Chapter 1: chapter one
Chapter Text
Rehearsals remaining until the Christmas recital: 14
Not for the first time, Marlene curses her past self for deciding to wear black trousers to rehearsal. She rubs frantically at the smudge of white from where she had laid down her bow across her lap whilst attaching her shoulder rest, but her rosin-tipped fingers make the matter even worse. She sighs. Whoever came up with the concept of concert blacks did not take string players into account, a grudge that she has held since her very first orchestra concert and will continue to hold for as long as she plays.
She can’t help but smile to herself as she looks across the rehearsal hall, her view unobstructed by other players, increasingly aware of her proximity to the conductor’s stand. This is what she has been aiming for, and she can’t help the smug smile that creeps onto her face.
First chair violin. Leader of the orchestra. Finally.
Like every leader before her, she has painstakingly moved throughout the rows of desks from the back desk of the second violins to the second of the firsts, a journey that took years, and now here she is. Now that Narcissa has gone off to university, her chair is empty, and it’s Marlene’s turn to fill it. It’s not like she’s filling this position due to luck or necessity; she’s worked for it – blood, sweat and tears – since the first time she set foot in the rehearsal hall, and maybe, even, since Alastor Moody, her teacher and long-time family friend, placed a freshly rosined bow into seven-year-old Marlene’s hand and a ½ size violin under her chin.
The Hogwarts Amateur Orchestra, as cliche as it sounds, is Marlene’s happy place. Her fellow musicians are her family, and each rehearsal is the highlight of her week. After a long summer of nothing, as the rehearsals run parallel to school and college term times, she was beginning to get restless, missing it desperately. Now, however, the slightly chaotic and dissonant noise of every instrument individually tuning and warming up is, pun most definitely intended, music to her ears. Even the sound of Barty aggressively banging the timpani in an attempt to tune them provides Marlene with a calm that washes over her.
It may appear slightly far-fetched to say that music is in Marlene’s blood, but she genuinely believes it. Her mother, though never pursuing music professionally, is an incredibly talented pianist, her father was the frontman of a band in his youth and her older brother, Nathan, is on scholarship at Juilliard, going so far as to move across the globe to specialise in cello. Influenced by her parents ensuring she was raised on a balance of classical music and, according to her father, the ‘classics’, she has an extreme love and appreciation for all genres and musicians, respecting Vivaldi and Freddie Mercury equally. So yes, Marlene would say that music is in her blood, that it is her whole world, her lifeline. Quite frankly, she doesn’t know what she would do without it, and she struggles to envision a world in which it isn’t something that she would pursue, in which it isn’t the one consistent force that has shaped her childhood and will continue to cradle her in adulthood.
She knows that when she takes this seat, this role, she’ll be able to share that love and prove that this is what she is made for. She’ll walk onto the stage of recitals with her head held high and her instrument in hand, ready to make magic happen.
Because that’s what music is, isn’t it? Magic.
On the opposite side of the room, Pandora leans over the back of Lily’s chair, holding both her flute and piccolo in one hand and twirling strands of red hair in the other whilst Lily’s desk partner (and only other violist) Severus sits with his face in his phone, silently fuming for one reason or another. Despite Lily and Severus’ childhood friendship and shared hobby, in the last few years he appears to have developed a slight resentment towards her, noticeable only to someone, like Marlene, who has known them both for so long. Along with the majority of the string section, they’ve been rehearsing together since they were awkward primary school children in the beginners’ ensembles.
The seat next to Marlene is still empty, and she isn’t sure who will fill it. It’s likely to be Caradoc, who was her desk partner last year and has climbed through the ranks alongside her, but he is stood by the cellos in deep conversations with Benjy Fenwick. Marlene has known every single person in this room for years, and even though she dislikes some, and definitely prefers some over others, she finds comfort in the familiarity of every face. It is for this reason that she is so surprised to find Minerva, the conductor, in deep conversation with two boys that she doesn’t recognise. It isn’t unusual for new players to move up from the lower ensembles, in fact Marlene has seen at least three younger kids aimlessly wandering around the room and taking in their surroundings, however these boys seem to be Marlene’s age.
They must be related, that much is clear, with jet black hair that frames their faces like silk curtains, ivory skin that is so perfect it looks fake, and sharp aristocratic cheekbones. Something about them looks vaguely familiar, but Marlene is too distracted and caught off guard to try and place them. The taller of the two wears his hair longer, reaching just below his jaw, and his eyes are startlingly grey, but kind. Even from a distance, Marlene can see that they sparkle with mischief and a warmth that is absent from his counterpart’s. The other boy, shorter but not by much, has hair that curls just below his ears, and he holds himself with an air that makes him appear older, but the slight soft edges of his face suggest that he must be the younger of the two.
They finish their conversation with Minerva and, much to her shock, start to walk towards Marlene. It is only then that she notices their identical violin cases. The taller one has his sling casually over his shoulder, a myriad of fading stickers making it near impossible to discern what colour the plastic is, whilst the other holds it in his right hand like a briefcase. Like any good section leader would do, Marlene jumps up when they reach her, almost knocking her own violin to the floor as she holds out her hand.
“I’m Marlene! You guys must be new here.” She smiles, albeit warily whilst she tries to work out how best to interact and communicate with who she assumes are new members of her section. The section that she will lead and, hopefully, the section that will follow her willingly, trusting and believing her to be worthy of the post.
The taller boy grins and shakes her hand firmly. The gesture is still formal, of course, but there’s a friendliness that underscores the way he greets her.
“I’m Sirius,” he says before gesturing to his companion, who has not yet altered his facial expression. “This is my brother, Regulus.”
The shorter boy, Regulus, looks at Marlene with a scrutinising gaze, his free hand still firmly by his side, before opening his mouth to say the last thing she expects:
“You’re in my seat.”
Marlene blinks. Regulus doesn’t react further.
“I’m sorry?”
“My seat,” Regulus repeats, as if talking to a child, “You’re in it.”
Marlene is about to respond, most likely with some choice language, and ask this boy who the fuck he thinks he is, waltzing in here and acting like he can take the chair and spot that she has been working towards for years, but Minerva walks over before she can. Marlene breathes a sigh of relief. Surely, it’s all a misunderstanding. Maybe this is the first orchestra Regulus has been in. Maybe he doesn’t quite understand the etiquette, the system. Marlene is just about to explain when Minerva interrupts.
“Marlene,” she begins with her familiar Scottish lilt, “Regulus and Sirius are going to sit at the front desk this term, if that’s alright?”
Or, maybe, Regulus is just a massive twat.
If that’s alright? Marlene almost laughs. Of course it isn’t alright, but Marlene has known Minerva long enough to know that it isn’t really a question. She shrugs, swiftly kicking her case out from under the chair to underneath the chair behind, perhaps more aggressively than necessary, and picks up her things. She holds her violin and bow in one hand and uses the other to pick up the rosin and pencil that she had left on the stand. Minerva gives her a look of silent thanks, mixed with some pity, and Marlene realises that there must be some reason for this. Minerva knows how hard Marlene has worked and of course knows how the system works; a musical meritocracy that has never failed in the past.
Perhaps it’s cynicism or just bitter resentment, but her gut swirls as she reluctantly sits down. Something, or someone, is making sure Minerva puts these brothers on the front desk, and Marlene decides that she will take it upon herself to find out who.
*
Eventually, the room quietens down as the rehearsal begins. Minerva gestures to Mary, the oboist, who, after some back and forth, provides a perfect concert A for the rest of the orchestra to tune to. The brass tune first from their place at the back of the room, and, as usual, James Potter’s trumpet can be heard louder than all the others. After quite a large cohort of brass players left at the end of last year, the section is quite low on numbers, and the distribution between instruments isn’t ideal: three trumpets, two trombones, one French horn, a tuba and a euphonium.
The woodwinds tune next, which takes longer than it should, mostly due to Peter, who is having to borrow a clarinet from the storeroom whilst his own is being repaired. Judging by the look on his face when he tries to tune it, the instrument hasn’t been touched in years. Minerva raises an eyebrow whilst miming for him to shorten the barrel. It’s a combined effort between Peter and Emmeline that gets it in tune, or as close as possible with so little time. Minerva tells him to bring it to her and the end of the rehearsal for her to look at. Whilst she is technically a violinist, she seems to have a deep technical understanding of almost every instrument, a trait that is much appreciated by every musician in the room. Being instructed and coached by someone who actually understands how to play your instrument is much more enjoyable than being conducted by someone who doesn’t. Marlene unfortunately experienced such a thing when her high school music teacher Mr Fletcher, a proud trumpeter, repeatedly told her to ‘play more like a brass instrument’ and simply shrugged when she snapped her E string for the first time during a rehearsal and hadn’t yet been shown how to replace it.
When the strings tune, Marlene revels in the sound. The glide of bows over strings, the slight twinge of last-minute tweaks. To her, it’s music in itself; various intonations that have resulted from exertion, disuse or temperature slowly creeping towards the same pitch. In front of her, Regulus bypasses his fine tuners entirely and goes straight for the tuning pegs, and with a few quick twists he’s done.
Pretentious twat , Marlene thinks as she battles with her own fine tuners, bitter despite her ongoing attempt to be more positive and less of a jealous prat. She had to replace her E string again during the summer and it’s still giving her grief, but at least she’s self-aware.
Looking across the room, she is met with a smirk from the first chair of the cello section. Dorcas Meadowes: the simultaneous bane and love of Marlene’s life, although Dorcas doesn’t know the latter. She dances her fingers up the neck of her cello whilst making direct eye contact with Marlene. They haven’t seen each other since the last rehearsal before summer, since they go to different schools, have no mutual friends aside from those in the orchestra, and live on completely different sides of town. No matter how much Marlene, embarrassingly, has tried, Dorcas is impossible to just run into.
Marlene spots a glimmer of silver on Dorcas’s left eyebrow that definitely wasn’t there before, and her mouth goes dry.
“ That’s embarrassing ,” she mouths with a nod to what was Marlene’s seat, now occupied by Regulus.
“ Fuck you ,” Marlene mouths back. Dorcas laughs, a sound that carries despite the rest of the string section still tuning. She tosses her braids over her shoulder and rests her chin on top of her cello’s scroll.
“ You wish .”
Marlene feels herself blush furiously and ducks her head behind her stand on which an empty music file sits. Gideon, another percussionist, appears in her peripheral, tasked with handing out sheet music. He hands her a faded yellow booklet that contains a medley of songs from West Side Story, evident of Minerva’s soft spot for musicals, and she opens it on the stand, adjusting it so that Caradoc, who has finally returned to his seat, can see properly.
After a few moments, when all the music is handed out and Gideon is safely back behind the marimba, the rehearsal begins, and Marlene can breathe again.
*
Halfway through, Minerva lets the musicians break for around fifteen minutes. Marlene stays in her seat, practicing a phrase of ‘America’ that caught her out the first time. She knows she can play it, and that sometimes silly mistakes happen, but it’s good to be safe. She likes this arrangement because it showcases the strings, and she knows Lily will be happy with the fact that the violas get the melody a few times.
She nearly jumps out of her skin when someone sits down in Caradoc’s empty seat. He’s disappeared again.
“Hey, stranger,” James says with his signature dopey smile, black hair stuck up at every angle. He slings an arm around Marlene’s shoulder, and she can’t help but lean into the touch even as she scowls up at her oldest friend.
“You saw me this morning,” she points out, but there’s no malice. Most of the orchestra are students at one of the schools or colleges within Hogsmeade town, and James is one of the many who attends Godric Sixth Form with Marlene.
“Speaking of,” he says, and she already knows what’s coming, “Did you do the biology homework?” He bats his eyelashes at her and she rolls her eyes.
“I’ll send you a picture when I’m home,” she grumbles, earning her a kiss on the cheek. She wipes her face with the back of her hand with a grimace.
“Leave Marlene alone,” says another voice, and Marlene looks up to see Remus Lupin towering over her, his French horn tucked under his jumper-clad arm as if it would run away if he left it on his seat. He smiles softly at her, accentuating the small scar that runs through his upper lip, and leans against the wall.
“She was just offering to help me!” James cries in defence.
“She can’t ‘help’ you through your actual A-Levels, James,” Remus drawls, “So maybe start doing your own homework?”
The three of them both know that James doesn’t need to do his homework. He’s been blessed with an almost photographic memory to complement his surprisingly high intelligence, and so he’s more than likely going to pass his exams with flying colours and very little effort.
“You wound me,” James sniffs, taking Marlene’s bow from her hand and pretending to impale his chest with it. More than used to his dramatics, Marlene leaves him to it.
“What’s their deal?” Remus asks, also ignoring James, nodding towards Sirius and Regulus. They’re stood together at the opposite side of the room, earning curious looks from the woodwind section and speaking only to each other. Sirius appears to be talking quite heatedly, hands gesturing wildly, whilst Regulus nods stoically. At one point, Sirius looks up and over at Marlene, and she, Remus and James quickly turn their gazes away. Remus inhales sharply, less subtle than he was probably hoping for, and when Sirius turns back to his brother it isn’t without a clear blush spreading over his cheeks.
“No idea,” Marlene spits, plucking her D string repeatedly in a slight variation of one of the rhythms in ‘Mambo’. “They just appeared, and now Regulus is first chair, and his brother is his desk partner.”
“Woah,” James breathes.
“I know, right! How dare they? I’ve been working towards this for almost my whole life, and this is my last year before university, and now I can’t even be front desk, let alone leader.”
“No, I mean woah , he’s gorgeous .”
Marlene follows James’ gaze and lands on Regulus, who is leaning against the wall with his hands behind his back, head cocked to the side as he listens to Sirius. He looks almost statuesque, all smooth alabaster skin and sharp edges. Marlene whacks James’ cheek with her sheet music, horrified but not even remotely surprised.
James Potter, resident bisexual disaster, has always had a habit of falling very quickly for pretty people. The infatuation never lasts long, however. Two years ago, when he first met Lily, he was adamant that he was going to marry her. When she let him down gently and told her she was not only taken, but also a lesbian, he wasn’t even remotely upset and has since become the number one cheerleader for Lily and Pandora’s relationship. It’s more than likely, therefore, that his superficial attraction towards Regulus will fade as soon as he realises what an insufferable, arrogant prick he is.
Marlene relays this much to James, who just shrugs and continues to stare at Regulus in a way that would probably make Regulus uncomfortable if he was paying James any attention and if James didn’t look so absurdly ridiculous.
“I’m sorry, Marls,” Remus says, looking furious on her behalf. “I can’t believe it. You’ve worked so hard for this.” Marlene shrugs defeatedly.
“Not much I can do about it.”
“I swear to God,” Rems starts, “If either of them so much as open their fucking mouths to gloat or, actually, say anything to you, I will take his stupid fucking bow, snap it and ram it so far up his- “
Minerva sweeps back into the room, marking the end of the break and cutting Remus’ spiel short. Marlene puts a fist to her mouth to stifle a bark of laughter. Remus Lupin is a perfect example of why you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover. With his tousled sandy brown hair, gentle eyes, affinity for charity shop jumpers and battered paperback that he always has in his back pocket, he looks, quite frankly, like someone you could walk all over. The reality is, however, that he takes no shit from anyone, swears like a sailor, has had twice as many detentions as Marlene and James combined, mostly for smoking on school property, and has been suspended no less than three times. In fact, the three became friends during the first week of year seven, when Remus overheard a year nine giving Marlene a hard time about the rainbow pin on her backpack and punched the guy square in the face with no hesitation.
Although he won’t admit it, Marlene is willing to bet money that the incident contributed heavily to James’ queer awakening.
Remus wanders to the back of the room with a final icy glare in Sirius and Regulus’ direction and a reassuring pat on the shoulder, the extent of his physical affection. James follows, a slight skip in his step, and Marlene can’t help but laugh to herself. She loves her friends: Remus’ fierce loyalty and James’ endless supply of adoration that he has on offer.
Marlene doesn’t notice that Sirius and Regulus have returned until she hears someone say her name. When she looks up, she finds Sirius swivelled around in his seat, eyes wide and a slightly stunned expression on his face.
“Marlene,” he says, breathless, “I know we’ve only just met, but you have got to tell me who that was. The boy you were with.”
“James?” she asks, applying a fresh layer of rosin to her bow, even though a part of her already knows that he isn’t who Sirius is referring to. She’s many things, but stupid isn’t one of them.
“Is that his name? The tall one with the French horn?”
Marlene uses all her willpower that has remained after refraining from backhanding Regulus thus far to not burst into a fit of giggles.
“Remus?” she clarifies, more for her own entertainment than necessity.
“ Remus ,” Sirius breathes, looking like a lovesick puppy, “Oh wow.” Next to him, Regulus huffs and shakes his head.
“Is he single?” Sirius continues, his voice laced with an even mixture of curiosity and desperation, “Shit, is he even queer? That’s probably a better question.”
Marlene lets her eyes wander over Sirius. There’s no denying it: he’s exactly Remus’ type. Dark hair, dark eyes, looking more like a Greek statue than a teenager. Up close, she can see a small hoop through the top of his right ear which, inexplicably, makes her like him slightly more. He’s wearing black cargos, similar to her own, and a faded Queen t-shirt under an open flannel shirt. A clearly well-loved leather jacket is flung over the back of his chair, and when Marlene looks down at his shoes, she is amused to find that they have identical Docs, though Sirius’ are near pristine whilst hers are peeling patent leather despite the supposed lifetime guarantee.
“Yes,” she says simply, placing her violin on her shoulder to check that her shoulder rest is still in a comfortable position. It has an irritating habit of shifting over time, and she makes a mental note to buy a new one when she can afford it.
“To which part?”
“All of it.”
Sirius lets out a sigh that could be of either relief or joy, and Marlene can’t help but pity him. He may be just Remus’ type, even down to music taste, but she knows her friend well enough to know that even a pretty boy isn’t able to override the extreme loyalty and dedication Remus gives to those he cares about. If Remus’ earlier reaction is anything to go by, he has more of a grudge against the brothers than Marlene herself does, no matter how clear it was that Sirius had at least slightly piqued his interest.
She can’t help but like Sirius, just a little. Yes, he’s taken her place, but unlike his brother, he doesn’t seem to realise the full extent or implication. It’s Regulus who is sitting smugly in the first chair, violin on his knee as if he’s already waiting for a recital to begin, clearly more than aware of how Marlene is feeling despite her not saying anything when Minerva asked her to give up her spot.
Marlene isn’t going to let Sirius off that easily, however.
“I think you should go for it,” she tells him, casual as ever. It’s a lie – Remus would eat this boy alive – but she thinks it would be quite entertaining. Honestly, she’s getting the impression that Sirius would enjoy it. “You’re just his type.” That part isn’t a lie, at least.
“Really?” Sirius says excitedly, looking rather pleased with himself. He sits up a little straighter and crosses his arms over his chest, earning a look of disdain from Regulus when he accidentally prods him in the ribs.
“Oh absolutely. The whole,” she gestures to his outfit and general appearance, “ this that you’ve got going on? Remus loves it. I’d say you’re in with a pretty solid shot.”
