Fred&George ficathon: Coming Home

Title: Coming Home
Author: Anj (anjenue)
Pairing: Fred/George, Fred/George/Remus, past Remus/Sirius
Word Count: 9715
Rating: R

Written for fluffyllama for the Fred and George ficathon. Her request: Slash please. Preferences would include twincest, twin(s)/older brother(s), twin(s)/older character(s) (Percy's age and up). I love my boys in water - so, for example you could send 'em swimming or have them spend time in the shower. Would also be nice to see them when older - one thing I don't really think I've seen is future fics where the twins play much of a part. No het, please.

Note to Llama: Darling, I really, REALLY hope you like this, and I apologize that it's late (even if only by a couple hours). It wouldn't stop going, and I really wanted to get some real smut into it, but hell, they wouldn't cooperate with me. And Remus felt it necessary to hog the story. Nevertheless, I hope this is what you wanted. *loves*


Remus sighed as the lid of his trunk slammed shut, the sound almost deafening in the eerie, still silence of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. The room in which he’d lived for nearly ten years (never home, but the closest thing he’d ever known to a place of his own) was completely empty, the dust of long, absent nights sparkling in the dull morning sunbeams. The bed had been stripped bare, its thin mattress and graying pillows sunken in from the weight of a warm, still body that always slept in the same place, and still slightly dented in the shape of a body long absent from its depths.

Remus turned away, resisting the urge to bury his face in the well-worn mattress and never move again, and extracted his wand from his oft-patched sleeve.

The magic felt foreign falling from his lips and tingling through his arm, foreign and warm and a bit painful as it struggled to remember how to work after so long lying dormant, and Remus’ chest ached as he was hit by a flood of broken memories, memories of the last time he’d felt that surge of power coursing through his body.

Trying to fight down bitterness and self-loathing, he turned with some difficulty, picking up the sturdy cane from where it leaned against the door and leaning on it heavily as he made his way out of the room for the last time, his trunk hovering behind him. His entire life, packed into a four-foot by two-foot by two-foot box. But then again, that was the story of his life. Remus Lupin, easily uprooted, always poised on the balls of his feet to pick up and run if the situation called for it.

But he couldn’t run anymore, and he was tired of having to rely on someone else to carry him.

“Remus, dear.” Molly Weasley’s voice, concerned and verging on tears, just to the left of him. “Are you certain you won’t stay? This has been your home for so long, and we…”

“Thank you, Molly,” Remus murmured, turning his head so he could see her clearly. He’d lost most of his peripheral vision in the blast that had left him without the proper use of his left leg, and the nerve damage in his face from multiple bouts of Cruciatus coupled with silver poisoning had left him unable to smile, but his eyes flickered at her in what they’d all come to recognize as a polite smile. “But no. This is something I have to do.”

She raised a handkerchief to her face, dabbing beneath her eyes – she had cried so much already, for Albus, for Minerva, for Kingsley, for Percy and Charlie and Arthur, and Remus tried to feel guilty for making her cry more than was necessary. But that expression, the slightly bitten bottom lip, the crinkling of her brows, the Look in her eyes…it was too much to bear, and he couldn’t deal with it anymore. This was the right decision, he told himself firmly, and he was going to stick to it.

“You’ll visit, won’t you?” she whispered finally, squeezing his shoulder; he barely felt it, but the sentiment was there, and he offered up another one of his eye-flickers, this one reassuring.

“Of course, Molly,” he answered in that same quiet, hoarse voice. “I’ll be sure to visit the Burrow whenever I get a chance, and of course I’ll have to…” Have to visit Grimmauld Place, visit Harry. He sighed, closing his eyes. Harry hadn’t been the same since Voldemort’s defeat. That was hardly surprising, since his entire life had changed. He’d fought next to hundreds of capable wizards, had watched several of them die and even more turn up badly injured, and had escaped nearly unscathed. He’d been the Wizarding World’s only hope, after all, the one prophesized to kill Voldemort, and he’d always been protected by a circle of powerful fighters. He’d been there when Charlie had taken a curse meant for him that had left him burned beyond all recognition. He’d watched Mad-Eye Moody lose his other eye and the rest of his nose at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange, who’d taken to fighting tooth and nail. He’d seen the serene look on Albus Dumbledore’s face when he’d crumpled to the ground in a flash of acid green light, happy that he had drawn Voldemort’s attention long enough for Harry to rush in with Gryffindor’s sword for the final blow. So while Harry had been victorious, he’d been changed, irrevocably. They say death can affect a person more if it doesn’t happen to him. In Harry’s case, that was entirely true.

Remus had awoken three weeks after the battle, bandaged heavily and completely unable to move, with Harry sitting next to his bed, fast asleep, his scar gone at last and the huge, dark circles under his eyes making him look more gaunt and haggard than ever before. Remus had watched him for several minutes, watched the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath a black sweater far too big for his frame, and when Harry had awoken, had tried to smile, to hold out a hand, to welcome him and congratulate him and thank him for ending it at last.

But Harry had stared at him with huge, terrified eyes, enormous and almost black behind his spectacles, and had risen to his feet with such a look of horror on his face that Remus had felt his chest turn to ice. Unable to stop him, he’d watched helplessly as Harry had torn from the room as if he’d seen a ghost.

It had been Molly who’d finally explained it to him, related the events of the weeks following the last battle, pausing frequently to dab her eyes and catch her breath as she told of the numerous funerals they’d all attended, Snape’s appointment as Headmaster of Hogwarts, the numerous Orders of Merlin that had been awarded (Harry’s, of course, a first-class with distinction, an honor that had gone also to Snape, Moody, and surprisingly himself, as well as several posthumous ones to individuals such as Albus and Minerva and Arthur, plus the varying other levels that had been awarded to all those who had helped make Voldemort’s defeat a reality), the rebuilding efforts, the trials…and Harry’s withdrawal, his unwillingness to speak to anyone about what had happened. He’d turned down several offers to play professional Quidditch, offers that had rolled in in droves after the League was allowed to reopen, as well as an invitation to be Minister of Magic (the youngest in the history of the Wizarding World) and an admission to Auror training, and had simply taken to being alone, locked up with his memories and his guilt.

