with Bill meeting him in the kitchen most mornings, coming over to sleep over most nights. Bill's body grows familiar to him--and Remus pretends that it doesn't make a difference that it's Bill's body, Bill's smile, Bill's hair, that everything seems so different now, not like it had before, and Bill isn't so much like Sirius at all.

He grows hard easily in Bill's hands now, he doesn't have to pretend that the hair he twines in his fingers is dark--but he becomes apt at pretending that he doesn't still say Sirius' name when he comes--and Bill, because he never stops kissing him, never stops loving him, must have become apt at not hearing it too.

10.

When Bill doesn't come to visit him for five days, an inordinately long time for them, Remus makes a quiet enquiry of the Order.

They tell him that they don't know where Bill is--that he had gone for a mission three nights ago, to scout near a Death Eater stronghold just west of Dunn Point, and that he hasn't contacted them since.

More than a year has passed since Sirius' death. Remus thinks of this silently, almost technically, as he pours himself coffee--Bill's coffee, not his usual tea--and the scent of it almost calms him, although Remus is already calm, although he tells himself he is already calm.

He doesn't love Bill, after all. He's just grown... accustomed to him, and his body feels the lack, and his mind, although the deepest lack he still feels is the lack of Sirius.

Remus is calm when he himself is sent out for a mission that day. He is calm when he strengthens the wards around the Order's new bunker in Wyvern--he is calm when Foultin, the lead Auror of that area, congratulates him on a job well done.

He is calm when he comes home and sees a letter, with the blue seal of the Ministry on it, waiting for him on the kitchen table.

He is calm when he ignores it and gets himself some coffee--calm when he picks up an old issue of the Prophet and flips through it, not seeing the print at all--calm when he stares out the window, watching the sun set, darkening the room around him until it is pitch dark.

He is calm when the find him the next morning, sitting alone at the kitchen table--still looking out of the kitchen window, an empty cup of coffee in his hands.

An Auror steps in slowly, awkwardly, and sees the letter still unopened on the table.

'Lupin,' he says quietly. 'I'm sorry... You must...' He stops, as if he doesn't know what to say, and Remus doesn't turn to look at him, doesn't answer him. 'I'm sorry,' he says finally, with the same uneasiness that people had exhibited with Remus a year ago--and then he leaves, on footsteps as silent as a thief's, but Remus' mouth doesn't curl in a smile.

The letter remains unopened on the table that morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that.

Remus continues to go on missions, of course. He still wakes up before dawn each morning and heads down to the kitchen, where makes himself a cup of coffee and sits at the table, staring out of the window until the sun has risen, at which point he rises and leaves for work.

If someone has need of a drink for an early breakfast, they edge past him and escape as quickly as they can--because Remus' silence feels like a strange, fragile, unbreakable thing, and no one comes to disturb it anymore.

* FIN *