“Good to know,” Sirius nods, a cocky grin on his lips as he turns back around, “Cheers.”
Caradoc sits back down next to Marlene, picking up her rosin to use on his own bow in the way he has done for years. She wonders if he’s ever owned his own or whether he’s getting by purely with her help, but she decides that she has bigger problems.
Most importantly: Regulus.
*
The rest of the rehearsal runs relatively smoothly. Two more pieces of music are handed out in preparation for next week, and Marlene takes photos so that she can practice.
Sirius has spent every moment that he hasn’t been playing craning his neck so that he can stare at Remus. Remus has apparently noticed, meaning that he messed up a section that Minerva requested to go over with just the brass. When Marlene turned around to silently laugh at him, he shot her a glare with flushed cheeks before leaning forwards and knocking his forehead against his horn a few times.
Sirius seemed to think he had won, somehow, and gave Marlene an exaggerated wink when he turned back to the front and picked up his violin to play.
Now, Marlene packs her own violin away, placing her shoulder rest and rosin in their respective compartments and zipping the case up. She freezes when she hears a familiar voice.
“So, McKinnon, how’s the view from all the way back here?” Marlene straightens up to find Dorcas’s face mere inches from her own. She swallows.
“Hello, Dorcas,” she returns, trying not to react. She can smell Dorcas’ perfume, and she feels like she could die . “How are those twenty-three bars of rest treating you?” Dorcas scowls, but her eyes gleam. The often-lacklustre cello parts within the orchestra’s repertoire are a particular sore spot for her, something that Marlene uses to her advantage.
“How do you even know that? You’ve not seen my music,” Dorcas asks, suspicious. Marlene shrugs as nonchalantly as she can manage.
“I saw the score.”
She didn’t see the score. Even whilst she was playing her own music, she watched Dorcas out of the corner of her eye and counted how long she was resting. Dorcas doesn’t need to know that though.
Dorcas hoists her deep purple hard-shell case onto her back with little effort and grins, eyes searching before she pulls out her phone to check the time.
“I’m off,” she explains, “My mum’ll be here soon. See you next week, yeah?” She turns on her heels to head towards the exit, stopping just before she starts walking. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about the seating situation. You deserve it more than anyone.” Turning back, she places a hand on Marlene’s arm, the cold of her rings contrasting with the warmth of her palm.
Before Marlene can process it or even begin to form a coherent response, Dorcas walks away, leaving Marlene dumbstruck and gawking.
As she eventually starts to gather her own things, she grins to herself.
Suddenly, she tolerates Regulus and Sirius a hell of a lot more.
Chapter 2: chapter two
Summary:
the gay musicians are back!
(tiny) tw for a very very brief mention of past homophobia that is very quickly dealt with and general self-deprecating thoughts (it's a remus pov so fork found in kitchen!)
hope you enjoy!
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Rehearsals remaining until the Christmas recital: 13
Strangely, Remus’ favourite part of rehearsal isn’t playing the music. Instead, it’s the precious moments between arriving and the rehearsal actually beginning, the familiar motions of opening his case, taking out his French horn and attaching his mouthpiece into the leadpipe. He has no trouble tuning out the background noise and giving himself a few minutes to gather his thoughts and relax. When he enters this room, he is no longer Remus Lupin, notorious fuck-up and problem child. He isn’t the reason that his father has a perpetual headache, and his mother has premature grey hairs. He’s not the family disappointment or the ‘epitome of wasted potential’, as his form teacher told his parents before he was suspended for the second time. Here, he’s Remus, one eighth of the Hogwarts’ brass section and a key component in the orchestra. Surrounded by like minded individuals, the majority of whom he only sees for these sacred two hours every week, he can be someone else. Someone who has a purpose and is respected by his peers.
Someone worth something. Someone who hasn’t fucked anything up yet.
Humming a song that he can’t quite place under his breath, he sets up his music on his stand and basks in the calmness that surrounds him. His, James’ and Marlene’s parents take turns each week to take the three of them to and from rehearsal, and since it was James’ mum’s turn this week, they’re at least fifteen minutes early, a result of Euphemia’s incredible time management that her son has not inherited. For this reason, it’s reasonably quiet, with only a few other people wandering about the room. Lily shoots him a wave when she catches his eye, before returning to helping James set up chairs and music stands in preparation for everyone else arriving. Unsurprisingly, Marlene is in the corner talking to Dorcas, fidgeting with her sleeves and refusing to look the taller girl in the eye. Evan is stood behind the drum kit, attempting to play a fill whilst Barty tries, and fails, to play his boyfriend’s trombone.
Their chatter and absent-minded music fades into white noise as Remus continues setting up, his back to the rest of the room. He’s so focused on reoiling the valves on his horn, still humming the song that he now recognises to be ‘The Prettiest Star’, that he doesn’t notice another figure appear behind him until he hears a voice.
“It’s Remus, isn’t it?” Remus swivels around, almost dropping his instrument, and is met with the grinning face of Sirius, one of the new violinists. One of the new violinists that took Marlene’s rightful spot. “Great song you were singing.”
“I wasn’t singing, I was humming,” is the only thing Remus can think to respond with, even though that’s not the most pressing matter. No, the great, glaring problem is that Sirius is even more gorgeous this close than he was from a distance last week.
His skin is smooth and pale like marble, unblemished aside from the small mole on the high point of his left cheekbone, just beneath his eye. Long, thick eyelashes frame dark grey irises that flash silver underneath the harsh, artificial lighting. Some of Sirius’ hair is clipped back, exposing his neck and sharp jaw, and Remus must force himself to look back to his face.
“My point still stands,” Sirius says. He has the voice of someone who has been taught to speak well, elegant and bordering on aristocratic, but it is tainted with the strain of someone who doesn’t want to sound like that and is trying to compensate. There is a slight accent there too, one that Remus can’t quite place, and he reminds himself that he doesn’t care. That he doesn’t like Sirius. Not after what he and his brother have done to Remus’s best friend.
“Is that all?” Remus asks him, rustling his music sheets to give his hands something to do.
“What?” Sirius’ grin slips slightly, barely noticeable to anyone not paying an embarrassing amount of attention to his mouth. Which Remus also isn’t doing. Obviously.
“Did you want something?”
“Do I have to want something in order to talk to you?” Eyebrows raised, Sirius looks up at Remus. Suddenly, Remus is unsettlingly aware of a prickling of the back of his neck and the deep flush that is no doubt creeping across his cheeks. Sirius’ stare is intense, he’s clearly looking at Remus, but Remus can’t help but feel like he’s also seeing right through him, seeing his darkest secrets and thoughts and desires. He has a horrible feeling that if Sirius were to ask, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself from telling him absolutely anything. The thought is terrifying.
“Well, Sirius,” he says, as nonchalantly as he can manage as to let Sirius know just how much he does not want to talk to him, “I’m not really someone that people approach unless they really want something, although I wouldn’t expect you to know that.” Sirius scoffs.
“You think you’re scary or something? I hate to break it to you, Remus, but you’re quite possibly the least intimidating person I’ve ever met.”
Remus pauses at that, assuming Sirius must be mocking him. He’s not stupid; he knows how he appears. Most people take one look at him, see the scars that cover all visible skin and the cold, tired eyes that betray nothing, and turn the other way. He knows that he doesn’t exactly help himself, having what Marlene refers to as a ‘resting bitch face’, but he’s learnt the hard way that there’s no use in putting himself out there. No use in trying to be approachable or trying to compensate for his unfortunate outward appearance. Even if he could somehow manage to convince someone to see past his exterior, luring them in with a smile and a kind word, the act is near impossible to keep up, and they’d leave anyway.
It's for this reason that Remus can’t help but stare incredulously at Sirius, who hasn’t stopped looking at him. It’s almost comical: a perfect juxtaposition of light and dark, of day and night, of Sirius, a pinnacle of perfection and Remus, who’s anything but. As ridiculous and, admittedly, self-centred it is, he can’t understand why Sirius wouldn’t be intimidated by him, or wary at the very least.
Still, Sirius keeps Remus trapped under his sharp gaze. Remus can only assume that he’s about to experience a repeat of his early years of schooling, the brief period where he was a prime target for playground bullies. Until he decided to fight back, that is. It would make sense for Sirius to be just another bully, he’s already seen what Sirius has done to Marlene. From what little Remus knows about him, Sirius doesn’t seem like he takes anything very seriously, and if he thinks Remus is an easy target, he’s in for a shock.
“You’ve not met me properly, then.”
Whilst partially an attempt to make Sirius go away, it’s also not far from the truth. There’s a reason why his only close friends are James, Marlene and Lily, and why even the other musicians that he is civil with don’t know him very well. He’s learnt the hard way that he isn’t the most enjoyable person to be around, nor the easiest person to love and care for. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve Marlene and James, doesn’t know why they’ve deemed him worthy to stick by, even after seeing his ugliest scars, both physical and metaphorical.
“Well,” Sirius drawls, his voice ever so slightly lower than it has been, “The night is still young.” Remus is about to point out that it is in fact 4:30pm on a Wednesday when he comes to the glorious, correction: horrific , realisation that Sirius is flirting with him.
What the fuck?
Remus knew from the first moment that he laid eyes on Sirius that the other possessed some level of arrogance, but he is still stunned by his audacity. Firstly, he shows up to rehearsal as if he has always been here, rips the opportunity that Marlene has been working for from right under her nose, and then thinks he has the right to flirt with her best friend? Granted, it's technically Regulus who’s taken it from her, but Sirius isn’t doing anything to stop him. To Remus, that makes him just as bad.
“Look, Sirius,” Remus says, straightening up. He’s not much taller than Sirius, but it’s enough for the other to look momentarily stunned. “Rehearsal starts in five minutes, and you’ve still not set up. Don’t you think you have more important things to do than bother me?” He gestures vaguely to the front of the room where Marlene and Regulus are sitting at their respective desks, both looking straight ahead and ignoring the other’s existence entirely. Even from a distance, Remus can see Marlene grinding her jaw, a habit she’s had as long as he’s known her. In the seat diagonally front of her, Sirius’ violin case sits untouched.
Sirius blinks, looking confused and then, for a brief moment, looks almost upset. His eyes widen, the grey almost hypnotising, and his lips part. Remus almost feels bad, a sharp twist of discomfort in his gut, but just as he’s about to open his mouth, maybe to apologise, Sirius grins again. It’s not the same smile as before, not quite, and Remus realises that he’s faking it.
“I’m bothering you, am I?” Sirius asks, teasing, eyes flashing with something Remus can’t name. “Okay. I’ll leave you alone then.” He makes a show of slowly turning on his heel and tilting his head so that the hair that isn’t pinned up falls over his shoulder. Remus swallows before taking a much-needed deep breath and going back to reorganising his music. When he looks up again, unable to stop himself, Sirius turns back around, looking amused.
“Y’know, Remus,” he says smugly, “I don’t think I ever actually told you my name.” Remus opens his mouth to defend himself, clenching his fists, but no sound comes out and he realises that Sirius, infuriatingly, is right. Of course, Remus knows exactly who he is because of Marlene, but Sirius doesn’t know that. He seems to think he’s caught Remus; thinks he’s won some kind of game that Remus has no intention of playing.
Unless.
Ever since Remus knew who Sirius was, ever since he knew what he did, he’s wanted nothing more than to somehow avenge Marlene but has had no idea how. Until now. If Sirius wants to play this game, Remus can play too. And, more importantly, he can win.
So, just before Sirius turns to walk to his seat, Remus winks at him. The movement feels unnatural and slightly embarrassing, but it seems to do the trick. Sirius gapes, flushes, and almost crashes into Alice, who is walking past with her bassoon tucked under her arm. The reed nearly takes Sirius’ eye out, and Remus stifles a laugh with the back of his hand. A delicate blush continues to bloom over Sirius’ cheeks, and as he awkwardly tucks a stray strand of hair behind his ear, he looks, irritatingly, like one of the Renaissance paintings that Remus’ mum used to point out to him when she took him on weekly trips to museums and art galleries. Remus internally scolds himself for making the connection, but he can’t help himself. It’s a well-known fact, consistent throughout history, that the most beautiful people are often the cruellest. At least he’s already seen Sirius’s true colours, and so he won’t make the mistake of falling for his charms and looks. Or his smile. Or the elegance of his movements and the weight of his gaze. Remus is immune to all of it.
The room has filled up, and everyone takes their seats as Minerva takes her place at the stand at the front of the room, baton in hand. Before he can stop himself, Remus looks at Sirius once more. He’s sat next to Regulus, rosining his bow so quickly it can’t be very effective, though Remus’ wouldn’t know. Regulus is whispering harshly whilst his brother remains flustered, and Remus can’t help the burst of pride that shoots through him when he realises that he did that. Awful as said boy might be, it’s always an ego boost to know that you can make a pretty boy blush. However, when Remus looks slightly to the right, he sees Marlene looking more bewildered than he has ever seen her as her eyes flit back and forth between him and Sirius. A frown creeps onto her face and the pride is replaced with a stab of guilt.
He doesn’t even notice that James is sitting next to him until he feels someone clap him on the back.
“You’re in deep shit, mate,” James says, all too cheerily.
“How long have you been sitting there?” Remus covers his face with his hands. He doesn’t want to know the answer. James barks a laugh.
“Long enough. You’d better have a good reason for whatever that was.”
What Remus wants to say is; yes, James, I do have a good reason. I’m going to avenge our best friend by pretending to be interested in Regulus’ brother and then breaking his heart the same way he broke Marlene’s. Isn’t that a great idea?
He also thinks it would be appropriate to point out that James was also, briefly, under the brothers’ spell, his brain appearing to short-circuit when he first laid eyes on Regulus, the main reason for Marlene’s upset and therefore Remus and, hopefully James’, anger.
Instead, when he picks up his French horn in perfect synchrony with James placing his trumpet to his lips, what comes out is:
“I’m so fucked.”
*
“Just the strings from bar forty-seven, please,” Minerva says, “And then we’ll leave this one for today. Just be really careful about intonation. I won’t name any names but I’m hearing someone is playing very flat.” She looks pointedly at the second violins, who in turn all swivel their heads to glare at Gilderoy, Gilderoy looks appalled and appears quick to defend himself, most likely about to claim that everyone else was unanimously playing sharp and that he was in fact perfectly in tune. Next to him, Hestia leans across to hiss something that Remus can’t make out, and Gilderoy flushes red with either anger or embarrassment. Hestia looks amusingly smug.
Remus likes his seat in the back corner as it gives him a perfect view of everyone else in the room. Although he can’t always hear what’s being said, there’s something entertaining about being able to observe from a distance and watch the way that his peers interact. He sees the not-so-secret glances that Marlene gives Dorcas when she thinks she’s not looking, and the similar looks that she receives in return that she doesn’t notice. He sees the way that Lily turns to watch Pandora play when she herself has bars of rest or when Minerva wants to practice a section with just the woodwind. He watches Barty immediately try to catch Evan’s eye whenever someone plays something noticeably wrong or if Minerva unintentionally says something hilarious. He sees the determination in Emma’s face when she tackles a particularly important percussion part and the look of pride when it pays off, the way that Mary and Emmeline spend any time not playing whispering to each other with matching grins, the way Frank and James are so clearly competing to see who can play the loudest.
His position also means that Sirius is clearly within his eyeline unless he makes the effort to look away, which he finds infuriatingly difficult. He has no choice but to watch as Sirius flips his hair over his shoulder with just a quick turn of his head before placing his violin on his shoulder as if the instrument is an extension of his body, his movements obviously rehearsed but still so organic and natural. Remus watches as Minerva counts in the strings, and although the room fills with the sound of a whole section of musicians, tones and pitches ranging from the violins all the way to Kingsley on the double bass, he can’t focus on anyone but Sirius. He plays with an ease that is usually reserved for professionals, not teenagers in an amateur orchestra. Next to him, Regulus is the same. The brothers play like they are one, like they are copies of the same. The angles of their heads are identical, their bow strokes exactly the same length, and even their vibrato is simultaneous and perfectly timed. The only difference is that Regulus’s face depicts concentration, whereas Sirius is almost smiling, an obvious display of his passion for the music and his instrument of choice. The music is ‘West Side Story’, not a concerto of one of the greats, but Sirius plays like it is. Although Remus would much rather that neither brother was first chair and would prefer for Marlene to take back her rightful place, he doesn’t understand why Regulus is in that spot instead of Sirius. Clearly, they’re both incredibly talented, not one more so than the other, but Sirius looks like he was made for the job. Whilst Regulus also plays perfectly, he does so as if he feels bad for making a sound and taking up space. It seems strange for him to take a position that he doesn’t appear to want or care about that much.
Remus pulls his eyes away from the brothers when Minerva brings them off, offering a few more critiques here and there about bow technique and the best fingering patterns to reach the highest notes, before closing her own music and opening a new folder.
“We’re going to try something slightly different this term,” she tells them, though her voice sounds almost strained and uncomfortable, as if she’s chosen the next piece against her will, which wouldn’t make sense. Minerva has been the head of the organisation since it was established; there's no reason why she should have to do anything within the orchestra that she doesn’t want to. “I’ve found a wonderful concerto for us to have a go at, and it features the violin. It is quite long, however we can make our own adjustments and cuts if we decide that it gets to be too much. Regardless, it’s a fabulous piece of music that I can’t wait to share with you, and I think you’ll enjoy it.” She hands the stack of papers to Dorcas, who sits immediately to her right, a wordless instruction to hand out the parts. Dorcas reads over the parts as she stands up and begins distributing the music, a desk at a time, with an unreadable expression slowly making its way onto her face. When she reaches the violins, she hands what Remus assumes to be the violin solo music to Regulus, who accepts it with a curt nod, and when she passes a copy to Marlene, she does so with a sympathetic smile. Marlene looks confused at first, but her face falls when she looks at her part, her skin paling and her lips pulling into a frown. If Remus didn’t know her better, he’d think she was about to cry. Instead, she puts the music on her stand with more force than seems necessary and folds her arms across her chest.
It isn’t until Dorcas reaches him with his own music that Remus understands her reaction. Judging by the look he gets when he looks at him, James is thinking the same.
When Remus became friends with Marlene, he found out reasonably quickly that she too was a musician, and their shared interest helped him bond with both her and James. Although he’d heard her play in both the school orchestra and in Hogwarts, he never saw her play solo until a GCSE Music lesson in year ten, and his whole perception of her changed. Remus hates the fact that he ever fell victim to believing in stereotypes, however it’s true that Marlene isn’t your typical violinist. With her shag-cut blonde hair, myriad of against school regulation piercings and affinity for seventies band t-shirts, it’s often hard to believe that she is classically trained and truly passionate about what she does rather than just playing because she was signed up for lessons and never got around to breaking the news to her parents that she wanted to quit. No, Marlene is a star in the making. From the moment Remus watched her place her bow to string during her high school solo performance, he knew that she was serious about music and could tell how much it meant to her.