His guilt. He hadn’t been back to visit Remus once in the hospital because, as Molly had put it, the ‘poor dear’ felt so horrible about everything that had happened, he couldn’t bear to see anybody anymore. And when Remus was released, just over six months after awakening, and had returned to Grimmauld Place, Harry had hidden from him.

They’d actually managed to survive two months and three days in the same house without seeing each other before Remus had decided he’d had enough.

It wasn’t just Harry’s fault though. He’d always been a very proud person, had refused charity and pity from anyone even as a boy, even when he’d been in agony every month and one of his friends had offered so much as a helping hand with completing schoolwork (although that was already a rare occurrence), and since his release from the hospital, he’d been getting both.

Grimmauld Place was Harry’s now, after Sirius had been cleared and honored with an Order of Merlin, Third Class posthumously, and the contents of his will had been revealed and executed at last, and Remus had continued to live in the house because, simply, he didn’t have anywhere else to go. He had accepted Harry’s charitable offer to let him stay, even if the offer was never actually made and he never actually agreed to take it. And that was the worst part about it, the fact that he hadn’t agreed to it, hadn’t even seen Harry to thank him for it, and there was no way for him to make up for it, to earn his keep. He couldn’t do housework; he could barely take care of himself, all things considered. Thankfully, Dobby had come to live there after the war, and he was delighted to serve Mr. Harry Potter in any way he could. But Remus had no money either, and there was no possibility of a job for him now.

That was another point of bitterness for him. After the werewolves had proved instrumental in Voldemort’s defeat, thanks to Remus’ negotiations with them, the Ministry had certified them as no longer Dark creatures, made the Wolfsbane potion widely available and easily affordable to anyone who cared for it (Snape had received yet another award for the development of the potion as well as a copious sum of money and numerous research opportunities, but he had left them all behind to take on the Headmaster position, turning both the Professor of Potions position and the supervising of the Wolfsbane production over to Draco Malfoy, who had earned himself an Order of Merlin, Second Class for his efforts as a spy), and allowed them, finally, the right to take on jobs with equal rights to humans. But Remus could no longer reap the benefits of that decision, as he simply did not have the physical capability to be successful at any useful sort of job.

But while the charity he was taking from Harry was hurtful enough to his pride, it was the unwanted sympathy from everyone else that had spurred him into action. It hadn’t taken him long to grow tired of the surreptitious glances he received whenever people came to visit under the guise of seeing how he was doing, the whispers he heard whenever he limped into a room, the way some of the women always looked near tears whenever he struggled with taking a drink or some other simple motor skill. The Order of Merlin that he’d buried at the bottom of his trunk should have been something to be proud of, something he could cherish, something that earned him respect. Instead, the silence, the shifty eyes, his name murmured on trembling lips and his hand shaken with clammy hands came not from respect, but from pity. People felt sorry for him. And he hated it.

He rarely felt sorry for himself, after all. Yes, he had moments where he was bitter, angry at the way his life had turned out, but life went on, and he was fortunate (yes, fortunate, he told himself firmly) to still be alive, happy that he could have served his own small part in the defeat of the monster that had plagued the Wizarding World for a quarter of a century. So to have others feel sorry for him, to look at him with those infuriatingly sympathetic gazes, to whisper and murmur behind his back, things like “Oh, poor Remus Lupin, he would have had his whole life ahead of him if he hadn’t taken that exploding curse to the spine…I feel awful for him…”, things that made him want to turn on them and rip their throats out.

Things like what he knew Molly Weasley was thinking right now as she gazed at him tearfully and tried not to cling to him. She’d been almost like a mother to him, especially after they’d lost Sirius, and he cared for her deeply. Her children were like his family, the closest thing he’d ever have to a family of his own, and he’d keenly felt the losses of Arthur and Charlie and Percy. But he couldn’t handle the waves of sympathy that radiated constantly from her, her unsubtle attempts to make things easier on him, her unending offers of a room at the Burrow, a pastime, something, anything. He couldn’t take her charity any more than he could take Harry’s, and he was determined to make a life of his own. Besides, being at the Burrow, where Bill or Ron or Ginny could happen upon him at any time with their own sad, pitying looks would be impossible to bear. His only hope for relief was to get away from everyone for awhile and to live a solitary life, in peace and quiet.

He flickered at Molly one last time before turning away, beginning to make his way down the stairs with great care, shrugging her off as she tried again and again to help him, something she’d never been able to refrain from doing. I need to get away, he told himself again as he brushed off her hand for the fourth time, his trek down the stairs increasingly painful but at least under his own steam; he knew, however, that he’d have to wait a good twenty minutes after reaching the bottom before he’d have the energy to walk again. He needed to find himself a much smaller place, where he wouldn’t have to walk such long distances every day.

Finally, he made it to the bottom, the trunk still hovering patiently behind him, and hobbled over to the sitting room before collapsing in one of the chairs with a creak of knees and a suppressed groan of pain, setting the trunk down and letting his wand dangle from his fingers. He really hadn’t used magic in too long…it had been worn thin for months after the battle, and since then, he just hadn’t been able to bring himself to pick up his wand, the memories associated with it far too painful to risk recalling again. But if he was going to live by himself, he was going to have to learn how to make do, and he imagined that at least some magic would be necessary at first, for simple tasks, and gradually he’d get used to completing everything manually, and maybe, one day, he could hope to live a life as normal as his life could ever possibly be.

