Harry Potter, Last Maraudes of a Triumph

Title: Last Maraudes of a Triumph [Remus]
Rating/Warnings: PG
Summary: Remus just has to know.
AN: Written for the 24-Hour Ficathon. Sequel to “Triumph of the Last Marauder” that super_elmo wanted, with Lupin’s POV, sad-ish fic, with direct references to either canon or stuff that happens in my fic universe.

Last Maraudes of a Triumph

Remus was hardly surprised when Harry showed up with the motorbike near the end of summer. It wasn’t as if he was going to keep it at the Dursleys’, after all.

“Do you mind, Remus?” Harry asked. “I want her to be safe while I’m at school. I’m afraid to leave it at the Burrow, if Molly doesn’t take it apart and mail the parts all over England, Ron’s dad probably will just to see how it works.”

It was fine, Remus assured him, which was how he came to be staring at a motorbike in his living room after breakfast on a late summer morning.

He’d spent the better part of a week trying to figure out a way to see if this really was Sirius’ old Triumph or not, not like he had much else to do between Order assignments, and he thought he’d finally come up with a solution.

It was a bit unorthodox, really, but Sirius had always claimed the thing was sentient.

“I know you don’t like me,” Remus said to the Triumph, as he carefully set the Pensieve down in front of it, “at least, you didn’t when you were Sirius’. If you were Sirius’.”

Remus paused for a moment, feeling extraordinarily stupid for talking to the motorbike.

“But I’ve just got to know,” he finally finished.

As he unscrewed the cap where the motor oil went in, Remus shoved down a last-minute burst of doubt about this plan. It wasn’t as if anybody was here to see him, after all, if it turned out to be a ridiculous idea.

But things stored memories just like people did, Remus had learned over the years, especially enchanted ones, and especially enchanted objects that had been used as often and loved as much as Sirius’ motorbike.

Drawing out his wand, Remus pursed his lips.

I bet Sirius is having a good laugh at me right now, he thought, setting the tip of his wand to the oil opening.

Remus had been thinking about this a long time, but he was still shocked when a long, oily string pulled out of the engine as Remus drew his wand back. He touched it to the Pensieve, and it obligingly slithered down into the bowl, pooling at the bottom in an iridescent puddle, like an oil leak on pavement.

Remus stood very still for a moment before repeating the process, performing the memory transfer a dozen times or so, until the Penseive was mostly full.

It could still be somebody else’s bike, Remus knew. He tried to smother the flame of not-quite-hope in his chest, reluctant to actually see the contents of the Penseive, even after all this.

He picked the Penseive up off the floor and took it into the kitchen, sitting in on the table while he made himself some tea. When he had finished drinking it, he realized he was going to eventually look, so he might as well get it over with.

Leaning forward, Remus felt the familiar pull of stored memories sucking him in.

* * * * * *

Memories from objects were different, Remus realized almost as soon as his vision cleared. They seemed to only involve things nearest the object, to fade out at the edges in all directions, like being in a snowglobe.

Remus looked around and recognized Sirius very first flat, the one he’d rented with Uncle Alphard’s money. Remus had only been there a few times over that summer before their Seventh Year, but he would know that hideous red leather couch that Sirius had rescued from a street corner anywhere, and the shag carpet meant this could only be the 70’s.

The motorbike stood in the center of the memory, the chassis bright red, but scratched in places, and some of the chrome had rust on it. The bike hadn’t been new when Sirius had got it, Remus remembered, although he could never imagine anyone but Sirius owning the thing.

Remus took a step forward to peer over the side of the bike and sucked in a breath. On the other side, two dark heads bent together over the side of the engine, one pointing a wand at the innards of the motorbike, the other pushing glasses up his sweaty nose.

This must be right after Sirius enchanted it, Remus realized, noticing the late summer sunlight that filtered over the boys, the tan that ran up both boys’ arms. He and James cracked it right before we came back to school.

They’d practically had to pry Sirius off the thing with a crowbar, Remus remembered with a faint smile, even though James had assured him it would be absolutely fine at his parents’ house until Christmas holidays.

The memory shifted suddenly, onto the next one, leaving Remus a bit disoriented.

When things cleared, Sirius was sitting on the bike, wearing his ubiquitous leather jacket, traces of eyeliner clearly visible near his eyelashes.

“C’mon!” Sirius yelled at someone out of view, “you’ll love it, I swear!”

Remus’ chest tightened, knowing exactly what was coming next, he’d seen the scene in his own Penseive enough times, although the details were slightly different in the Triumph’s version. He hadn’t noticed the crackling of snow under Sirius’ boots, or how cold the air was, or the glowing arc Sirius’ cigarette made when he flicked it gracefully away.

A younger Remus came into view, eyeing the motorbike suspiciously as he walked up to it and its owner.

“This is completely illegal,” he said, before Sirius pulled him closer and kissed him firmly, one arm snaking around his waist possessively. Remus put a hand up to Sirius neck, then broke away laughing.

“I knew I could talk you into it if I wore the collar,” Sirius murmured very softly, but Real Life Remus didn’t need to actually hear the words, he’d memorized them long ago.

“You could talk me into anything with that stupid collar,” Remus laughed willingly.

The scene shifted again, right as Remus was thinking that he couldn’t take much more of this, and he felt sick as he recognized the tiny flat he and Sirius had shared after Hogwarts.

He saw a shirtless Sirius, obviously freezing, leading the motorbike in the door and setting it in the middle of the floor, where it proceeded to shed ice and snow all over Remus’ carpet.

Remus had forgotten this morning entirely, forgotten how he had run out of the kitchen and shouted at Sirius for going outside shirtless in the snow, how he had complained about his stupid rug that had seemed so important at the time and now he couldn’t even remember what had happened to it.

He turned away when Sirius tugged his still arguing younger self back into their bedroom with promises of distraction and willed himself out of the Pensieve.

He sat beside the Pensieve in the kitchen for a long time, until nearly lunch, then took the bowl back to the motorbike and poured its memories carefully back into it.

“Guess the only thing left is to re-teach you to fly,” Remus sighed.

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