Quite soon after discovering her talent and love for music, Remus found Marlene in one of the practice rooms at high school, lying on her back, eyes closed, with her headphones in and looking more at peace than he had ever seen her. When he lay down next to her, she offered him a headphone and he joined her in listening to what seemed to be a violin concerto.
“Florence Price’s Violin Concerto No. 2 ,” she told him before he even asked, “One day, when I’m first chair of an orchestra, I’m going to play this. On stage, in front of an audience, and it’s going to be the best moment of my life.” It’s an aspiration that she’s kept ever since, mentioning it to anyone who will listen whenever it’s appropriate, and sometimes even when it’s not.
Now, when Remus reads the title of his music and sees the composer’s name, he is overcome with anger on his friend’s behalf. It’s salt in the still bleeding wound. He’s certain that Minerva must know about Marlene’s love of and dream of playing this piece and can’t comprehend why she’d give it to someone else to play. It’s possible that she’d planned the programme before Regulus arrived, with the full intention of giving the solo to Marlene, but why not make alterations? Why give the solo to the person who she’s already replaced Marlene with. It’s not like it softens the blow.
He tries to catch Marlene’s gaze, but she remains staring straight ahead, almost shaking with anger as her foot taps restlessly on the floor.
“Let’s give it a try, shall we?” Minerva declares, not looking at Marlene. Remus can’t decide if that’s better or worse. “We don’t have to do it with the solo straight away, so, Regulus, you can have a couple of weeks to look-“
“It’s fine,” Regulus interrupts. It’s the first time Remus has heard him speak. Even Minerva looks shocked.
“Very well, then,” Minerva says, raising her baton and counting the orchestra in.
The music isn’t too difficult, clearly an accompaniment for something yet to come, but there is some percussion a few bars in that Emma, Barty and Gideon seem to be enjoying. The brass and the rest of the strings have a similar rhythm whilst the woodwind plays a more ornamental melody over the top. When Regulus starts to play, however, Remus can’t help but be surprised. Regulus must have played, or at the very least seen this music before, because the skill and precision with which he plays it is undeniably impressive. It doesn’t sound at all like a first attempt. However, it almost sounds too rehearsed. Every accent is in the right place, every note is perfectly in tune, and Regulus moves with the orchestra and Minerva’s direction as if this is the real performance, but it lacks personality. Lacks emotion. Maybe it’s because Remus is so desperate to find something to criticise, but Regulus almost seems bored.
Remus watches as Marlene plays her accompaniment, eyebrows pinched and expression stony, and he can tell that she thinks the same. It’s one thing to be replaced by someone exceptionally talented and perhaps therefore more deserving, but for her to watch someone else play the music that she could absolutely play with more care and passion must be heartbreaking. It’s possible that she will have the chance in the future, but it isn’t the same.
Minerva pauses them about a quarter of the way through and looks equal parts impressed and concerned. She looks at Regulus, opens her mouth as if about to say something, but then seems to think better of it.
“That was excellent for a first attempt, well done everyone! Can I just hear everyone apart from Regulus where the solo comes in, I think it's marked on your parts?” When she receives various nods and sounds of affirmation she raises her baton again. Reluctantly, Remus also raises his horn to his lips whilst thinking of all the ways he could get back at Regulus and, of course, Sirius.
If they think they’re getting away with this, they’re wrong.
*
The September air is surprisingly crisp as Remus waits with James outside the building. Marlene is still inside, either flirting with Dorcas or threatening to curse the whole of Regulus, Sirius and Minerva’s bloodlines.
“Mum’s nearly here,” James says, slipping his phone into his back pocket, “Apparently there was a hold up on the main road.” Remus hums in acknowledgement. “Remus? Moony? Did you even hear what I said?”
“Yeah, sorry,” Remus says, dragging a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck.
“What are you thinking about?” Classic James.
“Marlene. Regulus. Sirius. The absolute shitshow that is this concerto business.”
“Fair enough, mate,” James replies, “It’s all a bit fucked, isn’t it?” He looks slightly sheepish and starts kicking a pebble back and forth.
“More than a bit! I mean, this is her dream , down to the specific music, and somehow Regulus is living it and neither he nor his twat of a brother seem to care about how it’s affecting her.”
“Do you think they even know? It’s not like Marlene told either of them how much she wanted this.” Remus turns to look at his best friend and can’t help the probably ridiculous expression on his face. He feels his eyebrows raise into his hairline.
“Are you seriously playing devil’s advocate right now?”
“No! No,” James is quick to respond. Almost too quick. “I just mean that they had no way of knowing that Regulus had taken Marls’ spot or that she’s been wanting to play this concerto since she came out of the womb, unless they’ve been spying on us for years, which I find hard to believe. Maybe, they’ve just shown up on the first day or rehearsal, at a new orchestra where they don’t know anyone except each other, and they’ve been told to sit down in those specific spots. Oh wait! That’s exactly what happened!” Remus narrows his eyes at James until realisation dawns on him.
“James.”
“…Remus?”
“Are you defending them being dickheads and ruining our best friend’s life because you think Regulus is hot?” James almost chokes on air as a deep flush spreads across his entire face.
“What?” he nearly screeches, “Of course not! I’m on Marlene’s side, a hundred percent, but I just think we’re being a little bit harsh. If it turns out that this is some kind of orchestrated scheme and that they’re in fact evil masterminds, then I’m all for holding a grudge, but as for now I’m trying to give them the benefit of the doubt.” James raises his hands in mock surrender. Remus supposes he can accept his reasoning. Maybe.
“But you do think Regulus is hot?” James laughs.
“I plead the fifth,” he says smugly.
“We live in England,” Remus points out, earning him the finger.
“Besides, I wasn’t the one blatantly flirting with one of them this afternoon. What do you say to that one, hm?”
Well played, James.
“It’s called revenge. I’m just defending Marlene’s honour, per se.”
“By flirting with a guy who’s literally your exact type on paper? If that’s what you want to call it…”
Remus is about to respond, about to explain how Sirius flirted with him first and how he’s simply playing along, when the door opens and the boy in question steps outside, his brother in tow. As usual, Regulus looks fed up, but Sirius has an arm around his shoulder as he chatters nonsensically. He stops, however, as soon as he looks up to see Remus and James.
“Hello,” he says dumbly. Regulus rolls his eyes. Somewhere in his peripheral vision, Remus sees James physically swoon.
“Hi,” Remus replies, trying his best not to laugh. “You alright?” Sirius doesn’t respond until Regulus kicks him in the shin.
“Ow! What the fuck, Reggie? What are-oh, yes, I’m fine, thanks.” If Remus didn’t hate him so much, he’d find the way Sirius is fumbling over his words almost endearing.
“So, Reggie, ” James begins, the familiar beginnings of a smirk on his lips.
“No,” Regulus says simply, not even looking at him, before turning around and walking off. It’s so dramatic that Remus has to give him some credit.
“Great solo!” James calls after him, the eternal optimist.
“ What the fuck,” Remus hisses under his breath. James doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to stare at Regulus’ retreating figure like a lovesick puppy. “ Traitor .”
Sirius looks back and forth between the two of them, expression gradually flitting between perplexed and amused. His eyes finally land on Remus, and he smiles softly before tilting his head slightly, his gaze moving from Remus’ face to his lips, down to his chest and back up to make direct eye contact. Remus’ stomach flips. The door opens again.
“I swear to God, I am going to kill someone,” Marlene declares through gritted teeth as she barrels outside, “Or someones . And I’m going to start with that son of a-“
She stops when she notices who she’s talking to.
“ You, ” she seethes, pointing an accusatory finger at Sirius, who looks incredibly confused. “You are so lucky that your brother isn’t here, otherwise you’d be at risk of becoming an only child.”
“Be my guest,” Sirius drawls, voice dripping with sarcasm. It seems a pointless thing to say when it’s so clear how much he cares about his brother, but it softens the increasingly tense atmosphere.
“Marlene,” James starts, “Calm down, yeah?” Marlene whirls around to face him.
“Don’t even get me started on you ,” she nearly shouts before pointing at Remus too, “And you! You’re both rendered useless the second you lay eyes on a pretty boy!” James winces. Remus wants the ground to swallow him up. Sirius blinks as an infuriatingly smug grin pulls at his lips.
“You think I’m pretty?” he asks innocently. His eyes sparkle and Remus is reminded of how much he dislikes him.
“Shut up,” Remus shoots back, but he can’t help the guilt that he immediately feels. Surprisingly, Sirius does, even going so far as to take a step back and look down at the ground. His violin case is slung over his shoulder, the zips rattling against the plastic shell as he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet.
Of course, the guilt he feels is for Marlene. He hasn’t had a chance to explain himself yet, but he is sure she’ll understand. She’ll probably even encourage him to mess with Sirius even more.
“My mum’s here,” James says quietly, gesturing in the vague direction of the car park. Marlene walks away without another word, her case swinging violently as she does so, and Remus mentally prepares himself for what may be the second worst car ride of his life.
“See you next week, guys,” Sirius says, almost shyly as he starts to walk in the same direction that Regulus did. “James, I’ll tell my brother you say hi.” James blushes furiously again and Sirius barks out a laugh. “Later, Remus.” The last thing he does before turning around is wink, a clear allusion to earlier in the evening, and Remus wants to die.
“I think we’re both fucked,” he sighs as James slings an arm around his shoulders and presses a kiss to the side of his head.
“Yeah,” James says, sounding defeated. “That boy is going to ruin my life.” Remus doesn’t need to ask which one.
“Same,” Remus agrees, hating the word as soon as it leaves his mouth, “Different boy.”
“I know, mate,” James says as they reach the car to find Marlene already in the back seat. She’s talking to Euphemia, but she isn’t as animated as she normally is.
Remus vows that he’s going to tell her everything, that he’s going to apologise, and that he’s never going to let Sirius get to him ever again.
Whatever game Remus thought he could play, it isn’t worth more than Marlene’s friendship, something he can’t afford to give up. His friends come first every time, and nothing, even a boy, pretty as he may be, is going to change that.
Especially not Sirius.
Notes:
sirius: marlene told me i'm remus' type, i'm going to shoot my shot
remus: he's awful i hate him
sirius: he's so pretty
remus: he's definitely going to bully me because i'm unloveable and ugly
sirius: he's so pretty
remus: i'm going to mess with him because i hate him
sirius: i want to kiss him
Chapter 3: chapter three
Notes:
this is the longest chapter so far, and i think the longest single chapter i've ever written (?) but it had to be done!
tw for walburga (lol) and a teeny tiny miniscule amount of angst...
this chapter is dedicated to zari, my fave <3 thank u for listening to my rants about this fic, i love you!! also everyone go and read runway walk by vitrealischarm because zari is amazing
enjoy!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Rehearsals remaining until the Christmas recital: 12
The car slows to a halt next to the kerb outside Hogwarts, the closest it can get without physically driving into the building. Sirius goes to unlock his seatbelt, doing it slowly so that the click isn’t too loud, but he knows not to get out just yet. Next to him, Regulus is staring straight at the back of the driver’s seat in front of him, his mouth a thin line and his eyes blank.
“I expect you both to come straight back to the car after the rehearsal,” says their mother from the front, perfectly manicured nails gripping the steering wheel with far more force than necessary, “No hanging around like you did last week.”
“Yes, Mum,” Regulus says quietly, never one to argue.
“You got it,” Sirius adds tiredly, “But last week we were just chatting to some people from the orchestra. Don’t worry, nothing too incriminating.” Walburga makes a small noise that could almost pass as a laugh if Sirius didn’t know better, and he regrets saying anything.
“That’s exactly the problem,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I don’t want either of you getting too,” she pauses as if to think of the word to drive her point home the most effectively, “ attached. ”
Ah, that’ll do it.
You see, Sirius had a plan. A flawless plan, even if he said so himself. He was to go to the weekly rehearsals, as per his parents’ request, play without argument, and soon enough the school year would be over, and he’d be off to university. He wouldn’t have needed to get attached, as per his mother’s phrasing. Sure, he could make some friends, anything to make the year more bearable, but that was it. Just enough to fly under the radar and stay out of trouble until he could leave. He also didn’t want to do anything that would make things any more difficult for Regulus.
That was until he walked into the first rehearsal a fortnight ago and laid his eyes on Remus. Sirius doesn’t believe in love at first sight, he isn’t as much of a (secret) hopeless romantic as Regulus, but he can’t deny the way his heart skipped a few beats when he first spotted the tall, sandy-haired, beautiful boy in the corner and suddenly every poem he’d ever read, every sonnet he’d ever painstakingly annotated for his English Literature class, made perfect sense in a way they never had before. He’d subtly kept his gaze on him for the rehearsal, somewhat warily as if he'd notice something that could counteract the fuzzy feeling in his chest and keep him on track, until the break. Remus had muttered something to Marlene, every facial feature so expressive even from a distance, and looked across to Sirius. He’d looked angry, hazel eyes setting Sirius’ entire body alight, and Sirius had realised that he was well and truly done for.
‘Not getting attached’ be damned.
Now, Walburga looks at Sirius and Regulus in the rear-view mirror, not even bothering to turn around.
“I’ll see you promptly after rehearsal,” she tells them, her voice outwardly gentle and almost teasing, but it’s a clearly masked order. Sirius is out of the car in an instant, the car door almost coming off its hinges with the force with which he opens it. Walburga gives him a pointed look, eyebrows raised, to which he smiles.
“See you later, mum,” he sing-songs, “Love you lots.” Regulus climbs across the back seat, lightly pressing a kiss to Walburga’s cheek when she offers it on his way past. He’s always been funny about getting out of the car on the roadside, a little quirk he hasn’t grown out of. Sirius opens the boot to get both of their violins out and almost laughs at the contrast. Regulus’; plain black and pristine next to his own; covered in stickers to the point that he can’t even remember if it was even also black to start with, complete with a fraying strap that he replaced a few years ago because he wanted a colourful one instead of the high-quality one that the case came with. Orion and Walburga had been furious to say the least, but they’ve learnt that they have to pick their battles with Sirius.
When they reach the entrance, one of the clarinet players who Sirius remembers as being called Lucinda holds open the door for them. It's only when they’re safely inside that Walburga drives off. As soon as Sirius steps through the door he can hear voices and music from the main hall; laughter filling the air and meeting him in the doorway, filling his lungs as he breathes in. Sirius thanks Lucinda, Black family manners still second nature, and Regulus nods curtly behind him.
Making his way into the rehearsal space, he’s greeted with a grin from Barty as he wheels a marimba into the corner, closely followed by Emma carrying what looks to be seven different types of drumsticks. Emma manages to wave without dropping anything, her jet-black hair coming untucked from behind her ear.
A yelp of joy from the furthest corner draws Sirius’s attention, and he looks up to see Marlene awkwardly holding a French horn and attempting to produce a sound. She blows into it, making a noise that is far from pleasant, blonde hair fanning around her face and cheeks flushed. Sirius feels his own cheeks flare up when he looks slightly to Marlene’s left to see the owner of the French horn, arms folded across his chest and head tilted back in laughter. A beam of sunlight floods the room, hitting the side of Remus’s face and bathing him in gold. He uncrosses his arms and digs his hands into his pockets before leaning forward slightly to whisper something into Marlene’s ear that makes a grin split across her face. It’s a movement that’s so effortless and unconscious but somehow still makes something bloom in Sirius’ chest, something as warm and golden as Remus looks in the light.
“Are you always frowning?” Barty asks, elbowing Regulus in the side as he walks past. Like Sirius and Regulus, he attends Salazar Grammar, the local all-boys private school that Walburga and Orion insisted on sending their sons to. He’s always been better friends with Regulus than Sirius, but Sirius is still glad to have a friendly face other than his brother.
“Only for you, Crouch,” Regulus replies curtly, but there’s a hint of a smile on his face. Barty seems to be one of the only people, aside from Sirius, who can crack Regulus’ façade, and so Sirius can’t help but love him for it. Barty winks and blows a kiss just as a tall girl appears behind him, throwing her arms around him with such force that he loses his footing for a moment. She has deep golden skin that starkly contrasts her white braids, most of which are adorned with silver charms. When she looks up, Sirius notices her eyes, so grey that they have almost a purple hue and lined with elaborate hot pink graphic eyeliner. She grins at him, a smile so genuine that he can’t help but smile back.
“I’m Pandora,” she says, detangling herself from Barty to skip over to them. “Sirius and Regulus, right?”
Regulus nods and holds out his hand to her, causing her to squeal with joy. She takes his hand and turns it so that it faces palm up, before gently running her thumb over the centre.
“A nice, vertical sun line,” she muses, “Lucky you.” Regulus pulls his hand away, blushing furiously, but he looks pleased regardless.
“Do you do this to everyone?” Sirius asks, and Pandora nods enthusiastically. Behind her, Barty fondly mirrors her action.
“If I had more time, I’d give you both a proper reading,” she declares before reaching into her pocket and pulling out a tarot deck. “It’s a pretty valuable way of getting to know someone. I read Lily’s cards on our first date and it's how I knew we were soulmates.” She gestures to the front of the room where Lily sits, unzipping her viola case and attaching her shoulder rest.
“Is everyone in this orchestra dating each other?” Regulus asks, clearly intending for it to be a joke, but Barty just grins, piercings glinting.
“Pretty much. I mean, for some of us, it’s the only group of people we socialise with. The end of term parties get crazy .” Regulus pales slightly at the mention of parties, but a tingle of curiosity sparks in Sirius’ chest.
“So, is everyone involved with someone else here?” he asks, trying to be as casual as possible, “Say, for example – I don’t know – the tall guy with the jumper?” Barty barks a laugh as Pandora giggles behind her palm, as if Sirius has just asked something hilarious.
“Remus? Nah, he’s immune to whatever’s in the air. Sure, people have tried, but he doesn’t do relationships,” Barty explains, gazing across the room wistfully, “Or hookups. Unfortunately.”
“Don’t you have a boyfriend?” Regulus points out, eyebrows raised and arms folded across his chest in the most quintessential Regulus-like pose. Sirius genuinely fears for his brother’s future children, as he’s already mastered the disappointed parent glare. Though, with parents such as theirs, it’s not difficult to pick up.
“Evan shares the sentiment. It’s a real shame.” As if on cue, Evan seems to materialise a few metres away, trombone in hand, giving the four of them a shy wave. Despite how long Barty and Evan have been together, Sirius has never had the pleasure of meeting Evan, and even from such a small interaction he’s struggling to understand how the two of them could be even slightly compatible.
“You’re a disgrace,” Regulus hisses.
“’Disgrace’ is my middle name, darling,” Barty drawls before winking at Evan and blowing a kiss. In response, Evan grins, all teeth, and makes a very crude gesture with both hands, instrument still tucked under his arm.
Well, there you go. Soulmates.
Their conversation evolves into one of verbal jabs and laughter, but Sirius isn’t listening. His brother’s voice fades to background noise as he looks at Remus again. He’s leaning against the window ledge, slouched with his arms folded as if he’s trying to make himself smaller, but it isn’t working. He’s still impossible for Sirius to pull his eyes away from. He looks up and for a moment - a delicate, perfect moment – his eyes lock with Sirius’. Muffled background chatter becomes white noise, and, when Remus tears his gaze away with an ease that makes Sirius feel sick, it’s as if it's in slow motion.