He couldn’t actually leave the Wizarding World, not really, as his status as a werewolf made it illegal (and impossible) for him to safely live among Muggles, but he intended to get as far away from it as he could, live in a small hut in the country somewhere and hopefully be able to survive on his scant savings. It was much cheaper to live away from the city, after all; aside from a few necessities, milk and bread and paraffin for the stove and whatever else, he wouldn’t have to spend money on anything. The only question now was finding a place where he could settle down, preferably near to a forest so he’d have free run for that one night out of every month.

It was surprisingly easier to run on three legs than it was to walk on one, and he’d actually begun to cherish that one day a month when he could be free of his broken human body. His vision remained poor even in wolf form, but his sense of smell was as keen as ever, and he’d always relied more on the latter as a wolf anyhow.

And thankfully, Snape had continued to make the Wolfsbane potion for him. Would continue to do so. For some reason, he was the one person for whom Snape made the potion personally. He said he’d grown used to it and found himself unable to relinquish the one ritual he’d managed to keep for so many years, and Remus knew better than to argue with the man. They’d learned to set aside their differences (in a manner of speaking) over the course of the years, especially after Sirius’ death, but Remus had learned how to avoid pushing Snape’s buttons. Usually, that meant agreeing with him, no matter what the circumstances. The one disagreement he’d had with Snape, over the Defense Against the Dark Arts professorship that Snape had offered him, had ended in a rather ugly manner, but that was one subject on which Remus stood firm. He would not cripple the staff by trying to take on a job that was beyond his capabilities, and eventually, although grudgingly, Snape admitted that he was right. But he continued to show up, like clockwork, with Remus’ potion, and Remus continued to accept him, because that was the one place where he could deceive himself and say he wasn’t accepting charity.

I’ll have to owl Severus and let him know where I end up settling, Remus thought to himself as he leaned back against the sofa cushions and tried to control his breathing. Molly, her brows drawn in in that familiar expression of sympathetic concern, twisted her hands together in front of her. “Can I get you a drink, dear?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“No, thank you, Molly,” he answered hoarsely. “I’m fine.”

She looked very strongly like she was about to object, but was interrupted from doing so when two identical faces popped into the fireplace.

Well, almost identical.

“Mum!” one of the twins grinned, looking rather pleased with himself. “Just the person we were looking for! Oh, hello, Lupin!” His head swiveled to give Remus a nod, and then turned immediately back to his mother. “What’s the name of that cleaning charm you used to use on us when we came back from the lake covered in squid ink?”

“George!” Molly gasped, looking horrified. “What on earth have you done to your face?”

Remus stifled a laugh as he noticed the other twin (the speaker must have been Fred, then), white teeth flashing in a face that was roughly the color of an overripe blueberry. He dimly listened to Molly pitching a fit over the state of her ‘baby’, while the rest of his brain purred at the nice feeling that came with being treated normally for once.

In fact, out of everyone he knew, Fred and George were the only people who treated him the same way they had before the war, before his injury, and it was extraordinarily refreshing. They were the reason he’d managed to survive days when he’d been descended upon by the whole Weasley clan, being forced to endure babying by Molly, forced joviality from Bill, nervousness and twitchiness from Ron, undisguised sympathy from Ginny. Only Fred and George had normal conversations with him, relating with unconcealed delight their successes with new products (Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes was up and running again, and more successful than ever before – apparently, with all the sadness that had come from the war, even more people needed cheering up, and their brand of jokes was just the right way to go about it), what it was like to be away from home on a permanent basis, their prank-oriented visits to Hogwarts, their new and quickly expanding variety of clientele. Remus loved to listen to them chatter, their enthusiasm and vivacity like a healing balm for his soul, but mostly he just basked in the fact that they had managed to come out unscathed on the other side of the war, both physically and mentally, and enjoyed the feel of being almost normal again.

His attention was drawn back to the room when Fred and George suddenly appeared on the hearthrug, brushing off soot and grinning unrepentantly at their mother. “It’s fine, mum,” George protested as she clucked and fussed over him. “It’s only temporary.”

“We think,” Fred added, and then stifled a laugh as their mother nearly went into hysterics again and grabbed George by the front of his sooty robes, dragging him off in the direction of the kitchen.

“What happened to him?” Remus asked curiously from the couch, stifling a laugh of his own. George did look ridiculous, a deep purple face amidst bright red hair and bright orange (although significantly soot-blackened) robes, his freckles standing out like fluorescent speckles against his skin.

Fred grinned, sauntering over to the couch and plonking down next to Remus with a snort. “We made these Cavorting Caramels, you see,” he answered, pulling a slightly squashy sweet from his pocket and offering it to Remus, “designed to make you light on your feet and eager to dance, but when we tried to replicate them, something went wrong and turned George purple. We have another product that does that, but the formulae are totally different so we can’t compare the two to figure out what we did wrong this time.”

Remus took the other sweet Fred was holding out, squinting at it, and then brought first the good one, then the bad one to his nose, taking deep, analytical sniffs. Fred watched him inquisitively for a moment, eyes bright with laughter.

Finally, he handed the sweets back to Fred. “Too much celandine,” he concluded mildly. “Emulsifies the dandelion milk.”

Fred stared at him in shock.

Remus shrugged slightly, feeling himself color under the scrutiny. He’d always been good at Potions – that was the only reason he and Snape had ever gotten along in school, but hadn’t done much for him after Sirius’ little prank their sixth year – and he remembered most of what he’d learned, and his keen sense of smell made it easy for him to distinguish subtle nuances in situations like this.

Finally, Fred found his voice. “You can tell that just by smelling these?” he asked incredulously.

Remus felt a proud twinkle coming on. “The advantage of being a wolf, Mr. Weasley, is my extremely capable sense of smell.”

Fred’s face was suddenly split in two by an enormous grin. “Brilliant!” he crowed, clapping Remus on the back. Remus tried not to flinch; even though he couldn’t really feel it, most physical contact still made him nervous. Fred didn’t seem to notice though, barging forward without a breath.

“I can’t tell you how many hours we’ve lost in trying to duplicate these things, little mistakes leading to ruined batches and uncomfortable side effects galore.”

Remus blinked. “You test every batch?” he asked.

“Of course!” Fred answered, looking slightly wounded. “Only the best for our customers, after all! We can’t make huge batches, of course, so we’re reduced to having to replenish our stock every few weeks or so, but inevitably something ends up going wrong in one batch out of three – we have so many things going at once that we’re bound to forget to do something, no matter how well we organize ourselves – and we end up losing a load of time. We’ve actually started making batches months ahead of time to save us the hassle if something goes wrong, because it’s easier to monitor several cauldrons of the same substance, but that just gets confusing and keeping things separate in case something goes wrong is a real pain in the arse.”

Remus nodded dumbly, not certain what to say to this. Of course it made sense that all the confectionary Wheezes had to be hand-brewed, but the idea of Fred and George puttering about a potions laboratory without blowing anything up seemed an impossibility, and he found himself glad that they did test everything they did. Results were difficult enough to duplicate for a skilled Potions master; he couldn’t imagine how much trial and error Fred and George had to deal with. It was one thing to throw a bunch of ingredients into a cauldron to try and make something new; it was another thing entirely to duplicate it. Then again, he pondered, it must be equally as difficult to have something almost perfect and to have to tweak it to get it working just right. He looked back at Fred with a new level of respect. For all their mischief and pranks and (sometimes) clumsiness, they were obviously very dedicated to their craft, and very good at it as well if the state of Fred’s robes (brand new and fine-looking, although with a hole in the elbow, probably from being dipped in Merlin knows what) was any indication.

Fred was looking back at him with a predatory gleam in his eye that Remus didn’t like the look of. “Er. Yes?” he said, nervously.

“Can you really tell the difference by smell?” Fred asked, looking as though the gears in his head were turning.

“Course,” Remus answered, confused as to where this was going.

Fred grinned. “In that case…maybe you’d be willing to come help us out? We could use someone like you to help us figure out where we’re going wrong, and I’m sure it would make our lives a whole lot easier if we didn’t have to spend half our time trying to undo what we’d done with the bad batches. George still hasn’t forgiven me for turning him into a newt.”

“I got better!” George announced from the doorway. He looked much healthier now; his skin was only a pale shade of lilac instead of being rich indigo, and he flashed a grin at Remus as he crossed the room and plopped down onto the sofa on Remus’ other side. “Now, what are you two plotting without me, mm? And can I help?”

“Lupin here told me what we did wrong with this Caramel, George,” Fred announced without preamble.

“Oh, did he?” George asked, looking impressed. “How’d you figure that then, Lupin?”

Remus coughed delicately. “Smell,” he answered, beginning to feel rather overwhelmed by this. Had Fred just offered him a job? A real one? One he could do? He wondered briefly if Molly had put them up to this, but then he remembered the disapproving look on Molly’s face whenever either of them mentioned anything about their joke shop, and heard her stern voice in his ear, saying “Don’t encourage them, Remus dear! It’s just a phase!”, and put that thought out of his head immediately.

“Really!” George said, staring at him intently.

Remus shifted uncomfortably and nodded.

“Brilliant!” George beamed. “You’ve got to come and help us then! We’re hopeless at replication. You could stand over our shoulders while we brewed the initial batches—”

“—and figure out how it was supposed to smell after each step,” Fred broke in. “And then you’d be able to catch us early—”

“—before it was too late to fix it!” George finished triumphantly.

Remus stared at both of them, holding up his hands. “Hold on a minute, lads!” he protested. “I haven’t even agreed to this yet!”

Fred laughed. “What if we threw in an unlimited supply of Wheezes along with your salary?” he wheedled.

Remus started. “S—salary?” he repeated, eyes wide.

“Course!” George broke in easily, lolling against his side. “You work for us, we’re going to pay you, of course. Can’t go taking your charity work just cause you feel sorry for us poor sods who are chickens for half the month.”

“But…” Remus racked his brains, trying to think of an objection. This was the last thing he’d expected to happen, and he wasn’t prepared for it – mentally, emotionally, anything – but he couldn’t seem to come up with a valid excuse. “I…I don’t have a flat anywhere,” he finally said, realizing how lame he sounded.

“Nonsense!” Fred said cheerfully. “We’ve got a spare room off the side. Plenty of space for the three of us.”

“T…three of us,” Remus repeated.

“Yea!” George answered. “Fred ‘n’ I’re there half the night most of the time, finishing up projects, so we finally decided to sell our flat and buy the shop next door. We converted that one into our living quarters – got a cozy little den and everything – so that we never have to leave in the middle of an experiment. Makes for a very convenient workday, let me tell you!”

Remus blinked. This was, somehow, sounding too good to be true, and he knew there had to be a catch somewhere.

He frowned. “I can’t just…intrude like that,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s awfully kind of you lads, but really, I…”

Fred snorted. “Intrude. Hah! You’d be good for our sanity, more like. You should see us after several failed attempts at new products. It’s a nightmare!”

“We drive each other crazy!” George agreed. “It’d be nice to have a third person around to keep us from killing each other.”

“We haven’t done it yet…” Fred chuckled.

“…but there’s still time!” George finished, laughing.

Remus bit his lip. “But the werewolf…thing. Surely, that would disrupt…”

Fred shook his head. “We don’t mind. Give us something to do. We always wanted to get a dog, but we’d never be able to take care of it.”

“Forget to feed it half the time, no doubt,” George agreed. “And if you get bored of our company, you can always Apparate to a nice park somewhere, or back to the Forbidden Forest if you really want.”