Everything Sirius has learnt about Remus thus far seems contradictory. He’s beautiful, for starters, but carries himself as if he doesn’t realise it. Sirius has spent his life surrounded and raised by beautiful people, it's not a quality that the possessor is unaware of, it’s something that is used and wielded. Sometimes like magic, sometimes like a weapon, but in either case, it's there . Remus walks around like the world isn’t made for him, even though ever since Sirius laid eyes on him, his world has narrowed to a single point – him. He’s all sharp edges and sarcasm but exudes a quiet confidence that he doesn’t seem to know what to do with. He looks at his friends with such warmth and admiration, but when he looks at Sirius, it’s as if he’s built a wall between them.
It's as if Remus has already decided that Sirius is someone he needs to defend himself from, and Sirius has no idea why.
Actually, he does. Or he can at least make a pretty good guess.
Alongside the Black family beauty, he’s inherited their coldness. He’s known it ever since he was old enough to understand that the way his parents looked at him and Regulus wasn’t normal. One of Sirius’ earliest memories is of his first day at daycare, watching as the mothers and fathers collected their children, devotion and love evident in their eyes and the way they scooped up their kids and peppered their faces with kisses. That afternoon, when Walburga finally arrived for him, her grip on his hand felt extra tight and cold in a way it never had before. It was the first time Sirius felt different, and it wasn’t the last. They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone until it’s gone, but maybe it works both ways. Until that otherwise insignificant day, he didn’t know what he was missing.
He knows now. He knows what runs in his blood, more so than oxygen.
Maybe Remus can just see the innate cruelty that Sirius has tried so hard to suppress and not let surface. He can’t really blame Remus for noticing what’s there.
*
“Shit,” escapes from Sirius’ lips as he stares at the empty plastic box in the corner of the room after watching one of the clarinettists take the last music stand from right under his nose. He looks around the room in case there’s a spare somewhere, but instead he sees a few more empty spots in front of chairs.
“Minerva,” he says cautiously as she sweeps past him in a flowing dress and cardigan combination that makes her look like she’s wearing wizard robes. “There aren’t any more stands.”
“Ah yes! Some got taken upstairs to the storeroom at some point last week if you want to go and fetch a few,” she tells him. Sirius is about to point out that he doesn’t know where the storeroom is when her eyes light up and she glances at someone over his shoulder. “Oh! Lupin! Please could you show Sirius where the extra stands are. We need a few so it’s probably best if both of you go.” Sirius is just thinking about who on earth should be cursed with a surname like ‘Lupin’ when he hears a familiar voice that makes him turn around with an urgency he didn’t know he possessed. He nearly falls over as he struggles to regain his balance, and Remus slowly raises one eyebrow, somehow without altering the rest of his expression.
“Come on then,” Remus says, sounding bored, and he honest to God rolls his eyes as he gestures for Sirius to follow him, not looking back once. He takes ridiculously long strides that would make anyone else look stupid, and Sirius is once again equal parts bewildered and enamoured by him. Awkwardly, he follows behind, making sure to walk quickly so as to not lose Remus in the maze of dimly lit corridors and hidden staircases that he’s being led through.
Remus doesn’t say a word until they reach a room on the third or fourth floor – Sirius has lost count – and lazily shoves it open with his shoulder. There’s a tarnished brass plaque in the centre that is probably supposed to say ‘STOREROOM’ but is so dusty and old that it instead reads ‘STUR RO N’.
“How many do you need?” Remus still doesn’t look at Sirius, and instead walks into a room lined with shelves, each one piled high with folders of music and instrument cases in perfect organised chaos. The light flickers to life as he flips a lightswitch by the door frame without even looking at it. Sure enough, in the centre of the room is a box of music stands, the plastic worn and cracked from age and use.
“I’m not sure,” is Sirius’ reply, and he’s surprised at how quiet his voice is.
“You’re not sure,” Remus repeats.
“No.”
“Fucking hell.” It’s so dismissive that it feels like a stab to the gut. Sirius doesn’t know why the apathy of a boy who he only met two weeks ago has such an effect on him, but it’s enough to make him snap.
“What is your problem?” he starts, and even though it’s fuelled by anger, it comes out sounding pathetic and sad. Remus stops and looks up from where he’s crouched by the box. It’s the first time he’s looked at him, and Sirius feels the weight of his gaze.
“What’s my problem?” he says slowly, every syllable sharp and contemplated. Sirius really wishes he’d stop repeating everything. “A bit rich coming from you.”
Sirius just stands there dumbly, fists curled tight by his sides, teeth gritted but hidden by his lips. He grinds his jaw, a habit he’s never managed to break, relishing slightly in the sharp pain of his inner cheek being caught between his teeth.
“I don’t get you, Remus.”
“Maybe I don’t want you to get me, Sirius. Have you ever thought of that?” Remus seethes, tearing Sirius a new one as if his life depends on it. “We met two weeks ago; I don’t owe you a thing . Just because you waltz in here and take things from people doesn’t mean that I have to give you anything willingly.” For a moment, Sirius is sure he must be hearing wrong. The words make sense, the sentence structure makes sense, but the whole of it? The sentiment? The accusation? He can’t understand what it could possibly mean.
“I take things from people ? Take things? What could I have possibly taken from you in the last fortnight that gives you the right to treat me like shit?” Sirius is glad that they’re so far away from the main hall because he’s almost shouting. Remus grins, but it’s angry.
“Christ, you’re even more arrogant than I thought.”
“Explain it to me,” Sirius demands, and the next thing he knows, he’s standing in front of Remus, an accusatory finger jammed at his chest, which is rising and falling heavily. “Explain to me what I’ve supposedly done to you, and then I’ll leave you alone. I’ll do whatever you want me to do. Just make me understand first.” If Sirius can thank Black family genes for one thing, it's that he isn’t crying, no matter how much he wants to. He can feel the anger bubbling in his stomach, and his eyes sting, but no tears escape.
“It’s not me you’ve done something to,” Remus says eventually, looking down at Sirius with an unreadable expression. His eyes are still cold. “It’s Marlene.”
That makes Sirius stop.
He’s only interacted with Marlene three times; when they met, when he inquired after Remus, and last week, when she yelled at him outside after rehearsal for reasons still unknown to him.
“What?” he says weakly. Remus looks at him expectantly, as if he’s supposed to suddenly understand what he’s being accused of and why Remus hates him so much. But then, Remus’ face softens, only slightly.
“Do you really not know?” Sirius shakes his head. “Think about it.”
“I am fucking thinking about it, Remus! Call me arrogant, but I can’t think of a single thing I’ve done to her that would warrant this sort of reaction. From you, no less.” At some point, Remus has ended up with his back against one of the shelving units with Sirius standing only inches from his chest. This close, Sirius can see every scar on his face, and he has to physically stop himself from reaching up and touching them, desperate to know how Remus’ skin would feel under his hands. There’s a smaller scar running through the arch of his left eyebrow that looks as if it once housed a piercing. Remus smells faintly of cigarettes and something sweet, and Sirius wants to lean in closer, wants to see if Remus would let him.
“Sirius, you took her seat. Or, okay, fine, Regulus , took her seat. But you let it happen. You just smiled and shook her hand as if it was nothing.”
“Her seat?” Is Remus speaking in riddles? Sirius has never felt as out of the loop as he does at this moment.
“You must have been in an orchestra before, right?” Remus says carefully, asking a question that he seemingly has just figured out the answer to. Sirius shakes his head again, slower this time, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Fuck.”
“As riveting as this back and forth is, I’d appreciate it if you'd fill me in now.” Remus sighs and drags a hand over his face, fingers lingering on the scar above his lip. Sirius wants to replace them with his own. Or maybe his mouth.
“Marlene was supposed to be on the front desk. First chair, principal, whatever you want to call it. It’s a big deal, that kind of honour.” Sirius nods. He’s been to enough orchestra concerts with his family to know that much. He’s seen the way the audience applauds for the principal violinist when they are introduced alongside the conductor. He’s been that audience, hanging on every note as if in the presence of a hypnotist. He’s seen Regulus beside him, eyes wide with the look of someone who’s just realised what their future could look like. If what Remus is saying is true, then Marlene has been that person too. Maybe everyone in the orchestra has. “She’s been working towards it for years, ever since she joined, and probably ever since she started playing violin. Last year, the two girls on the front desk left for uni, and so she was supposed to be next in line to fill the spot. And she was, until two weeks ago, when you and your brother sauntered in here and got put on the front desk instead.” Sirius feels sick. “And now,” Remus goes on, “to rub salt in the wound, Regulus is leading the concerto that she’s dreamed about playing her whole life, so forgive her for cursing you out, and forgive me for being a little pissed off on her behalf.”
“Oh my God,” Sirius says, because he doesn’t have any other words, “ Oh my God. I had no idea, I- she didn’t say anything! Minerva just told us we were sitting there, and I assumed it was so she could keep an eye on us because we were new, and oh my God. ”
“You’ve seriously never done ensemble stuff before?” Remus asks again, as if he can’t believe it.
“Mum never let us, didn’t see the point. But then she realised that in order for us to apply to music colleges we’d need that experience, so she sent us here.” Sirius digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I feel so awful. No wonder you’re such a dick to me.” He pauses. “That is why, right?” He hears Remus laugh, but it seems genuine this time. Warm hands lift his own away from his face, and he can’t help but look up to where Remus is looking down at him in a way that makes something in his chest hurt.
“Partially, yes.”
“And the other part?” Remus just huffs in response, a slight blush colouring his cheeks.
“You upset Marlene, and I just assumed you knew what you were doing, and then you started flirting with me , which is ridiculous, and it just, quite frankly, made me think you were purposely being a twat.” He says it all as if it should be obvious, but Sirius can only stare, dumbfounded.
“You flirted with me too!” Sirius eventually manages and immediately regrets it. Remus just shrugs, almost shyly, mirth dancing in his eyes as if the wall has started to crack.
“Yeah, well, it was supposed to be a revenge plan to defend Marlene’s honour, and then it got a bit out of hand.”
“Out of hand because you realised that I’m actually irresistible?” Sirius teases.
“Out of hand because I realised that I forgot to inform Marlene of said revenge plan.”
“But Marlene is the one who told me to talk to you!” splutters Sirius, becoming more confused by the second as Remus shakes with silent laughter. “She said I was your type! Fucking hell, I’m so embarrassed.”
“Don’t be,” Remus says, almost kindly, “Marlene’s like that. We must have had the same idea of how to get back at you.”
“Why me!” Sirius exclaims, throwing his hands up in peak Sirius Black dramatics fashion, “I’m not even first chair!”
“Aiding and abetting a crime,” Remus hums. “You could get about 12 years for that.”
“Fuck you.”
Sirius is rewarded with a grin that tugs at Remus’ scars as he tilts his head at him and slips out from between Sirius and the shelf, walking back over to the box and picking up the stands that he’d abandoned in the midst of their verbal sparring.
“Come on,” he says, “We need to get these stands downstairs.” Sirius piles five stands in his arms, better to be safe than sorry with numbers, and diligently follows Remus back out of the room, feeling equal parts lighter and heavier.
Remus may not think he’s an awful person anymore, but he’s openly admitted that his reciprocation of the flirting was a prank, meant to humiliate him. It feels as if in his attempt to resolve the situation, Remus has removed the dagger through Sirius’ chest before stabbing it back in and twisting it, all with a smile as if he doesn’t even know what his hands are doing. Again, Sirius can’t really fault him for that.
“Hey, Remus,” he calls out, “Are we good?” Remus turns to look over his shoulder.
“Apologise to Marlene and we’ll be one step closer.”
“Yeah, of course. I’ll speak to Reg, too. I’m sure he’ll understand.” Remus makes a noise of appreciation, and they walk in comfortable silence for a few minutes. However, if there’s one thing Sirius is compelled to do, it’s to break such silences.
“So, Remus Lupin, huh? A bit on the nose, don’t you think? Wolf Wolf?” Remus stops, throws his head back and fucking giggles , and Sirius want to die.
“Someone knows their classics.”
“I contain multitudes, Wolfboy,” Sirius drawls, allowing himself to be gently shoved into the wall when he catches up to Remus.
“Fuck off. I don’t even know your last name.”
“Black.” It tastes sour in Sirius’ mouth, but for some reason he doesn’t hesitate to tell Remus. It tastes a little sweeter when Remus smiles gently at him.
“You’re kidding. Any relation to Narcissa?” Sirius groans.
“She’s my cousin.” Unfortunately , he doesn’t add. Regulus always liked her more.
“And she was first chair last year, the one who Marlene was meant to replace. God, Marlene is going to have a field day with this.” Sirius can’t even find it in himself to be shocked. The Black family is no stranger to nepotism. Or ruining people’s lives. He didn’t know that Narcissa ever attended Hogwarts orchestra though. Walburga never mentioned it, but he doubts it was an accident or that it just slipped her mind. Maybe she knew that he’d refuse to go if he’d known that it was some kind of extension of the family.
“I should have put two and two together, though,” Remus muses, “I mean, how many families name their kids after celestial bodies?”
“Someone knows their astronomy,” Sirius teases as they reach the door to the main hall. The sound of the orchestra warming up spills out from under the door. Remus opens the door for him, far less aggressively than how he’d opened the storeroom.
“Looks like you’re not the only one who contains multitudes ,” says his voice, lilting and low, but when Sirius looks up, he’s gone.
*
The rehearsal is fairly uneventful, but Sirius can’t help but take satisfaction in the knowledge that the programme is starting to come together. They tried a few new pieces of music, and he’s starting to become more excited about the Christmas concert. Thankfully, they didn’t rehearse the violin concerto. Sirius is sure he would have thrown up if they had.
Now, he stands by the front door, waiting for Regulus to finish talking to Barty and a girl with curly hair, glasses and a flute case, when Marlene walks past him.
“Marlene,” he says, reaching a hand out to grab her arm but then thinking better of it. She turns to him with a huff, expression blank aside from the clear fury in her eyes that sets alight as soon as she realises who’s talking to her.
“This better be an apology.”
“It is, actually.” Marlene looks surprised, and she softens, reaching up to pull a headphone out of her ear and actually pay him attention. “Remus spoke to me. Well, actually he yelled at me.” Marlene smiles. “Anyway, he told me why you’re upset, and I get it. I know it means nothing to say that I had no idea about what the position and the concerto means to you, but I honestly didn’t. I’ve never done this before, and I’m sorry.”
“Wow. That almost sounded genuine.”
“Don’t make me take it back. I’m serious, Marlene. I’m going to talk to Regulus and talk to Minerva and see if we can swap. I’ll work it out.”
“Really?” She stares at him with something akin to awe, and something soft blooms in his chest. Sirius nods and offers a smile. “I-wow. That means a lot. Thank you. And I’m sorry for cursing you out last week.”
“Ah, well, I deserved it.”
“You did. You absolutely did.” Marlene laughs, hearty and contagious, running a hand through her hair in a way that feels so familiar to Sirius, and he realises that she reminds him of, well, him . Sharp, stubborn, quick to anger, but, at her core, still just a teenager who loves music. “Some of us are going out for food, if you want to come along.” She asks awkwardly, as if it physically pains her, but at least she’s trying. Sirius follows her line of sight as she looks over to a huddle of people laden with bags and cases. He spots James and Remus, grinning to himself like an idiot as the latter catches his eye, as well as a tall girl with curly black hair, Lily and Pandora.
He’s about to say yes, about to ask if Regulus can come, when he sees a familiar car pull up next to him. Walburga winds down her window and looks at him expectantly, a cold smile creeping onto her face. She doesn’t say a word, but she doesn’t need to.
“I can’t,” he says quickly before his heart gets the better of him and beats his head to it. Marlene almost looks disappointed, but she shrugs.
“Maybe another time?”
“Yeah, maybe.” He can’t tell if the iron he can taste is from biting his lip too hard or if it’s just the blatant lie. He waves as Marlene retreats towards her friends, and looks down at his shoes before he can look at her. Or at Remus.
He watches Regulus walk past him, heading to the car with no hesitation, and Sirius follows his brother like a moth to a flame.
*
It’s not until later that evening that Sirius gets a chance to talk to his brother. He knocks on Regulus’ door, unable to stop himself from laughing at the absurdly extravagant ‘do not disturb’ sign that Regulus put up as an angsty thirteen year old and never took down. After giving three sharp knocks, their secret code to let the other know who’s there, he hears Regulus shout, “Come in!”
He finds Regulus sitting up in his bed, textbooks spread around him and concentration written in the crease of his forehead as he looks down at his paper, rubs something out, and scribbles something else in its place. He doesn’t look up.
“I’ll never understand why you decided to take Physics,” Sirius says, practically throwing himself onto the bed next to him. Regulus’ calculator falls to the floor, and Sirius is quick to pick it up after receiving his brother’s signature glare.
“Would you believe me if I told you that I think it’s interesting?”
“Nope.”
“What do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about something.” Immediately, Regulus shuts his book and puts down his pen, giving Sirius his full attention. He looks concerned, or as concerned as Regulus is able to. “Don’t look at me like that. It’s nothing bad.”
“Stop being so vague and cryptic then! You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.”
“You’d need a heart for that,” Sirius jibes, prompting Regulus to flip him off and lie down. “Anyway, it’s about Marlene.”
“Who?” Unbelievable.
“Marlene? Violinist at orchestra?” Some semblance of realisation dawns on Regulus.
“Blonde girl?” Sirius nods. “What about her?”
Sirius does his best to relay exactly what Remus explained to him, about how hard Marlene has worked, about how much the position means to her. He even mentions Narcissa in the hope that it’ll prompt some kind of emotional reaction, but to no avail.
“Okay…” Regulus says slowly, as if Sirius has been speaking another language, “And how exactly is that my problem?”
“Because for some reason, we’ve been given some kind of special treatment, you’ve been put into a position you haven’t worked for, and I think it’s only fair that we speak to Minerva and get Marlene back in first chair.” Regulus stares at him blankly, paling slightly, before letting out a laugh that borders on hysterical.
“Are you being serious?” Sirius grins despite himself.
“I’m always-”
“Don’t fucking answer that. Still, you actually expect me to give up my seat for some girl I barely know?”
“Um, yes?” For the second time tonight, Sirius feels as if he’s missing something. It shouldn’t be a question. Sure, Regulus has always been the more passive of the two, quieter and less sure of himself, but he’s never not done the right thing when given the opportunity.
“Not happening.” Regulus sits up, propped up on his elbows, a casualness that few people aside from Sirius get to see.
“Why not? You think you deserve this more than she does?” Regulus looks straight at him, and the look on his face makes Sirius feel sick. He’s looking at him as if he’s just betrayed him.
“You don’t think I might deserve this too?” His brother’s voice comes out as a whisper, and for the first time in years, Sirius feels like an older sibling rather than just a brother. Regulus sounds young, sounds hurt, and he wants to pull him close and never let go.