Ah. Here it came. “I can’t…I haven’t Apparated in ages,” Remus whispered, looking down at his lap. “I don’t know if…if I can anymore.”

To his surprise, Fred shrugged. “Floo then. Hogsmeade or some such. We’re not that far from the Leaky Cauldron.”

They were being awfully cool about the whole thing, There had to be something behind it. Remus’ head snapped up and he looked at them suspiciously, but he couldn’t find it in his heart to snap at them. They’d always treated him normally, after all, and paranoid as he was (Moody had taught him something useful after all), he couldn’t bring himself to believe that they were only doing this because they felt sorry for him.

“I insist on paying rent,” he said, his voice daring them to challenge him, but they didn’t even try.

“Course you are,” George answered flippantly. “We’re businessmen, not philanthropists.”

“We can even take it out of your check, if you like,” Fred added, grinning. They both looked hopeful, matching pairs of blue eyes riveted on his face, and Remus felt something inside him break, and his stomach was suddenly flooded with warmth.

“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll do it.”

After all, what reason did he have to say no?

The matching grins, one slightly brighter than the other due to the violet tone of its owner’s face, told him yet again that he’d made the right decision.

+

The trip back to number 93, Diagon Alley was relatively uneventful. George managed to drop one end of his trunk on Fred’s foot as he levitated it out of the fireplace (Fred grunted and asked whether Remus was hiding a hippogriff in there, and Remus stifled a laugh and answered no, only a Crumple-Horned Snorkack), Fred cursed when he realized they’d left a cauldron on and batch number 83 of their Jumping Jellybeans had ended up plastered all over the ceiling in a haze of lemon yellow goop, and their supper was an offering of burned fish and liquefied peas (apparently, while they were quite talented at brewing potions, they couldn’t cook to save their lives). They finished up quickly with a large helping of Honeyduke’s chocolate, and then showed Remus to his room, leaving him to get settled in while they went to get started on batch 84.

Remus sighed softly and slumped down on the bed, much newer-looking and better padded than the one he’d slept in for ten years, letting his cane clatter to the floor as he looked around his bare surroundings. Grimmauld Place had never been home to him, but at least it had been familiar. This place was attractive, comfortable, and welcoming, and it had the advantage of very good and enjoyable company. But still, Remus found himself hovering on the edge of despondency, his relief at having found somewhere to go greatly overshadowed by loneliness and loss. He didn’t feel sorry for himself, for his injuries, for the life that had been taken from him, but as he cast aside threadbare robes and curled up on the bare mattress, arms wrapped tightly around his middle, he wished with his entire being for the one thing he wanted most in his life, the thing he’d had taken from him three times but had never stopped coveting.

Sirius.

“God, Sirius,” he breathed into the empty air of the room, like a prayer into the silent darkness. “Sirius, I miss you so much.”

And for the first time in almost nine years, Remus rolled over onto his belly, buried his face in a pillow that didn’t smell a thing like Sirius and the life he’d left behind, and cried himself to sleep.

+

Surprisingly, Remus found it very easy to fit into Fred and George’s routine. He woke up early every morning, as he had gotten used to doing after so many years, and shuffled his way to the shower for a long, hot dip under their spray. It took him a long time to shower but he adored it, the way it soothed the steady ache in his muscles and brought the damaged nerves in his back to life.

By the time he’d finished, had brushed his teeth and combed his hair and shuffled back to his room, Fred and George were beginning to stir. It all worked out quite nicely, actually; he had time to get dressed, slow fingers and sore muscles making the process rather lengthy and very tedious, while Fred and George woke up, fought for possession of the toilet and shower (but never the mirror; Remus didn’t think they ever combed their hair, and they’d started to remind him of Harry), and generally earned themselves a few bruises in the process, and they all three met up in the kitchen about the same time, where Fred set to making eggs or bacon or whatever it was he fancied that morning, George brewed the coffee and buttered the toast, and Remus supervised to make sure they didn’t ruin the food. They started to improve over the days, with Remus standing right there and watching them, and their meals became steadily better and better until they could almost pass as decent.

After a simple breakfast, complemented by hot coffee, cheerful banter, and often debates over the latest news in the Prophet (Rita Skeeter was back on staff, and Fred and George took great pleasure in tearing her articles to shreds), the three of them made their way to the back room of the shop, where they’d begin their daily work.

Remus soon figured out the problem with Fred and George’s replication process. Quite simply, they created their products in small batches, testing little doses at a time until they got them right, and then tried to recreate them in a larger sample, whatever their largest cauldron could hold. While cooking might allow direct multiplication of quantities to double or triple a recipe, potionmaking was a much more subtle art, and there were nuances that had to be explored when attempting to increase the size of a potion. Thanks to Remus’ olfactory abilities and understanding of Potions, the twins soon had their Cavorting Caramels down pat, and were packaging them to sell to the masses. Following this success, they got to work immediately on the rest of their products, starting with the infamous Canary Creams.

The time passed quickly and enjoyably, and, before Remus knew it, it was that time of the month again. He made his way into the kitchen that morning only to hear a smart rap at the front door, and shuffled over to open it, admitting a tall, well dressed, and slightly less haughty-looking Draco Malfoy, carrying a steaming and very familiar goblet.

“Hello, Draco,” he said, leaning on his cane and extending a hand. Instead of shaking it, though, Draco merely delivered the goblet. “Severus wanted to come,” he said a bit stiffly, “but found himself unable to get away, so he sent me in his stead. I hope that is acceptable.”

“Thank you,” Remus answered, wishing he could smile to reassure the other man. Draco, frankly, looked terrified, his eyes shifting from side to side as a caged animal’s would, his back ramrod-straight. Remus didn’t blame him; his father had been killed at the hands (or teeth) of some of the more eager werewolves, and they’d had to scrape his remains off the ground.

Quickly, he tipped his head back and swallowed the contents of the goblet – slightly less foul-tasting than before, since Severus had received rather a large grant to improve the flavor – before handing it back to Draco, who had stopped looking quite so terrified (while he might not have liked werewolves, he had faith in his own potions abilities, and felt that Remus was safer now that he’d drunk the Wolfsbane) and was now looking a bit disgusted with his surroundings. But he refrained from snide commentary – he couldn’t find it in him to berate the Weasleys anymore, after their impressive efforts in the war, and only took pleasure in baiting Ron because he rose to it so easily – and merely inclined his head politely as he took the goblet back. “Severus sends his regards,” he said, almost as an afterthought.

“Thank you,” Remus said again, bowing his head as much as his damaged neck muscles would allow. “Do send my compliments to Severus.”

“Of course, Mr. Lupin,” Draco replied. “He shall be delighted to receive them.”

“Well, as delighted as Severus can be,” Remus answered, his eyes twinkling.

That did the trick. Draco relaxed marginally, the corners of his mouth quirking ever so slightly. “Indeed,” he murmured, and Remus could see in that instant, the slight flash in Draco’s eyes and the faint shift of his posture, why it was that Severus had appointed him the position at Hogwarts.

“Until next month then,” Draco said finally, bowing infinitesimally.

“I look forward to it,” Remus answered, shifting his position to stand up straighter as Draco drew his wand and Apparated. He shook his head, chuckling to himself as he let the door click shut.

The day passed almost in a blur, the routine as familiar and, surprisingly, enjoyable as it always was, and soon it was almost nighttime. Remus cleared his throat to draw the attention of his housemates, who were bent over a cauldron, muttering to each other.

“I have to leave now,” he informed them. He’d toyed with the idea of staying, as a wolf, loping around the apartment and taking them up on that game of fetch they’d offered him, but he’d finally decided that he’d like to spend this full moon, his first away from Grimmauld Place (not counting the time he’d spent in St. Mungo’s) in years, in the Forbidden Forest.

“All right,” Fred answered, not looking up.

George, however, looked over his shoulder. “You’ll be back in the morning, yes?”

Remus nodded. “I won’t be in much of a fit state to work tomorrow, but…”

“Aha!” Fred’s voice came, echoing triumphantly in the cauldron. “Here, George, look at this.”

George shrugged apologetically, a faint grin on his face. “Sorry,” he said. “He gets like this. Anyhow, it’s no problem…won’t have much use for you tomorrow anyhow, what with this new stuff Fred’s trying to—”

“Oi, George!” Fred sounded exasperated. “Hurry up and look at this, would you?”

Remus shook his head, waving George on and feeling a sudden warmth in the pit of his stomach. “I’ll see you tomorrow then,” he called as George turned back to the cauldron, watching them for a minute, their bright heads bent together in thoughtful conversation, before turning and shuffling out the door.

It was a short walk to the Leaky Cauldron, and the walk from the edge of Hogsmeade up to Forbidden Forest was even shorter. He felt himself deluged with memories, good, bad, intense, faded, all sorts as he made his way just into the forest, the clearing where he and his friends had spent many a secret night, assaulted by a mixture of sadness and a new vivacity as he leaned his cane against a tree and started to unbutton his robes. He felt younger here somehow, as if his return to the Forbidden Forest had managed to restore some of the energy he’d had as a boy, and he shucked his kit faster than he usually did before lowering himself carefully to the ground, thrilling at the springy grass under his body and enjoying the feel of spreading himself bare, keeping his eyes averted from the destroyed tissue of his leg and abdomen, as he awaited the call of the moon.

The Transformation was painful as always, the tearing and reforming of muscle, the meaty click of dislocating and shifting bones, the stretching of skin, but Remus knew pain, had felt pain much worse when they’d injected him with silver and left him to thrash and scream under its poisonous burn, and now he found it almost soothing, like he was being taken apart and reformed as a stronger, faster, better creature, and when the wolf lay panting on the grass, silvery fur shining with the moonlight, he knew again what it was to feel free.

Usually, he hated it when the night was over, hated the fact that he had to go back to his life, back to a world where people stared at him and treated him like, well, an animal in a cage, but this time, strangely, when he dragged himself to his feet just after moonset and staggered back to the clearing to find his clothes, he found himself glad that he was human again, looking forward to returning to Diagon Alley, to his bed and his work and his housemates.

After a short nap on the dewy grass, he felt strong enough to risk moving again, and he limped back to Hogsmeade (slower than the journey in the opposite direction the previous night), and soon found himself shuffling up the walk of number 93, Diagon Alley, looking forward to a nice, hot cup of tea and the comforts of his bed.

As soon as he walked through the door, though, he knew there was something wrong.

His head snapped up and he sniffed the air suspiciously, tongue flickering out to taste the unusual smell hovering around him. It wasn’t herbal or fruity or confectionary, or even like destroyed food or stale potion. No, this was utterly different, natural and musky, and it took him a few moments to figure out what it was.

When he finally did, he flushed, biting his lower lip in embarrassment.

He’d never once thought about whether he was keeping Fred and George from any sort of social activities. They seemed taken up with their work all the time, and their evenings of witty conversation and Exploding Snap had always seemed comfortable and enjoyable, so Remus had never wondered whether either of them wanted for company, other wizards their own age, or whether they had girlfriends somewhere, or anything of the sort. But they were young men, not even thirty; of course they needed companionship other than each other and him.

As quietly as he could manage, he crept down the hallway to his room, ignoring the scattered clothing on the floor, the way the scent thickened as he neared the sleeping wing of the building, the faint sound of rustling bedclothes, and tried to keep his breathing silent as he tiptoed past their bedroom, not wanting to intrude on their privacy.

But what he saw was enough to make him stop and stare, open-mouthed, without any care for propriety or embarrassment.