“Of course I do! I think you deserve the world, and you know that, but I just don’t think it's fair for you to get something that you haven’t worked for. I think you deserve to be principal violinist of any other orchestra in the world, just maybe not this one.” He means it, and he doesn’t understand why Regulus is acting like this. He’d burn the world for his brother, no hesitation, but he can’t justify this. This feels like fire for the sake of fire.
“Well,” Regulus starts, and Sirius doesn’t recognise him. “This is the one I’ve got. I’m not giving that up. I can’t .” His teeth are gritted, and he doesn’t look like a child anymore.
No, he looks like Sirius.
Stubborn. Cruel.
“Well,” Sirius says weakly, “Sorry for expecting better of you.” He stands up, absentmindedly adjusting the duvet where he’s been sitting and walking straight out of the room.
He doesn’t turn back, and the worst part is, Regulus doesn’t ask him to.
Notes:
look i know regulus isn't looking too great right now but TRUST ME its for the plot!! its gonna be fine...eventually...
there's clues in here for later events and revelations if you squint really hard, but i promise things will pick up soon!!also, wolfstar, why can't they communicate in any universe?
Chapter 4: chapter four
Notes:
we're back!
sorry for being slightly mia, i've had 5/9 of my exams and somehow got distracted from this fic by writing a canon compliant moonwater one shot (??? still can't believe i'm saying that)
but we're back for regularly scheduled jegulus and wolfstar!!
as always, thank you to zari, and thank you to everyone who's shown this fic love so far, it means the world to me!! hope you enjoy!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Rehearsals remaining until the Christmas recital: 11
James shouldn’t be so surprised to see him in a music shop, given the circumstances, but he still nearly jumps out of his skin when he turns to see Regulus - Regulus Black , apparently, because what are the fucking odds? - standing next to him.
“You’re in the wrong place,” Regulus says quietly, “Brass section is over there.” James is so surprised to hear him speak, to him, no less, that he doesn’t say anything, and instead stays where he is, staring straight ahead at the rows upon rows of strings.
He’s even more certain that he picked the right instrument, because his brain is starting to hurt from looking at the numerous square packets that all look identical, but are supposedly all very different.
“Marlene,” he manages, “Her string snapped whilst she was practicing and she doesn’t have time to get a new one before tonight because she’s run out of spares-“
“Right,” Regulus interrupts, “Thanks for the life story.” He sounds almost teasing, but by the time James turns to look at him, any trace of a smile has vanished. It’s impossible to know if it was ever there at all, but James would like to think it was.
“Am I stupid or do they all look the same?” James says after a beat of silence. Regulus raises a singular perfect eyebrow as if he himself can’t believe that he’s giving James the time of day. James grimaces. “Actually, don’t answer the first part of that question.” He looks back at the display. Every packet has a black and white drawing of an instrument on the front, but since the drawings have all been scaled down, it’s impossible to tell whether it’s supposed to be a violin, a viola, a cello, or a double bass. He knows that Marlene needs an A, but he also paid enough attention in music theory lessons to know that all four instruments have A strings, so it doesn’t narrow it down very far. He tells Regulus this much, to which the other boy rolls his eyes and reaches up to take a yellow and orange striped packet from the left side of the display.
“This is a good brand. Slightly on the pricier side, unfortunately, but it’s worth it because it’ll last longer.”
“By ‘on the pricier side’, how much are we talking?” James asks, almost too scared to hear the answer. He gets the impression that he and Regulus have very different ideas of ‘pricey.’ He knows that Marlene is going to pay him back, so technically it isn’t his money that he’s spending, but he doesn’t feel great about forcing Marlene to cough up more than a few quid. It’s just one string, after all, not even a full set, which James assumed was how they were sold until he arrived at the shop. Apparently not.
“Fifteen pounds,” Regulus says, flipping over the packet to read the price tag on the back. “Well, fourteen-ninety-nine, but same thing really.”
“Fifteen quid?” James almost shouts, incredulous, “For one bloody string? Daylight fucking robbery! It’s just metal, is it not?”
“Pretty much,” Regulus agrees solemnly, but there’s a slight grin on his lips, tugging gently at a dimple on his left cheek that James is absolutely delighted to notice. Nevertheless, James takes the packet, stomach fluttering incessantly as his fingers brush Regulus’ for less than half a second. Regulus’ face betrays nothing and James can’t help but feel slightly embarrassed. “It’s good metal, though,” Regulus says quietly, “Marlene will appreciate it even if you don’t.”
“How could you tell that this was a violin one?” James asks, not because it’s deeply troubling him, but because he just wants to keep Regulus talking. He has a nice voice. Regulus rolls his eyes, again, which definitely doesn’t do something to James, and casually taps a finger to the small calligraphic text on the front of the packet that sure enough reads ‘violin.’
“That’s usually a pretty good indicator,” Regulus says, his hand lingering for perhaps longer than necessary, or maybe James is just slowly going insane. James clears his throat.
“Yeah, good point. I’ll, um, yeah I-I’ll start there next time.”
“Next time Marlene breaks a string? How often does this happen?”
“She’s very enthusiastic.”
“Clearly,” Regulus deadpans, before holding up a small metal tin that James is pretty sure is rosin. “This is what I came for, so I’ll be off.”
“Yeah, okay,” James breathes, just as Regulus turns away without another word. He reaches out to grab his wrist but immediately thinks better of it, but Regulus still turns around as if he can sense that James has more to say. “I heard about what you’re doing for Marlene.” Regulus smiles slightly, but it’s an unreadable smile, the kind that could easily be interpreted as both genuine and sarcastic depending on who’s doing the interpreting.
“Did you?”
“I think it’s really good of you, Regulus.”
“Do you?”
“I know we don’t know each other very well, but it means a lot to me that you’d do that for her, you know?”
“Does it?” Regulus sounds almost bored. James suddenly feels self conscious, heat prickling at the back of his neck. Regulus adjusts how his case is sitting against his back and rubs his thumb over the rosin.
“Why are you doing that?” James splutters, “The rhetorical question thing?”
“Oh, I was just wondering how long you’d keep it up. The compliment thing.”
“Do you have a problem with people complimenting you?” Regulus grins at that, teeth perfectly white and sharp in a way that makes James feel slightly lightheaded.
“Usually not, but it does feel a bit rude to accept compliments that I haven’t earned.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m not giving up the seat, James. Or the part.”
“What? But-Remus said that Sirius said that he’d talk to you and that you-“ The string of words fall out of his mouth before James can check if they’re coherent, but Regulus just sighs.
“Are you really believing everything you hear without going straight to the source?” He rubs a hand over his eyes as if he can’t believe he’s having this conversation. James can’t either. “This isn’t Chinese Whispers.”
“I’m at the source now,” James points out.
“And the source is telling you that he’s not giving up first chair. How hard is that to understand?” The dimple twitches, like a comma, as if Regulus is going to carry on talking. Instead, he patiently waits for James to produce sounds which are closer to words than the garbled noises that are currently exiting his mouth.
“But why ?” James manages finally. Regulus shrugs.
“Don’t want to,” he says, as if it’s really that simple. He narrows his eyes at James, grey gaze like some kind of X-ray vision, peeling back every carefully constructed layer of James’ exterior, even ones that he didn’t realise he had, until it feels like Regulus can see every organ, every cell, every drop of blood. “Are you one of those infuriating people who tries to see the good in everyone?”
James stands up a little straighter, and is slightly disappointed to find that he isn’t actually that much taller than Regulus. “So what if I am? Are you not?” Regulus looks away for a moment, as if he’s been caught, before looking back at James with the same expression that his parents wore when they told him the truth about Father Christmas and the tooth fairy - the kind of sympathetic smile that accompanies life-changing, Earth-altering news, the wearer knowing that they’re about to crush someone’s dreams and contradict everything that they thought they knew. James feels like a child again.
“No, I’m not. I know better than to be so optimistic.” Regulus almost looks sad, but he’s almost gentle when he says: “I respect you trying to give people the benefit of the doubt and think the best of them, but I worry it’ll get you in a lot of trouble one day.”
Grinning, James tilts his head slightly in the way that, as he’s learnt through trial and error, is a sure-fire way to make someone blush. Or even smile. He’d gladly accept so much as a smile from Regulus at this point. “Aww, Regulus. Are you worried about me?”
Regulus huffs, but a small flush colours the apples of his cheeks, and James is reminded of primary school, of painting with brusho during art lessons; a small bit of pigment that he could spread across the whole page with just a few movements of his paintbrush. He wants to replicate exactly that, but with Regulus’ face as the canvas and just his words and a smile as his coloured powder and dampened brush. “Because I’m flattered, really. I knew from the moment I saw you that you’re sweet.”
Eyes widening, jaw dropping slightly before he catches himself, Regulus turns away. “Goodbye, James.” James gives Regulus’ retreating back a wave that he won’t see and hides his smile behind the back of his hand. He rubs his finger over the string packet that Regulus touched and thinks that maybe, just maybe, there’s more to Regulus than he thought.
*
“McKinnon!” James yells across the room, ignoring the curious glances he receives from the other musicians. They should be used to it by now. “Your knight in shining armour has arrived!”
“My fair warrior!” Marlene calls in response, throwing her arms around him in an exaggerated fashion when he reaches her. Somehow, the embrace shifts to a headlock, and James can already tell that his hair is going to look even more untamed once she’s let go of him.
“Did you just quote Othello and then attack him?” Remus asks with a raised eyebrow. He’s sat on what should be Caradoc’s chair, nose buried in a dog-eared copy of Interview with the Vampire. He doesn’t look up.
“That was Othello?” Marlene asks, finally releasing James.
“Yes?” James says, smoothing down his shirt and hair to no avail. “Even I know that, and I didn’t take English Lit.”
“I only did AS,” Marlene groans, “And that was last year . Basically a lifetime ago. I don’t remember any of it.”
“You remember enough to quote it,” Remus points out, still reading. He lets out a soft laugh, prompting Marlene and James to turn to him, but he brushes them off with a wave of his hand, gesturing that it was a response to something in his book, not them.
“Whatever,” Marlene says dismissively, doing a slightly ridiculous grabby-hands action in James’ direction, like a baby trying to get their parent’s food. “Where’s my present?” James bows down to her as he retrieves the string from his back pocket.
“I hope this is satisfactory, your Highness.”
“Fucking hell, James,” Marlene exclaims as she takes it. “This is a good brand! Did you stand in the shop and reverse Google-image-search all of them?” James clears his throat, and as if on cue, he feels the air around him shift. Sure enough, when he looks up, there’s Regulus, unpacking his case on the chair in front of them. James feels his chest clench, his throat fizzing like he’s eaten popping candy, the feeling nostalgic and welcomed. Next to him, Sirius shrugs his own case off of his shoulder, depositing it on the floor next to him. His face lights up slightly when he sees Remus, and the latter finally looks up, offering a small smile before going back to his book. What James can see, which Sirius probably can’t, is that Remus is still smiling, hidden behind the yellowed pages and battered cover as if that’ll do enough to cover up the unmistakable glimmer in his eyes and the flush of crimson on his cheeks.
“I had some help,” James says, because what’s the point in lying? Marlene follows his gaze to Regulus, to where her seat is still occupied, where the person filling it couldn’t look less like he is intending to move even if he tried. Marlene’s face falls, slightly, and James is about to say something, anything. Part of him wants to apologise that he couldn’t somehow convince Regulus to change his mind, but he knows it’s not his fault. Maybe it would be easier to comfort Marlene if it was.
“It’s fine,” she says in response to his non-existent reassurance, because Marlene has always beaten him. Sports races, test scores, and now this. “I’ll get over it.” She shrugs, as if it’ll camouflage the way her eyes dim as she very pointedly looks away from Regulus and back to her own music. And then, “Thank you. I’ll pay you back.” James shakes his head.
“No need.” He doesn’t mention that on the way to rehearsal, his hands in his jacket pockets, his fingers stumbled across two perfectly folded banknotes; a five pound and a ten pound. Now, when he lets his eyes wander back towards the black-haired boy just a few feet away, Regulus looks up and meets his gaze, a tiny smile on his lips, so subtle that James feels deep in his bones that it’s just for him. “Early birthday present, yeah?” Marlene laughs at that, reminding him of what he already knows, that her birthday isn’t until July, but she thanks him wordlessly with a nod of her head and a familiar grin that James has learnt to translate due to years of experience and adoration for her. Marlene has never been one to let her emotions be shown, never one to allow vulnerability.
Sirius turns around and catches sight of Remus’ book, eyes widening. “How are you finding it?”
Remus’ head snaps up. He folds the cover over to look at it as if he’s forgotten what he’s reading. “It’s good.”
“Have you watched the TV show?” Sirius’ eyes glitter and Remus blushes, or as close to blushes as Remus Lupin ever does. He ducks his head and scratches the back of his neck with his free hand.
“Yeah, um. I like it.”
“You know,” Sirius tosses his hair over his shoulder, “I’ve been told by multiple people that I remind them of Lestat.”
Remus raises a sceptical eyebrow and looks back down at the page. “Oh yeah? What, are you French?”
Sirius grins, then, all teeth, and next to him, Regulus rolls his eyes. “ Techniquement non, mais je le parle. On m'a dit que c'était l'une de mes plus grandes qualités, juste après mon visage, bien sûr .”
Remus lets out a choked noise.“Pardon?” Sirius just hums, looking very pleased with himself.
“Can you do that too?” James bursts out, swivelling to point at Regulus because he just has to know.
“ Je ne sais pas, peut-être, ” Regulus says quietly without looking up, and James wants to die.
“What the fuck?” Marlene breathes, looking between the four of them as if she can’t decide who she wants to kill first. “No. No. I refuse to have a repeat of the French exchange student incident of Year 11.” James and Remus both turn to look at her so fast that James is surprised he doesn’t get whiplash.
“Marls-“ Remus warns.
James narrows his eyes. “Don’t you dare.”
In perfect synchrony, Sirius and Regulus look up at her, clear curiosity painted in the arch of their eyebrows and the matching beginnings of smirks on their lips. Regulus folds his arms over his chest whilst Sirius shoves his hands in his pockets and leans forward slightly.
“No, please, do tell.” He doesn’t take his eyes off of Remus, who has now pretty much hidden his entire face in his book. James can see the tips of his ears, flushed red, and can feel Regulus’ gaze on him, which he refuses to meet for fear of what he might do.
Marlene grins, something wicked. “In Year 11, our school got involved in an exchange programme, and there was this one boy called,” she pauses, thinking, “Michael? Matthew?”
“Marcel,” James corrects before he can stop himself.
“ Marcel . Yeah, that was it. Anyway, both James and Remus here were obsessed with him, God knows why. They made an agreement that neither of them would act on it, out of respect for the other.”
“Why do I get the feeling that the deal didn’t end up being upheld?” Sirius muses, face scrunched up as if he’s trying to solve some kind of complex maths problem, a move to stir the pot judging by the smirk that tugs at his lips.
“All was well until James caught Marcel and Remus behind the sports shed,” Marlene continues, wiggling her fingers for dramatic effect like a children’s storyteller.
Sirius gasps, clutching his chest. “ Remus ! The drama! The betrayal! ”
Remus slides down in his seat, drops his book to his lap and drags his hands down his face. “Marlene, please stop talking.”
“You heard it here first, ladies and gents! Our very own Remus Lupin is in fact a bit of a slag!”
“Fuck off , Marlene.”
Sirius looks like he’s about to burst out laughing, a series of very different but distinct expressions flickering across his face in the same way someone might click through TV channels. “This is brilliant. I’ve got to know, James, how did you forgive him?”
Before James can answer, Marlene beats him to it. “Well, you see, the reason that James was behind the sports shed in the first place is because that's where he went to meet Marcel.”
Sirius gasps again, eyes glittering. “I feel like I’m watching a soap opera.”
“Let me get this straight,” Regulus says, standing up and shifting his weight to his back foot, looking more casual than James has ever seen him, “You both let a random exchange student manipulate and two-time you?”
“Bingo,” James nods solemnly.
“Regrettably,” Remus groans through gritted teeth as if it physically pains him.
“He was hot, though,” James points out, earning an eye roll from Marlene, “So you can’t really blame us.”
Raising an eyebrow, Sirius looks between the two of them, eyes lingering on Remus for slightly longer. Remus doesn’t appear to notice, gaze firmly fixed on the floor and the laces of his Converse. “Does this happen often,” Sirius asks, calculating, “You going after the same guy?”
James adamantly shakes his head, and can’t help the way he turns to look at Regulus. He’s standing with his head tilted to the side, lips pursed, looking what can only be described as conflicted. “It was a one-time occurrence,” James confirms, “We’ve learnt our lesson.” Regulus’ lip twitches at that.
“Good to know,” Sirius says with a grin, looking to Regulus himself and giving him a look that James can’t decipher, but he assumes must be part of some secret brother-code-language. It doesn’t go unnoticed, however, that this is the first time this afternoon that James has seen Sirius look at his brother. James’ stomach twists.
“Right!” comes Minerva’s voice as she seems to materialise at the front of the room, baton already in hand, “To our seats please. We have a lot to do today.” Marlene picks up her violin and swings herself into her chair in one fluid motion, and Sirius and Regulus follow. James waits for Remus to stand up, watching him fold the corner of his page - because he’s a heathen - before tucking the book into his back pocket. He groans as James flings an arm around his shoulder and drags him towards the back of the room.
“Just to be clear, so that Marlene doesn’t have to be put through another Marcel incident,” James says, close to Remus’ ear, more for effect, “Reg’s mine, yeah?”
Remus snorts. “Wanker. You can have them both, see if I care.”
As Remus sits down and opens his case, James follows his eyes back to Sirius, who’s lazily warming up but still looks and sounds like a professional, an infuriating ease draping itself over everything he does.
He doesn’t have to be a genius to deduce that maybe, actually, Remus cares quite a bit.
*
James feels an incredibly strong urge to somehow attempt to impale himself with his trumpet. It’s sitting bell-down on his lap, and he leans forward to rest his forehead on the mouthpiece. The cool metal is, unsurprisingly, slightly damp with saliva, but it's only his own, so James has no right to be disgusted.
On his left, Frank has his phone set up on his music stand, not so surreptitiously playing what James can make out as a knock-off version of Geometry Dash.
“Fuck,” Frank says as he loses again.
James, fed up of watching Frank in pity, turns to his right and blinks so hard that his eyes hurt.
“What the fuck are you doing?” he hisses to Remus. He’s given a small small with just the corner of his mouth, practically a toothy grin by Remus standards, as Remus brings a small piece of rolling paper to his lips and licks it. Sure enough, there’s a small tin open on his lap. Perks of having a bigger instrument to hide behind, James supposes.
“Calm down, Mum,” Remus says with a roll of his eyes. “It’s not weed, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Don’t be daft,” James retorts, “I’m not stupid. I know it’s not. I’m just wondering why you’re sitting around rolling cigs now .”