Instead of seeing one of the twins curled up around a young lady, or maybe even a young man (Remus had always prided himself on being open-minded), what he was seeing was enough to make his breath catch in his throat and his cock, tired and out-of-practice though it was, stir interestedly in his trousers.

Fred. And George. Were curled around each other. Absolutely naked.

One twin’s arm (he couldn’t tell in the dim light and the shock of his discovery) was slung across the other’s back, and his face was pushed into the crook of his brother’s neck. His brother’s neck. The way they were curled up together, legs twined, fingers resting against the little dents in each other’s bodies, Remus knew, somehow, that this wasn’t the first time.

Okay. He was open-minded, but this was pushing it a little bit.

He stood there for perhaps five minutes, staring dumbly and trying to process this new information that was threatening to overload his brain, before regaining enough sense to stagger back to his own room and collapse into bed, far from sleepy anymore.

Of course he’d heard about the concept before, the idea that two members of the same family found each other irresistible and ended up in a relationship. After all, families that prided themselves on being pureblooded often promoted incest, as it was the only way to ensure a pureblooded line. Hell, even Muggles did it: the entirety of the royal line was pretty much inbred back as far as history went. But the fact that he actually knew people who did it…it was…strange, surreal, confusing…

And strangely arousing.

His cock was definitely awake now, nudging insistently against his trousers, and he felt a twisting of guilt and shame in the pit of his stomach at the same time his hand crept down his side to press back against it, his eyelids fluttering and a breathy moan escaping his lips. It was wrong that he should be aroused by what he’d seen, not so much because it was…unusual practice, but because these people were his friends, his coworkers, his bosses, almost like his brothers…

But they aren’t, are they? his mind supplied traitorously. Haven’t been for quite some time.

Shut up, he thought miserably at it, but the thought had been planted there, and now he couldn’t deny it. Couldn’t deny that he felt something more than friendship, more than family when Fred and George grinned at him as though he were something really special. Couldn’t ignore the slight warmth that skittered through his veins when one of them slung a companionable arm over his shoulder as they leaned in to check the progress of his cauldron. Couldn’t pretend that he hadn’t grown fond of these surroundings, this atmosphere, this environment, faster than he’d learned to like anything, even his time in Gryffindor Tower, or that he didn’t owe most of that comfort and familiarity to the behavior and friendly attitude of his two housemates.

Truth be told, he felt happier and more at home than he had since his days at Hogwarts, and, as his hand found its way into the waistband of his trousers and down to his twitching cock, it wasn’t wrong to feel grateful to those who had brought him back to life again.

And for a few moments of slickly sliding hand and moist, heavy breathing, he could almost believe it.

+

By the time he woke, it was evening, and Fred and George were nowhere to be found. He suspected they’d probably headed out to the Apothecary for new ingredients, and decided to try his hand at making supper.

To his surprise, his fingers seemed more sure of themselves, his arms less stiff as he reached for the ingredients he needed, his legs more able to support him as he shuffled about the kitchen, and for a moment, he wondered if Snape had put something new into his Wolfsbane. But no, he thought as he stirred the rich red sauce, spicy tomato basil to go with the gemelli pasta, the staff at St. Mungo’s had said he was incurable, and besides, it really felt less like a physical liberation and more like a liberation of…he wasn’t quite sure what to call it, but ‘spirit’ seemed to fit the bill pretty well.

He was just finishing up when Fred and George returned, and he put the last touches on the dish of pasta before setting it on the table and standing back with a pleased smile.

Fred and George came in, sniffing the air appreciatively, and their eyes widened when they saw the spread of pasta, salad, bread, and wine that he had laid out for him.

“My, my, Lupin!” Fred announced, approaching him with a hungry look in his eyes. “You’ve really outdone yourself.”

“Are we to expect this sort of treatment every month?” George added, approaching him from the other side.

Suddenly, Remus felt very nervous indeed. His eyes darted back and forth between the two of them as he suddenly realized that he was sandwiched between two brothers who happened to also be lovers, or maybe it was two lovers who happened to also be brothers, and that he’d seen them tangled in bed together, had imagined them, their faces, moans shared in kisses and hands on each other’s cocks as he gasped and arched and pushed into his hand and spilled himself shamefully over his fingers, and his eyes dropped to the floor.

“Aww, George, I do think he’s shy!” Fred again, now barely outside of Remus’ personal bubble, leaning up to murmur into his ear. “Are you scared of us, Lupin?”

Remus shivered. “N-no,” he protested on a squeak. “I’m just…tired.”

“Hmm,” George answered, and Remus became aware of George’s hand just resting on his forearm, fingers curved around the damaged muscle. “Well, we shouldn’t let such a…delicious feast go to waste, eh Fred?”

“Definitely not,” Fred agreed in a purr, licking his lips. “After all the…time and effort he spent…preparing…and with it laid out so…warm and inviting for us…”

Remus swallowed hard, wanting to push out of their sinful circle of hands and mouths and voices, wanting to reach out both arms and crush their lithe bodies to him, but finding himself utterly unable to move.

When they retreated, fixing him with identical predatory grins as they sank into their chairs and dug into the food, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to gasp with relief or whimper with loss. His cock was throbbing against the rough wool of his trousers (I need to invest in some softer clothing, he thought hazily), and his breaths were catching painfully in his throat as he collapsed into the third chair and accepted the proffered plate with a numb hand. He ate slowly, not tasting the food (although the soft sounds of delight and appreciation from either side indicated that it was well received), not really aware of anything save for the images now burned across the back of his eyelids, the waves of heat caressing his skin, the throaty voices in his ears as they…

Were they flirting with him?

Why?

And why now?