Remus shrugs, rolling the paper and tobacco together with nimble, practised fingers. “Cut me some slack, James. I could probably smoke a few now and Minerva wouldn’t notice.”
Sure enough, to Remus’ credit, Minerva’s attention is very much focused on the woodwind and strings, specifically the clarinets and cellos.
“You have the same rhythm,” she says, the grit to her voice suggesting that this is not the first time she’s mentioned it. “You are off the beat. Cellos, please can you play from bar fifty and clarinets, please pay attention.”
She counts a bar in, beating as the cellos play the same four bar phrase for the umpteenth time. James can’t help but feel sorry for Dorcas, who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else. Marlene, unsurprisingly, is also watching Dorcas, catching the other girl’s eye and giving a small, sympathetic smile.
“Fabulous. Now, with the clarinets.” The same phrase is repeated, still not quite together, and James internally applauds Minnie’s restraint. If it were him, he’d have walked out by now. “Right, again please, but this time without Amelia.” Amelia flushes and sheepishly lowers her bass clarinet, placing it on her stand. “Don’t worry,” Minerva reassures her, “You’re correct. But you don’t have the same part the next time this tune pops up so the rest of your section needs to stop relying on you.” Next to Amelia, Lucinda rolls her eyes and glares pointedly at Emmeline, who’s very blatantly avoiding eye contact.
The next time, it's perfect, or close enough that Minerva deems it an appropriate time to move on. “Everyone, now, from the start of this section.”
James lifts up his trumpet, nudging Remus, who’s halfway through rolling his third cigarette. He smirks, no sense of urgency, and raises a single finger as if telling James to wait.
“Actually,” Minerva says, after a pause, lowering her baton again, “Everyone except the brass.”
“Told you,” Remus hums as James puts his head in his hands.
*
“I’m telling you,” Emmeline exclaims, furiously digging her straw into the ice of her drink, “She has it out for me. It wasn’t even me who was messing up the rhythm, but somehow it’s always my fault!”
“She’s just jealous,” Mary soothes, running a hand through Emmeline’s long, black hair. She adjusts her posture in the squeaky vinyl booth so that Emmeline can properly rest her head on her shoulder. James smiles at her when he catches her eye.
It’s become a tradition, since the last few rehearsals of last summer term, for the orchestra to hang out at Fortescue’s Diner after rehearsal. James doesn’t go every week, but there’s always a few people there after every practice, an unspoken agreement that the offer is there and that if he were to show up, he wouldn’t be alone.
Next to him, Marlene is in deep conversation with Caradoc, furiously annotating her music as they discuss the best way to approach a particularly difficult chromatic scale. James hears talk of shifting and finger positions and automatically tunes out. Not his area of expertise.
Remus, unsurprisingly, is reading, an almost empty glass held to his mouth as he lazily rolls the straw between his lips. Occasionally, his expression will give an indication of what’s happening in the book, an eyebrow quirk or slight smile, but right now he just looks to be deeply focused.
As James looks around at these people, people who would normally have nothing in common if not for a love of music, and is once again aware of how incredibly lucky he is. He was always destined to play an instrument, his parents were adamant, with his father also playing the trumpet and his mother being a very talented harpist and flautist who once played in this very same orchestra in her youth. James expected that once he was old enough that he didn’t have to play anymore that he’d stop, but he’s found that he loves it more than he ever thought he would. Sure, he isn’t as naturally gifted as Marlene, as dedicated as Lily or as much in need of a creative outlet as Remus, but it's something to fall back on, something to enjoy.
“They were the best years of my life,” Euphemia tells him regularly. “That orchestra- it was more than just a hobby to me. It was a family. I met some of the most important people in my life there. Music brings people together.” She’d given a similar speech before his first rehearsal all those years ago, her eyes going watery and distant for a moment, gripping his hands so hard that James could almost feel how excited she was for him. “I really hope you can find the same joy and comfort in it that I did.” As always, she was right. The people sat around this table with him, and even the ones who aren’t, are his family in one way or another.
“I’m going to miss this.” He only realises that he’s said it out loud when Remus looks up.
“Hmm?”
“Next year,” James continues quietly. “I never thought I’d become this attached to everyone here. It’s so stupid.”
Remus shakes his head. “Nah, it isn’t. They’re your people. You’ve found your people, James, and you’re only seventeen. That’s pretty fucking great - you’re one of the lucky ones.”
“And you?”
“What?”
“Your people. Have you found them?” He asks even though he’s almost certain he knows the answer.
Remus just looks at him, eyes narrowed, as if he can’t believe James is forcing him to say it out loud. “Yes, you idiot,” he says, unable to hide the fondness that lingers in his words and in the way he scans the room, “They’re my people too.” And then, “We’re lucky we’ve had so long with them.”
James thinks about it; thinks about the people who he knows that he’ll continue to know and love for the rest of his life, about the people who he might lose touch with that have still shaped and moulded his life in ways they’ll never know and he’ll never be able to articulate, and about the people who’ve just made an appearance, who have tilted his world on its axis and left him with hardly any time to deal with it. He thinks of dark hair and sharp smiles and the look of someone who knows you even though they’ve only just met you.
“How did you do it?” James had asked, pulling Regulus aside as everyone was leaving, “And why?” He held out his hand, the folded up notes far less pristine than when he’d found them, and he couldn't help but feel guilty that he’s ruined something that Regulus must have put some semblance of care into.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Regulus responded, closing James fist without even looking, skin warm and electric.
“Regulus.”
Regulus had sighed, unfairly beautiful even in his melodrama. “Consider it an apology gift to Marlene.” James raised an eyebrow, trying to contain a smile and failing miserably.
“I knew you had a heart.”
Regulus hummed. “I shouldn’t have said what I did.”
“Which part?”
“That seeing the best in people will get you in trouble,” Regulus said, smiling softly but not meeting James’ eye, “I admire it, really. I hope you never stop.”
“Still not enough time,” James says now, the table suddenly feeling empty, like someone’s missing.
“It’s never enough time, is it?” Remus agrees. He closes his book and awkwardly leans over to rest his head on James’ shoulder, so un-Remus-like that James temporarily freezes before melting into the touch.
“I don’t think so.”
Notes:
ahh!!!!
i've been debating adding a sort of glossary/list of any music terminology at the ends of chapters because i can never properly gauge how much the general non-instrument-playing public knows about orchestras and the intricacies of certain instruments, so please let me know if that would be beneficial for anyone!!!
Chapter 5: chapter five
Notes:
a slightly shorter chapter, but hopefully the dorlene fluff makes up for it xx
thank you for all your lovely comments so far!!! they mean the world to me <3
Chapter Text
Rehearsals remaining until the Christmas recital: 10
Marlene leans her forehead on the cool glass of the bus window, watching the trees and houses blur together as an excuse to stop thinking for a moment. She rarely takes the bus to rehearsal, usually able to get a lift from her mum, Remus’ mum or one of James’ parents, but on the occasion that she does spend her journey alone, she savours it. The chatter of the other passengers fades as she turns up the volume of her headphones and allows herself to slip into a bubble of stillness.
The bus stops outside of the supermarket, the busiest stop, and Marlene accepts that she’s going to have to give up the seat that her violin case is currently lying on. When she reaches over to move it, her gaze catches on a figure standing in the aisle, leaning against a shiny purple cello case. Marlene swallows and pulls her headphones down so that they sit around her neck.
“Hey, McKinnon,” Dorcas grins, looking like some kind of angel in a dark green maxi skirt and purple halter neck top. “Mind if I sit?” Marlene shuffles closer to the window, thanking her past self for deciding to sit at the back. It means that Dorcas can slide in next to her and rest her cello against the next seat so that it isn’t in the way.
“Do you normally get this bus?” Marlene asks, because she’s sure she would have noticed otherwise.
Dorcas shakes her head, earrings and bracelets jangling as she reaches up to pull her hair out from where it's caught in the strap of her top. “My dad usually drops me off,” she explains, “Hard to take this thing on the bus, you know? But he has a meeting so I’ve had to make my own way.”
Marlene nods in response, slowly, mentally coming to terms with the fact that she has to keep her cool for the rest of the journey. She can’t exactly use the excuse of the bus reaching her stop, because today, her stop is also Dorcas’ stop, and Dorcas knows it.
“What were you listening to?” Dorcas asks, and it takes Marlene’s brain a moment to catch up. Dorcas is wearing sparkly purple eyeliner, and it’s very distracting.
“Oh, um,” she turns the screen of her phone to face Dorcas, displaying the album cover of The Runaways’ Waitin’ For The Night.
Dorcas grins. “Should’ve known you were a Joan Jett kinda girl.”
“Am I that predictable?”
“Reliable,” Dorcas corrects. “You’re only predictable because you’re so true to yourself.” She smiles then, as if she’s not sending Marlene into a spiral. “It’s refreshing.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah,” Dorcas nods emphatically, “I admire the hell out of you, you know?”
It doesn’t seem fair, really, that Dorcas can just say these things, that she can easily form sentences and utter statements that make Marlene’s heart leap to her throat. The way she smiles and carries on the conversation so casually suggests she has no idea of the effect that her words have, but Marlene is certain that she’d stop breathing if Dorcas asked.
That’s the kind of power she has over her. It should scare Marlene, but it doesn’t.
Marlene has a notoriously selective memory. She struggles to memorise facts and quotes and statistics in her classes, causing her to experience a suffocating amount of emotional turmoil when she reaches exam season. At gatherings and reunions with her extensive extended family, she regularly forgets names and how exactly she’s related to the people who smile at her and kiss her cheek, ask her how she’s been and tell her that she’s growing into such a wonderful young lady .
Despite this, if you asked her about the first time she saw Dorcas Meadowes, she’d be able to recall every single detail: the weather, the clothes she was wearing, the colour of Dorcas’ eyeliner that day.
Unlike most of the orchestra, Dorcas didn’t start in the junior ensembles, or even join at the start of a term. One week, there was only one cellist, Benjy, and the next, there was Dorcas. Two years ago, that was, and Marlene still remembers the way Dorcas strolled in and sat down with the air of someone who knew that they deserved to be there, a quiet confidence that only manifested into something more when the rehearsal properly began, and Marlene could hear Dorcas playing over the rest of the orchestra. Maybe it was proximity, or maybe it was the way she played every note as if it was it’s own symphony, with so much care and precision that Marlene couldn’t pull her eyes away. She even missed her own cue.
Marlene never misses cues. She once managed to come in at the right time midway through a sneeze. That’s how she knew Dorcas was special; the fact that her one track mind, her music-orientated brain saw her and said yes, this is someone we’re going to pay attention to . Looking at Dorcas, even now, makes her feel the same way that playing the violin does, like there’s some magical current in her veins, buzzing under her skin.
Fifteen year old Marlene didn’t know what she was in for after that fateful rehearsal, not until she approached Dorcas to introduce herself, took one look at her face up close, and immediately came to the conclusion that she was completely, irrevocably fucked.
“I’m Marlene,” she’d said, her entire body burning under Dorcas’ gaze.
“Marlene,” Dorcas repeated, testing out the syllables with the same amount of care that she gave her music, and making sure that Marlene would eternally be disappointed when hearing her name from any other mouth. “I’m Dorcas.”
“You’re really good,” Marlene breathed, just in case for some reason Dorcas wasn’t aware.
Dorcas just gave a crooked smile that made Marlene’s heart flutter, shrugging on her jacket and hoisting her case onto her back. “I know,” she grinned, “So are you.”
Before Marlene could respond, or even begin to process the compliment, Dorcas was gone, and her life was to never be the same again.
Now, the rest of her surroundings fade away as she listens to Dorcas recount something that happened in one of her lessons today, hanging onto every word and memorising every inflection as if she’s going to be tested on it. She probably could be tested, and she’d probably do very well, all thanks to the little corner of her brain entitled Dorcas that she flips through every day, even when she doesn’t see the girl in question.
Dorcas giggles at a particularly ridiculous part of her story, and Marlene notes that even without her cello, Dorcas is undoubtedly a musician, evident in the tone of her laugh and the cadence of her sentences. She must be music, really, because nothing else matters this much to Marlene.
“Dorcas,” Marlene starts. The story has finished and Marlene has to ask before she loses her nerve. Dorcas smiles and gestures for her to go on. “I don’t know if you know, but a few of us go out for food every week after rehearsal, and I was just wondering if you wanted to come? No pressure, obviously, but you’re more than welcome whenever you want. If you want to, it’s completely fine if not but-”
“Marlene,” Dorcas says with a grin, something in her expression that suggests amusement, but it doesn’t feel as if she’s mocking her. “I’d love to.
“Really?” For some reason, Marlene had prepared herself for rejection, but she reminds herself that it wouldn’t be her that Dorcas rejected - it would be the whole group. She’s still too nervous to suggest that they hang out one-on-one.
Dorcas looks at her as if she doesn’t understand her shock. “I wouldn’t agree if I didn’t want to, McKinnon.”
“Yeah, I know , but I didn’t want to assume anything.”
“I’ve known about your little weekly tradition since it started,” Dorcas says casually, tangling her fingers in her necklaces. Marlene tracks the movement. “I was wondering how long it would take for you to invite me.”
Marlene gawks at her. “I’m so sorry! We weren’t like, purposely excluding you or anything, I promise.” She stumbles over the correct words to use. “The invitation is open to everyone, I just guessed that if you knew, you weren’t interested.”
For a moment, Dorcas just looks at her, gaze softening, and Marlene is almost scared to move, scared to pierce a hole in whatever moment they’ve created. “That isn’t what I meant.”
Before Marlene has a chance to question it, to enquire what that means, Dorcas is pushing aside her case and standing up. Marlene hadn’t even noticed that the bus had stopped, let alone that they’d reached Hogwarts.
“You coming?” Dorcas asks from halfway down the aisle, looking pointedly at where Marlene is still sitting down.
In answer, Marlene stands and follows her wordlessly, revelling in the glowing smile she receives.
*
She hadn’t realised that the bus was running late until she and Dorcas stumbled into the rehearsal and were met with the faces of their fellow musicians already set up and ready, so it isn’t until the break that Marlene gets a chance to speak to her friends.
“James,” she grins, almost skipping over to where he’s standing with Remus, Sirius and Regulus, “You’re going to be so proud of me.”
“Why?” James asks, visibly puzzled, until his face lights up, “Wait, can I guess?”
Marlene restrains a laugh. “I mean, if you want?”
James looks like a child who’s just been told that he’s allowed to go to the park, the way his eyes widen behind his glasses and his cheeks flush with joy. “Okay. Did you get a good mark on the biology assessment?”
Marlene winces. She’s forgotten about that. “No,” she says sheepishly.”
“No worries, it’s not the real thing,” says James with a wave of his hand. Remus rolls his eyes fondly. “Did you…pass your driving test?”
“James, I haven’t had a single driving lesson. You know this.”
“Fair point.” He mulls over it for a moment, before declaring, “Yeah, no. I give up. No idea.”
Next to him, Regulus snorts. “You made two guesses.”
“That’s more than you made,” James fires back, but any bite is softened by so much fondness and affection that it makes Marlene feel a bit ill.
Over the last couple of weeks, Regulus and Sirius have taken to spending break times with Marlene, James and Remus, and she doesn’t have to think very hard as to why. Especially not with the way Sirius is watching Remus’ every move. Even actions as simple as Remus reaching up to scratch his neck absentmindedly have Sirius looking at him as if he’s never seen anyone do it before.
It’s been an adjustment, certainly, as although the three of them get on well with almost everyone else and do spend time with the others regularly, their core group, just the three, has never really been altered. She’d also be the first to admit that the brothers wouldn’t be her first choice for additions, but she can’t complain too much, especially since Regulus has at least had the decency to not look at her for too long or try and engage in conversation.
It was one thing for Remus to triumphantly approach her after a talk? interrogation? shouting match? - she still isn’t entirely sure what went on in that storage room as Remus refuses to give any further details - with Sirius and declare that the latter was going to talk to his brother and try and get the seats reassigned to their original order.
It was another for Marlene to show up the week after and find that nothing had changed, not because Minerva hadn’t agreed to change things, but because Regulus had simply refused.
The rational part of her can recognise that maybe Regulus is just as dedicated and ambitious as she is, and she’d be a hypocrite to fault or resent him for that.
The less rational, more dominant part is using the last shreds of self restraint to stop herself from taking a swing at his unfairly perfect face, or maybe, because she’s nothing if not petty, smashing his rosin in his case, which is arguably more annoying. However, since she yelled at Sirius a few weeks ago, before he really knew why, she’s decided to take a more passive approach and just leave things be.
Maybe next term.
Maybe in another orchestra in the future, one where she can convince the conductor to let her play her Florence Price concerto.
“That was pathetic,” she says now. “But anyway, I invited Dorcas out with us tonight!”
She doesn’t know what she’s expecting, but it's not for her to be met with four blank expressions.
James pales. “What’s happening tonight?”
“Fortescue’s Diner. Like every week.” Surely he’s joking - it was his idea to start with.
“Shit,” James breathes, “I completely forgot to tell you. I can’t stay tonight, my aunt and cousins are coming over for dinner and my mum will kill me if I’m not there.”
“Remus?” Marlene pleads. She doesn’t know what she’ll do if she’s left alone with Dorcas.
Remus winces. “I’m so sorry, Marls. It’s my mum’s birthday.”
She can’t really be mad, they’re both valid excuses after all, but she only asked Dorcas to come with them on the assumption that other people would be there. On the assumption that it would not, under any circumstances, look like a date.
She’s so desperate that she even turns to Sirius and Regulus, who look varying degrees of amused. Regulus looks uncomfortable, too, whereas Sirius is grinning from ear to ear.
“As much as I would love to watch you freak out over a pretty girl, unfortunately mother dearest wants us home straight away.” He looks somewhat apologetic, but Marlene doesn’t miss the way his face tenses when he mentions his mother. There’s only so much that can be painted over with sarcasm and jest, and she feels a slight stab of guilt.
“That’s okay,” she says, and means it. Besides, Lily and Pandora go out most weeks, as do Mary, Emmeline and Caradoc, so the likelihood of actually being alone with Dorcas is very slim.
“I am proud of you, though,” James says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and pulling her close. “Maybe one day you’ll finally get the guts to ask her out on a real date.”
“Absolutely not,” Marlene grumbles into his chest, “There’d have to be a gun to my head.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Remus hums, prompting the other four heads to turn to him. His eyes widen and he holds his hands up. “I did army cadets,” he says, “I don’t just have a gun lying around. I’m not like - an assassin or something.”
“You’re too soft to be an assassin, Moony,” James smirks, poking Remus’ side. Sirius eyes the whole exchange curiously, and a part of Marlene wonders whether he’s slightly disappointed, judging by the way his cheeks flood and the way Regulus rolls his eyes at his brother. “Besides, the coolest assassins have knives, not guns.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Regulus echoes with a tiny smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth. James’ eyebrows fly into his hairline and his jaw drops. Unlike Remus, Regulus doesn’t try to backtrack or defend himself. Just another thing that adds to the mystery of Regulus Black and the brothers in general.
“Guys,” Marlene points out, cautiously, “I don’t think any assassins are that great. It kind of goes against their job description.”
“Obviously,” James says quickly.
“Well, yeah ,” Sirius agrees, clearing his throat and very obviously looking away from Remus, who has folded his arms across his chest and is struggling to hide his amusement.
Regulus says nothing.
*
“Violins!” Minerva declares, “From the beginning please. Remember that you’re the accompaniment at the moment. We need to be able to hear the flutes over you, so long bows in order to make a nice sound, but play closer to the fingerboard. And,” she pointedly looks to the back desk of the second violins, where Gilderoy is sitting primly, “Vibrato is welcomed, but only if you can do it properly . Otherwise, just focus on making a nice sound.”
The violins nod in affirmation and Caradoc leans across to whisper to Marlene, “How long before she actually names and shames instead of glaring at Lockhart?”
“Never,” Marlene whispers back, gently playing her string to check that her fourth position is in tune, “She’s not confrontational enough for that.”
“Quiet, please,” Minerva says, poised to count them in, but there’s a miniature smile on her face that makes Marlene not mind getting caught. As she looks at her music, she catches sight of Dorcas’, who’s grinning with sparkling eyes.
Careful , she mouths, and Marlene pays so much attention to the way Dorcas’ lips move around the word that she’s almost certain she can hear it, even though it isn’t spoken aloud.
She doesn’t miss her cue, though.
*
When Marlene and Dorcas reach the table at the back of the diner that the orchestra has unofficially claimed, it’s completely empty. Eight seats - four chairs facing a wide booth - and not a single one is filled.
Fuck.
“Well there’s no need to sound so disappointed,” Dorcas says, mirth coating every syllable, and it's only then that Marlene realises she’s spoken out loud. “I promise, I’m excellent company.”
Marlene turns to look at her so quickly she feels her neck twinge. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting it to be just us.” I wasn’t expecting it to be like a date , she means. Not that I’d mind .
“That’s okay,” Dorcas says, sliding into the booth and taking off her jacket, leaning her cello case against the table so that it almost looks like another person. Marlene sits in the chair opposite her whilst she mentally plots a multiple homicide with her friends as the targets. Lily has never missed an after-rehearsal meetup, and Marlene has no idea why she’s decided to break that streak today.
“Do you want a drink?” Marlene asks, “I’ll go and order at the counter.”
“Diet Coke, please,” Dorcas says with a grin as Marlene stands back up and heads towards the counter.
“Hi, Marlene,” Mr Fortescue says from behind the register. Even Alice isn’t here, and she lives in the apartment above the fucking diner. The universe must be laughing. “What can I get for you?”
Marlene orders two Diet Cokes, internally thrilled that she’s already found something that she and Dorcas have in common, and makes polite conversation as Mr Fortescue rings the drinks through the till and holds out the card machine for her to tap.
“I don’t think I’ve seen her around here before,” he says, nodding towards the table where Dorcas is scrolling on her phone with a small smile. “You look good together.”
“Oh!” Marlene exclaims, “No, no. We’re not together. Just-just friends.”
He raises an eyebrow that suggests he doesn’t believe her, and she blushes the whole way back to the table, two glasses in hand.
As she sits across from Dorcas, she’s distinctly aware of the sheer number of times she’s imagined herself spending time alone with Dorcas, but she never imagined it would be a tangible possibility. Especially not with the way Dorcas is smiling at her, as if she’s as happy to be here as Marlene is.
“So,” Dorcas says slowly, eyes tracking all over Marlene’s face as she takes a large sip of her drink, “Do you come here often?”
Marlene proceeds to promptly spit the drink back into her glass, coughing at the liquid that has made its way down her throat. Dorcas laughs, that beautiful, musical sound, and wordlessly passes a wad of napkins across the table. Marlene takes them and dabs at her face and the front of her t-shirt.
Less than ten minutes into their not-date and she’s managed to make a fool of herself.
“That was my fault,” Dorcas giggles, as if she’s read her mind, “I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Marlene manages, “Just unexpected.” Understatement of the century.
Dorcas raises an eyebrow, sipping her drink far more elegantly than Marlene did without breaking eye contact, and something briefly flickers in her expression that looks suspiciously like affection. It makes Marlene’s stomach twist, and for a moment, she lets herself entertain the idea that maybe, just maybe, there’s seeds to be planted here. For the first time, she has the confidence that if she really tried, something beautiful could grow here. Something as beautiful as the way Dorcas looks, even under the harsh neon lights of the diner that Marlene knows are making her look washed out, but hopes they’ll still hide the blush that is yet to fade.
*
Over the course of an hour and a half and a shared plate of chicken wings and fries, Marlene finds out more about Dorcas than she ever thought she’d be allowed to. She learns about Dorcas’ father and siblings, who she talks about at length which such adoration, and Marlene responds with stories of her own family and childhood that Dorcas listens to with an interest that can’t be faked, interjecting occasionally with questions or anecdotes that she’s been reminded of. They talk about school and plans for the future: Marlene’s dream of music college, though she’s undecided on which one, and Dorcas’ aspirations of fashion school.
“I’m not giving up cello, though,” Dorcas says, dipping a fry into the barbeque sauce that Marlene had pulled a face at.
“Good,” Marlene responds, because that would be a loss to the world.
They don’t realise how much time has passed until their plates are stacked on the table and the ice in their glasses has melted, and until Dorcas’ phone lights up and she frowns at the screen.
“Shit,” she mutters, “I’m so sorry. My dad’s here to get me. He wants me home, I promise I’m not trying to run off.” She pauses, eyes widening. “Are you okay getting home? I could ask my dad to give you a lift.”
“It’s fine,” Marlene says with a smile, instinctively covering Dorcas’ hand with her own to stop her fretting. She doesn’t think she imagines the slight flush of crimson that dots Dorcas’ cheeks. “I’m fine getting the bus.”
“We haven’t paid,” Dorcas continues, frantically looking around, “Can they split it at the counter if we go up?”
“Dorcas,” Marlene says firmly, “Chill, okay? You go, and I’ll sort it.”
Dorcas looks at her, almost uncertain. “Are you sure? I’ll pay you back.”
“No need.” She isn’t sure where it comes from, but she knows James would be proud.
“Okay,” Dorcas breathes, before grinning, “I’ll get it next time.”
Marlene’s breath catches in her throat. “Next time?”
Dorcas tilts her head to the side, as if she’s seeing Marlene for the first time. “What, you’re not trying to withdraw the invitation to go out with everyone already? Here I was thinking you’ve enjoyed my company.”
“I have,” Marlene assures her, quickly, careful not to sound too enthusiastic and scare her off. “A lot. And like I said, you’re welcome anytime.”
Dorcas waves as she rushes out of the door, and Marlene settles into her chair as she checks the bus timetable.
“Are you sure you’re not together?” says a voice, and she looks up to see Mr Fortescue grinning down at her. She feels like she’s in school, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t.
Her mind fills with images of bright eyes and soft smiles, of laughter that makes her want to turn to composing, finally understanding what artists and creatives mean when they refer to a muse. And, somewhere, there’s a little spark of something that feels a little like hope.
“Not yet,” Marlene grins as she pays, “Maybe one day.”
For the first time, she lets herself truly believe it.
Chapter 6: chapter six
Notes:
we're back!!
if you're at all active on a very niche side of marauderstwt (the nice side), you may have stumbled across my lovely friend zari's oc who she's been terrorising us and breaking our hearts with, and i've grown to adore him, so i had to include him in this fic!!
despite this, this chapter is quite heavy in places because said oc, remus' twin brother romulus, is no longer with us :( but i love him!! so he's here in (literal) spirit!!
tw for depictions of grief, references to a past car accident, blood and misgendering/deadnaming (this is in the context of a character not knowing that another character is trans and therefore not using the correct name/pronouns, there is no malicious intent!! there are only references to deadnaming, no explicit use, as i don't believe in inventing deadnames for characters purely for plot purposes)
this chapter does have some light moments, though, so i hope you enjoy!! and for any emotional damage caused, blame zari xoxo
Chapter Text
Rehearsals remaining until the Christmas recital: 9
Remus almost manages to get out the front door before he hears his father’s voice.
“Remus.” Slow and quiet, the tone he uses when he’s disappointed. When he’s disappointed in Remus . Sometimes, it's hard to remember the last time he said his son’s name without such a negative cast.
Sighing to himself, already knowing what conversation he’s walking into, Remus retraces his steps back down the hallway, ending in the dining room, where his parents are sitting at the table. Hope is clutching a cup of tea close to her chest as if it’s protecting her from something, giving Remus a weary smile as he reluctantly sits down. It doesn’t meet her eyes.
“Mind if we make this quick?” Remus looks at the time. “Effie’s on her way, she’ll probably be here in about ten minutes. I was going to wait outside.” He already knows what the answer will be - besides, there’s no point putting the conversation until later, as by the time he gets home, there’ll inevitably be something else that his parents want to discuss with him.
In response, Lyall sighs, and Remus fights the instinctive urge to roll his eyes.
“Your mother got an email from your history teacher,” his father says, not a trace of emotion in his voice. “Something about coursework? More specifically, something about you not doing your coursework.”
“I’m on it,” Remus responds quickly. It’s not a total lie - he’s done the reading, and he’s technically written an introduction. The first draft isn’t even due until next month, so really there’s no need for his teacher to be contacting home. It’s not as if he’s missed a deadline. “I’ll get it done, I swear.”
“See, you say this, but you never do,” Hope says, her voice small. “Sweetheart, we know you’ve had a rough few years - we all have - but this has got to stop.”
Lyall rolls his eyes, not even attempting to hide his disdain. “Hope, you can’t excuse his behaviour with something that happened six years ago. And, Remus, you have a whole future ahead of you. You have so much potential . You always did.”
That word again: potential .
The official Oxford dictionary defines it as ‘ latent qualities or abilities that may be developed and lead to future success or usefulness .’
For years, parents and teachers alike have been so certain of Remus’ ‘potential’, a capability to perform well or succeed in the future. A future that he shouldn’t even have, really.
“Are you fucking with me?” Remus spits.
“ Language ,” Lyall hisses, and Hope closes her eyes.
Remus laughs, incredulous. “No, seriously. Are you really telling me to get over it ?”
Anger bubbles under his skin as he looks at his parents. His mother and her passivity, a shell of herself since the accident that tore the family apart, figuratively and literally. His father, so intent on healing his own wounds that he forgets the depth of his wife’s, of Remus’. His son has the scars to prove it, the kind that will never fade, and that’s not even counting the tapestry of raised tissue that wraps around his entire body. Not all cuts can disappear after a brief period of scabbing.
“That’s not what we’re saying, my love,” Hope says, reaching a hand across the table that Remus, of course, takes hold of. “We’re just worried about you. We want you to start taking things seriously. I mean, have you even thought about what you want to study at university?”
He has, actually.
English seems like the most likely option. Three years in which he can allow himself to disappear into the words and stories of others, injecting their imagery and experiences into his veins and letting them coat his insides so that he doesn’t have to think of his own for a while. It’s more than just escapism, it's the potential for complete dissociation, the opportunity to forget who he is and who he isn’t and who he’s supposed to become but never will.
He briefly considered Theology, wondering whether if he studied hard enough, he could find out for certain what happens after death. Discover what he only just missed out on that fateful night. Maybe, he can find some sort of comfort in the theories and beliefs of others, can choose to follow whichever reduces the shard of guilt that imbedded itself in his chest along with the broken glass. Maybe, even, find out how the other, the one who wasn’t as ‘lucky’ as he was, is getting on.
He once even had the idea of pursuing Classics, allowing for in depth analysis of the myths and stories that gave him his name, that inspired the name that his brother so proudly chose for himself, in order to see if there was something he missed. Something that he could have done differently. Because if the myth is to be followed, it’s Remus who should be dead.
But he isn’t. That’s the problem.
What his parents don’t say in words but instead communicate in their glances and eyes of the same stone that the mythical brothers built Rome with, is that Remus needs to take his future seriously. Needs to live because, by some cruel twist of fate, the accident spared him and took his brother instead.
Except that still isn’t quite what they say. Lyall and Hope, because they don’t know any better, remind Remus of the opportunities that he has that his sister, his twin, his other half, doesn’t. The ‘sister’ who whispered to Remus in the middle of the night, in the room they shared, that actually, Remus had a brother. A brother called Romulus because he wanted to be as close to Remus as he could. A brother who had chosen a name that would remind everyone that they were two sides of the same coin, two halves of the same whole. A brother who only Remus knew he had.
Romulus Lupin died twice; when the lorry crashed into the side of the car that he was sitting in, stealing the beat from his heart and the words from his mouth, and when the tombstone that was meant to immortalise him was engraved with a different name.
Romulus Lupin dies all over again every time his parents mourn their daughter, and no matter how much Remus tries, his efforts aren’t enough to keep his brother alive.
He’s only half of a whole, remember?
“I’ll do my coursework, okay?” Remus says, so tired of the monotony of these conversations, pulling himself to his feet and picking up his horn case. He leans over to kiss his mother on her cheek, the smile lines under his lips faded after all these years. “I’ve got it under control.”
With that, he heads back down the hallway and opens the front door, admittedly with more force than necessary, and stands on his front step.
He has just enough time to smoke a cigarette before Effie Potter’s car pulls around the corner. He blames the smoke for the tears that threaten to spill and shoves his shaking hands into his pockets.
*
As always, he closes his eyes before he opens the car door, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth, the way that Dr Pomfrey taught him. Effie is a safe driver , he reminds himself, I’m safe in this car. I’m safe . He repeats the mantra over and over, easier after years of rehearsal, until it drowns out the sound of tires screeching, glass shattering and screaming that plays on a loop in the back of his mind. It’s like a vinyl record getting caught on the needle, except the album is his life and the record scratch is the night he’d give anything to be able to forget about but can’t.
“Hi, love,” Effie says cheerily once he’s managed to open the door. She always lets him have the front seat, and James is happy to sit in the back if it means Remus will accept lifts. It's the little things.
He seems to have interrupted a heated conversation in which Marlene is recounting the events of the past few rehearsals. As he clicks and undoes his seatbelt, twice as always, he catches the name ‘Sirius ’ and briefly considers getting out of the car and walking into town.
“Sirius told Remus that he’d speak to his brother, so obviously I expected that Regulus would - I don’t know - be a decent person and step down, right? But no! Turns out he’s just an arrogant prick.”
“Language!” Remus, Effie and James chorus as Marlene flushes furiously and crosses her arms over her chest. She told James and Remus that she was mostly over it, and that she was willing to move past her grudge, however it seems that once prompted, she’s more than happy to curse Regulus out all over again.
“I understand your frustration,” Effie says as she pulls away from the curb. “Unfortunately in environments like this, ambition is at the forefront of everything. We musicians are a dedicated bunch, you see.” Marlene and James nod in unison, and Remus just smiles.
Effie stares straight ahead, meaning that Remus is the only one who sees her expression twist into one that he recognises all too well. One of nostalgia, of reminiscing on lost time. “When I was at Hogwarts,” she starts, testing out every syllable as if she isn’t sure if she should let them leave her lips, “There was a girl my age. She was first violin too, incredibly talented - could have easily gone professional. Wanted to, as well, but then she wasn’t able to, and she-” She seems to mull over the appropriate phrasing, as if trying to soften and shape what she is thinking into words that will make sense. “She became a shell of herself, really. Going professional was the only thing she aspired to, and when she couldn’t have that, she had nothing else to turn to. She just disappeared one day and we never heard from her again.”
“What happened?” Marlene asks, the curiosity in her tone more appropriate for if she were listening to a ghost story around a campfire. It almost sounds like one, really, with the vagueness that it’s shrouded in and the slight shake in Effie’s voice.
“I’m not sure,” Effie shrugs, but Remus can tell that she knows far more than she lets on. “I think she developed arthritis or something like it, but it got bad quickly. One day she could play, but the next? Couldn’t even hold the bow without experiencing pain. Sure, it can be somewhat managed and treated, but you can’t try and sustain a career as a professional violinist like that. Especially from such a young age -it’s not healthy.”
In the rear view mirror, Remus sees Marlene pull a face. “So, I have to let it go because Regulus might develop arthritis?”
Effie lets out a laugh, golden and warm, the one that James has inherited exactly. “No, I just mean that you may never know just how much this means to him. From what you’ve told me about him, neither Regulus nor his brother seem like malicious people.”
“No,” Marlene drawls, “I mean, James seems to think the sun shines out of Regulus’ arse.”
James flushes. “What? No! Marlene !”
“Oh, love,” Effie smiles, “I can’t say I’m surprised. You seem to have a soft spot for people who you think you can help.” She huffs. “It’s probably genetic.”
“Are you talking about dad?” James asks with a raised eyebrow.
“Of course.” Effie pulls up outside of Hogwarts, and only then does Remus realise how much time has passed. “He needed all the help he could get when I met him.” She gives her son a fond smile as James leans over to kiss her cheek, and she waves to the three of them as they clamber out of the car, retrieving instruments from footwells and boots.
“Thank you for the lift, as always,” Remus says quietly before he closes the door.
Effie gives him a look that warms his insides. “Of course, Remus. You’re always welcome.” A pause, and then “I’m proud of you.”
It’s been a long time since he heard those words.
He smiles all the way to the door.
*
“What are you reading?”
Remus doesn’t hear Sirius approach, but the second his words filter through the air and reach his ears, Remus’ head snaps up, almost instinctual. It’s only been a few weeks, and yet Remus is somehow already conditioned to respond whenever he hears that accented, teasing voice.
Pavlov would love this.
“You always ask that,” Remus says as he folds over the corner of his page and lifts his gaze to meet Sirius’, equally delighted and horrified to find that their faces are mere inches apart.
“Because I’m always interested,” says Sirius, shrugging as if that much should be obvious. He takes the chair next to Remus’, the one that is technically James’, and turns it around before sitting on it backwards, leaning his folded arms against the top. He tilts his head to look at the cover of Remus’ book, a second-hand copy of The Secret History that he was thrilled to find in one of Hogsmeade’s usually lacklustre charity shops, before looking up at Remus again.
It’s strange, really. Ever since their conversation in the storage room, the one that feels like years ago when really it’s only been a matter of weeks, Remus has had no choice but to reevaluate the way he sees Sirius. The air of unwavering confidence and the smoothness of his voice that Remus once attributed to arrogance appears to be the opposite - Sirius, unfortunately for Remus’ fragile heart, is actually just a good person. Kind, infuriatingly cool and inconceivably gorgeous, and so clearly aware of all three.
It’s incredibly unfair.
It’s exactly this, however, that means Remus has to take every interaction with a pinch of salt. He’s not stupid, far from it actually, despite what his parents might suggest. What he is is the complete opposite of Sirius, and not in the way that supposedly attracts, but instead the way that poses the risk of destroying something that hasn’t even been built yet. Remus isn’t quite sure where Sirius’ fascination with him has stemmed from, nor what he is aiming for with the way he’s looking at Remus right now.