He forced his eyes up, watching identical faces slurping at noodles with relish, and wondered if they’d had ulterior motives for inviting him here in the first place. Had they talked about it before coming to visit that day, arms curled around each other and lips brushing each other’s ears as they whispered secretive plots to each other? Had they mentioned it again as they flung off robes and toed off shoes and dropped trou, while they slid into bed together, hot and sweaty and flushed with arousal? Had they thought of him as they…

He shoved his chair back, fighting to control his breathing. At their inquisitive looks, he muttered something about being tired and fled as fast as his injured leg would allow him, slamming the door shut and flinging himself onto the bed with loud, breathless gasps. This was ridiculous. He was an old man, ugly and disfigured and utterly useless, and he shouldn’t be behaving like a lust-driven teenager, wanking to half-developed fantasies and snatches of imagery.

As attractive as the imagery was.

No. It was entirely preposterous. The flirting was only in his mind, his lack of self-control despicable, and he had to stop this, now. It was hampering his ability to function in this, his first legitimate job in years and his best chance to lead at least a partially normal life. He dug fists into his eye sockets and curled up, trying to bore the images from his mind with his knuckles.

It might have worked, too, had he not heard the knock at the door.

He ignored it at first, but both Fred and George were persistent, and the two of them together were damn near impossible. Finally, after they started up on a chorus of The Dueling Banjos done entirely with knocking, he groaned and sat up, shuffling across to the door and pulling it open.

“What?” he said exhaustedly, too tired for niceties, or even to tell them to go away properly.

Smiling awkwardly, the twins silently begged him for entry, and, after a moment, he stepped aside, sighing as they crossed the threshold into his bedroom.

And stood there, twisting their hands and looking more uncomfortable than he wagered they’d ever looked in their lives. Which was saying something, considering their mother.

A long, uncomfortable silence later, he finally cracked. “I’m sorry, lads, but I’m really tired, and I’d just appreciate it if you could—”

“We heard you.”

Remus stopped, staring at the speaker. George, he thought, although they were both so dark, their freckles (the best way to tell them apart) had all but vanished.

“You…” Remus blinked, at a loss.

“This morning, when you came back. We heard you.”

Remus shook his head, raising a hand to run it agitatedly through his hair. “I don’t understand.”

“We were awake when you got back.” Fred this time, his voice patient and surprisingly even considering his color. “We…we knew you were there at the door.”

“It’s not how we’d planned on…telling you,” George added hastily as Remus felt himself starting to color as well. “We just…were waiting for the opportune moment.”

“And…well…” Fred smiled sheepishly, taking a hesitant step forward. “You came back earlier than we expected.”

“And…we came to apologize to you,” George went on, biting his lower lip. “To explain to you. But then…”

“We didn’t come in,” Fred whispered, taking another step forward. “We were going to knock, but…we didn’t, and you were…”

“Moaning,” George breathed, his eyes starting to glaze over. “We weren’t sure if you were hurt…or what…”

“And then we heard our names.” Fred’s face had taken on a faraway look, and he sounded positively hungry as he related the story. “Our names on your lips…”

Shit. Remus remembered that, calling out hoarsely as he spilled himself over his fingers, their names intertwining on his breath as he arched up off the bed, and his cock pulsed in his trousers at the memory, flooding him with equal parts arousal and shame.

“And we thought…”

And suddenly there they were, George’s lean body molded up along his back, hands firm on his biceps and hard cock sliding along the clothed crease of his arse, Fred’s lips brushing his ears and his fingers on his hips, his chest, his groin, and he shivered and moaned and tried not to arch into either of them because this was wrong, wrong and delicious and sinful and they shouldn’t want him, couldn’t want him, but they were rocking against him now, whispering “Please please let us touch you let us love you please Remus please” and they never called him Remus and he was gasping and shuddering and pressing and answering “Yes yes god fuck yes” in a hoarse voice that was barely his own, and four talented hands were sliding his clothing from his shoulders, baring his damaged skin ugly ugly horrifying disgusting hate maimed broken sullied tainted used, but they just crooned and murmured and kissed and licked every inch of scar tissue and he shivered and melted against them as they staggered together and collapsed onto the bed and immediately began kissing and nibbling and licking anew and there was a mouth on each nipple and two hands on his cock and Remus moaned and threw back his head and gasped “yes yes Fred George please yes”…

And they were all around him and on him and inside him, fingers pushing into his hole gently, questing, tender, soothing murmuring in his ear as he writhed against the bed, pushing back against that hand, and it had been too long too long and he opened his eyes and Sirius was smiling at him and saying Moony, god, Moony I’m so sorry, but I’m happy for you, Moony, happy, be happy, and tears were leaking from the corners of his eyes as goodbye Sirius fell from his lips for the last time, and then he was being filled, long thin hot cock sliding into him like coming home, and he groaned and arched upward into warm wet mouth that licked and sucked and coaxed pleasure he’d forbidden himself from experiencing for so long, and fingers stroked his hair and lips brushed his neck and Remus, Remus, shh, Remus, so good, so hot, that’s it, yes, so beautiful, come for me, come for us and he was, screaming and shuddering and coming hard in an explosion of light and sound and wholeness and completion and he was being filled and worshipped and loved and…

He came to in a tangle of sweaty limbs and fluffy red hair, snuggled between two men he’d cared for all his life, one petting his hair and laying kisses along his neck, the other resting his head on his thigh and idly tracing fingers across his twitching belly. “Remus,” one whispered finally, like a prayer, and Remus looked down to see Fred gazing up at him with a welcoming glow in his blue eyes. And “Remus,” breathed into his ear like a promise, as George shifted closer and slipped a possessive hand down over his chest to palm a long slice of scar with fingers that felt no disgust or hatred or pity. “Our Remus.”

Remus sighed quietly as his eyes drifted shut, body glowing with happiness and acceptance at last, and his last conscious thought before blessed sleep claimed him was that he’d better owl Severus to tell him he wouldn’t be going anywhere anytime soon.

Because finally, Remus Lupin was home.