“Really?” Remus says tentatively, unable to pull his eyes away from Sirius. The other boy watches him with a small smile, coated in awe like the kind you give when you see your favourite painting or artefact in person for the first time. The sort of smile that suggests you can’t quite believe that the thing you’ve thought about for years and meticulously analysed in copious detail is actually real and concrete and within reach. Remus isn’t quite sure what he’s done to deserve it. No one has ever looked at him that way before. “I didn’t know that you-”
“Read?” Sirius grins. “I get that a lot. Apparently I don’t seem like the type.”
Remus looks at him, at his sparkling eyes and golden smile and wonders why he’d want to. What does someone like Sirius gain from reading when all of the best stories are about him anyway? How can he escape into literature when he’s already the epitome of what Remus and so many others are hoping to find within the pages? “I wouldn’t say that,” he says quietly.
“I even do English Lit, you know,” Sirius says, before breaking into a laugh at the shocked expression that Remus struggles to hide. “I’m just full of surprises, aren’t I?”
You have no idea , Remus thinks bitterly.
“I love it, though,” Sirius continues, most likely very aware of how Remus is hanging onto every word, “I used to hate it, honestly. Just couldn’t understand why I had to spend so much time dissecting someone else’s words and thoughts when I could just share my own, but then one day,” he shrugs but doesn’t take his eyes off of Remus, “It just clicked. Does that make sense?”
“Not really,” Remus says with a small laugh that threatens to evolve into some kind of confession if he isn’t careful, “I’ve always loved it. There’s something comforting about being able to see that no matter what you’re feeling, someone else has felt it before and has immortalised that emotion into words. Like, someone has already articulated what you can’t put into words, and instead you can just exist with the knowledge that you’re not alone. Whether it’s love, sadness, joy, fear, grief,” he swallows, “there’s concrete evidence that you’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.” He looks up to Sirius, at the way Sirius is watching him with something that Remus is too scared to name. “Sorry, I don’t know if that makes sense.”
“It does,” Sirius says, so genuinely that it makes Remus’ chest ache, and he once again thinks of how utterly unfair it is that the universe has made them cross paths. How tragic it is that Remus has met someone who no matter how close he sits, no matter how much care he shows, will forever be out of reach. It’s a cruel joke, really - yet another reminder that the world that Remus is living in, the life that he’s leading, isn’t really meant for him.
Sirius sits, smiling, taunting him like some kind of devil that Remus wants to indulge but can’t. Despite the catastrophic way that Sirius has gripped hold of Remus’ life, he doesn’t deserve to be let down in the way that Remus ultimately will. No one does.
“You always make sense,” Sirius says, and Remus wants to cry. “You’re so rational all of the time. How do you do it?” He has black smudged under his eyes that on anyone else would look almost comical, like a caricature of someone else, but on Sirius it’s so natural. Remus wants to reach out and run his thumb through it, either to even it out or to make it worse, anything that would let him leave a mark.
“Practice,” Remus says with a grin that he hopes isn’t too obviously forced, “You gotta fake it ‘til you make it and all that bullshit.”
Sirius throws his head back and laughs, exposing the pale, smooth column of his neck that Remus has the urge to wrap a hand around. Not to hurt him, even though that’s always going to be the final outcome, but just to check that he’s real. Sometimes, looking at Sirius gives him the same feeling that he gets when he finds a used book. Yellowing paper and torn covers signifying the undeterminable number of people who have held it before, who have turned the pages with the same curiosity and desire that Remus does, each finding and taking away something different but equally as special. Scribbled dedications and confessions and messy pencil underlines that have the potential to be erased but haven’t been, every mark and swirl a manifestation of a unique thought that has forever altered the book that once started out pristine and untouched. A story that exists outside of the author’s words, one that Remus lets himself be lost in over and over again. Sirius is the same: a combination of millions of vastly different experiences and thoughts, malleable enough for everyone to see him in the way they want and need to, but still undeniably him . Remus wants to analyse him the way he would a paperback, to dissect every little thing that makes him up, breaking him down into components that Remus can allow himself to indulge in if Sirius would let him.
From the way Sirius is watching him, as if he’s conducting his own assessment of Remus, it seems like he’s let him, which Remus would argue is worse than the prospect of rejection.
“Well, Wolfboy,” Sirius says, standing up, “You’re doing a very convincing job of it.”
Remus’ whole body tenses in the way it always does when anyone makes reference to the myth that gave him his name, but the feeling isn’t as paralysing as it usually is. Even the first time Sirius gave him that nickname, offhanded and innocent, his heart had lurched, and he’d thought of his brother and of blood and of his mother’s screams, but it had passed far quicker than ever before. Part of Remus wants to hate Sirius for it, to hate him for somehow minimising the grief that he should feel, for distracting him from mourning the way he has for the past six years, but as he watches Sirius walk away, eye’s glued to the back of his head like a moth to a flame, he realises that hating Sirius is difficult and near enough impossible.
If Remus were stronger, he’d hate Sirius for that, too.
*
“You’re drooling, James,” Remus says, bored, as he sits back and listens to Minerva run through a section of Regulus’ concerto solo. Next to him, James’ eyes are trained on the boy at the front of the room, transfixed. At Remus’ words, he snaps his mouth shut and straightens up.
“No I’m not,” he retorts, but brings a hand up to wipe at his chin, so clever but so painfully gullible, and Remus loves him for it. “I’m just impressed, is all. No offence to Marls, but Reg really is very good.”
Remus can’t find it in himself to argue. Regulus is clearly a natural talent, and it must be genetic judging on the similar competence of Sirius and of Narcissa before them. A familial bond forged in arpeggios and vibrato and melomanie, strengthened with skill and dedication.
It’s not uncommon for musical ability to be passed through families, to coat the DNA within every cell of the body. Just look at Marlene and her family, or at James and his parents. Pandora and Evan, Gideon and Fabian. Even Lily’s older sister, Petunia, used to play cello and only quit because she didn’t want to play anymore, not because she couldn’t.
Romulus, too, used to play. Remus remembers his mother’s squeals of delight at the two of them practicing together, instruments tucked under arms. French horn for Remus because he liked that it was circular, baritone for Romulus because he always had to do something that was just a bit different. Romulus was always better, not by much, but enough that Remus almost resented him for it. He briefly considered giving up music, justifying the decision by pointing out that the two of them couldn’t be compared, not like they were with everything else, if they had different hobbies.
Then, the accident, and Remus decided that he couldn’t possibly give up the thing that brought the pair of them together. He’s not particularly religious, not committed enough for it, but he sometimes likes to imagine Romulus looking down on him whilst he plays, laughing when he messes up a passage and telling him off if he misreads a key signature.
As he looks around the room, he’s grateful that he has stuck at it.
“He is good, you’re right,” Remus agrees, and means it. The passion that Remus thought Regulus was lacking the first time he heard him play has been evident ever since, as if someone has told him to get his shit together and allow himself to enjoy it. There’s a small smile at the corner of his mouth as Minerva claps at him and praises this particular run through, a blush creeping onto his cheeks. Next to him, Sirius claps him on the back, the kind of easy brotherly affection that Remus misses, and behind him, Marlene reluctantly grins at him, the closest to a compliment she’ll likely ever give. Remus can almost see her mentally rehearsing Effie’s words from the car: you may never know just how much this means to him.
“Let’s break until,” Minerva looks at her watch and then the clock on the far wall, “Twenty past, and then we’ll try and run through everything.”
At once, the room breaks out into conversation, chairs scraping against the hardwood floor that could really do with replacing, everyone getting up and walking over to parts of the room that are as far away from their own seats as possible.
There’s that magnetic pull again, and when Remus looks up he’s met with Sirius’ smiling face and Regulus’ slightly more subdued one a little behind him. Remus is secretly pleased to find that Marlene isn’t with them, and is instead talking to Dorcas at the front of the room, matching smiles that demonstrate that the two girls are equally as hopeless as each other.
“Hey, James,” Sirius says, leaning on top of Remus’ music stand and absentmindedly flicking through the pages of music, “Hello again, Remus.”
“Sirius,” Remus nods, and then, “Hi, Reg. You okay?”
Regulus smiles in response, a tentative thing, as if he’s not sure if he’s doing it properly, and Remus knows the feeling.
“Regulus!” James bursts out, “Your,” he gestures, hands flailing as he tries to mimic playing a violin, “ thing sounds great!”
If Regulus is at all put out by his enthusiasm, he doesn’t show it. “Thank you,” he says quietly, “It’s nothing really.”
“It’s definitely something,” Sirius counters, and Remus and James nod in agreement.
“I definitely couldn’t do it,” James points out, as if he’s thought of a winning argument.
Regulus scoffs, but he seems pleased. “And I couldn’t play the trumpet, so I suppose we’re even.”
James’ eyes light up, and in a flash, his trumpet is in the other boy’s face. “I reckon you could. Wanna try?”
Recoiling, Regulus bats the instrument away as if it has the capacity to retreat on its own. Sirius is watching the whole exchange as if it's the most entertaining thing he’s ever seen. James continues to wave the trumpet at Regulus, mouthpiece angled towards Regulus’ lips, and Remus isn’t quite sure what he’s trying to achieve.
“Fuck off, James,” Regulus says with a poorly concealed grin, “I don’t want your spit anywhere near my mouth.”
“Your loss,” James says cheerily, before freezing when he realises what he’s said. His eyes widen, as do Regulus’ and Sirius looks appalled. He leans in closer to Remus, and Remus feels himself grow hot.
“I’m going to kill them both,” Sirius hisses, low and sharp, not an ounce of teasing.
“I’ll help,” Remus says, and although he’s not looking at him, more for self-preservation’s sake, he can feel Sirius grin, as if the movement has altered the air particles around him.
“My partner in crime, then?” Sirius whispers.
“Yeah,” Remus breathes, “Looks that way.”
*
It’s almost seven o’clock when Remus gets home, but the chill of the air and the complete darkness that accompanies October evenings makes it feel as if it could just as easily be midnight.
He opens the front door, already unlocked of course, and carefully hooks his jacket over the bottom of the stairs after placing his shoes on the rack. There’s no sound except for soft humming from the direction of the kitchen, a kitchen that Remus cautiously approaches.
Standing over the stove, Hope stirs a pot of something that smells wonderful, but the air is tainted with their earlier conversation.
“Hello, love,” she hums, “Your dad and I already ate, but I’m just warming this up for you.”
“Thanks, mum.” Remus opens the cupboard to retrieve a plate, pulls cutlery from the drawer by the sink, fills a glass with water from the tap that’s not quite cold enough to be satisfying. He opens and closes his mouth a few times and then feels stupid, even though Hope isn’t looking at him. Instead he makes eye contact with Romulus in the family photography that hangs by the window. It’s the four of them in front of Windsor Castle on a holiday a couple of years before the accident, an awkwardly angled selfie that resulted from Lyall not being quite sure how to take one and neither Remus nor Romulus having long enough arms at the time to take over. Remus’ face is pressed close to Romulus’, matching expressions as if someone had placed a mirror next to one of their faces. The only difference is that Romulus’ hair is longer, he never had the chance to convince their parents to let him cut it, and everytime Remus runs a hand through his own, he wonders whether they would have looked the same at the age he is now. Maybe, Romulus would be known as his brother, not his sister. Maybe, if he hadn’t won the fight with Remus about which car seat to sit in, he’d be here to live the life he wanted, the life he deserved, and Remus would be the name on the headstone, the trigger that would detonate every explosive familial fight. The ghost haunting the house who still seems more alive than any of the people in it.
Remus pulls his eyes away from his brother and instead looks at himself, at the unscarred skin that he took for granted, eyes brimming with the potential that his parents love to mention. He only looks away when he hears his mother’s voice.
“Do you want any bread with it?” she asks, spooning beef stew onto his plate, “There’s still some left from the loaf we got at the weekend. Might be a bit stale but I reckon this’ll soften it up.” She’s unnervingly calm, saying without saying it that she isn’t going to be the one to bring their earlier conversation up.
“I’m good, thanks,” Remus manages. Hope hums as if to say ‘your loss’, before opening the bread bin, taking out a stray crust from some brown paper, and mopping up the rest of the stew from the saucepan. She sits down in the chair opposite him as Remus stirs his food, unable to bring himself to eat any of it just yet.
“How was orchestra?”
“Good.”
“Everything sounding good?”
“Yes.”
Hope rolls her eyes, an action that is likely intended to be fond, but instead makes Remus feel like throwing something. “Anything at all to report?”
Plenty , Remus thinks . Barty managed to break three drumsticks in one rehearsal. Lucius missed his cue again. Hestia looked like she wanted to murder Gilderoy even more than usual. I think Peter has a thing for Sybill, Marlene has a vendetta against the new guy, James has a crush on the new guy, and the new guy’s brother looks like he could ruin my life and I think I might let him.
“Not really.” Remus finally brings a spoonful of stew to his mouth. It’s delicious, everything that Hope makes is, but it has a bitter aftertaste that coats his throat and tongue with something that feels an awful lot like guilt. “Look, Mum-”
“It’s okay,” Hope says, “You don’t need to be sorry.”
Remus stares blankly at her, trying to process her words and the way she’s looking at him, as if he’s supposed to be grateful for her forgiveness that he didn’t ask for. “I’m sorry for the way I spoke to you, but I’m not going to apologise for what I said.”
Hope raises an eyebrow, a habit Remus knows he’s picked up from her, a silent invitation for him to continue.
“I appreciate you being worried about me, I do, but you need to trust me. I’ve got everything under control. If I didn’t, I’d tell you.” Remus looks at his mother, at her grey hairs, at the permanent sadness that covers her face, an ice that Remus can never hope to thaw on his own. “And I need you to stop using her ,” he tries not to visibly wince, but the pronoun tastes sour. “- as some kind of leverage over me. I know you lost a child, and I can’t pretend to know how it feels, but you have another one. I only had one sibling, and I refuse to let her be reduced to a trump card, okay?”
Hope stares at him. She’s always been beautiful, something that she’s proud of, and Remus sometimes wonders if one of the reasons she took the loss so hard is because she’ll never get to see if her other child will grow up to look like her. It’s unusual for twins, especially non-identical, to look the same all of their lives, and with Remus looking increasingly like Lyall, something that makes him feel a little bit sick to his stomach, it’s not surprising that she assumed she’d one day have a daughter in her own image. “We’re not trying to guilt trip you, Remus,” she says, quiet but stern, “We know how much you loved each other. This just isn’t what she would have wanted for you.”
“I don’t think you know what she would have wanted,” Remus says. What he doesn’t say is, he was too afraid to tell you.
Hope doesn’t say another word.
Remus finishes his meal in silence.
Chapter 7: chapter seven
Notes:
we're back!!!
i've finished my exams so i finally have more time to write!! I have the next chapter almost fully pre-written and so this is part 1 of a (kinda) double upload because the next one breaks the pattern of each chapter = one rehearsal/week and takes place only a couple of days after this one. it'll hopefully be up later tonight or tomorrow as an apology for how long i've gone without updating!!
a few tws: homophobia, references to poor coming out experiences, orion black as a whole, implied alcoholism
despite this, this chapter has a few light moments, so enjoy!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Rehearsals remaining until the Christmas recital: 8
It’s less than an hour before rehearsal that Sirius finds out that he and Regulus are expected to make their own way there this week. He’s lying on his back on his unmade bed, aimlessly throwing a small tin of Vaseline, the cocoa butter flavour, into the air and catching it. It’s a mindless action, comforting in its monotony, the repeating pattern of up and down only breaking when he throws it too high and it hits the ceiling, altering its trajectory just enough that it lands on the floor. When he reluctantly gets up to retrieve it, with the full intention of lying back down, he finds his mother watching him from the doorway. She looks paler than usual, her hair loose down her back, only slightly longer than Sirius’, and she’s even leaning against the doorway, a tell-tale sign of the pain she’s experiencing that is too much effort to conceal. Even Walburga Black’s mask has its limitations. Almost everything can be translucent in the right lighting.
It’s both a blessing and a curse that Sirius looks so much like his mother. For one, she’s beautiful, undoubtedly so, and as a result, so is he. However, it also means that he can never forget where he comes from. There’s no amount of forced smiles and laughter that can soften the harsh lines of his face for longer than a few moments, no amount of makeup and jewellery that can distract from the blue of his eyes, icy in both colour and expression.
She doesn’t have to say anything, but she does anyway. The tiredness painted on her face and the splints fastened tightly across her wrists and hands are able to communicate enough. “I won’t be driving you tonight. I trust your brother to ensure that the two of you make your way to and from rehearsal without any problems.” There’s no point asking if their father can drive them instead. He’s already on his third glass of whisky of the evening, and although there’s certainly a few aspects of the law that his parents are willing to bypass, Orion Black would rather drop dead than risk being charged with something as ‘common’ and ‘demeaning’ as a DUI.
Sirius tries not to be too offended at the suggestion that Regulus is thought to be the only competent one, but it isn’t as if he hasn’t heard it before. “Sure, mum.” He hesitates, before “Do you need anything?”
Walburga doesn’t even try to hide her surprise at the offer of help, even though this is far from the first time that Sirius has made an attempt to assist her. It was him who researched the most effective hand exercises for joint pain, who tried to find ways to sneakily incorporate ginger into meals, as it’s thought to reduce inflammation but Walburga hates the taste. It’s almost as if she believes him to be devoid of any kind of sympathy or inclination to care for others, and he almost wants to remind her that if he were, it would be her fault. Her doing, her genes, her inability to communicate affirmation or positivity of her own.
Sirius’ greatest burden is looking like his mother, and his greatest fear is that the similarity may not only be skin-deep. Sometimes, it's like looking into a mirror that shows his future, and he hates what he sees.
“No, thank you,” she says crisply. “What I need is for you to stay out of trouble.”
It’s almost comical, the suggestion that there’s opportunity for trouble on a fifteen minute bus journey, but when it comes to her oldest son, Walburga is nothing but a cynic.
Sirius gives a half-hearted salute that makes his mother roll her eyes before she disappears into the hallway with a poorly concealed wince. He lies back on his bed to resume his throwing at catching, cursing his mother and the future and every person who’s commented on their resemblance, before making a mental note to check that there’s ginger in the pantry.
*
Regulus is already standing in the doorway between the living room and hallway, coat fastened and violin case in hand, when Sirius reaches the bottom of the stairs.
“Took you long enough,” Regulus says with a quirk of his lip. “Struggling to decide which earrings Remus would like best?”
“Shut up,” Sirius hisses as he participates in a battle to get his Doc Marten on with one free hand. He’s losing, quite embarrassingly, and reluctantly puts down his bag, steadying himself on the wall.
“Please stop touching the walls, Sirius,” Walburga says calmly from where she’s sitting on the couch, a hot compress pressed to her fingers. “You’ll leave marks.” Across from her, Orion is reading a newspaper in his armchair, legs crossed with a half-empty glass in his hand and an open, ornate liquor bottle on the table next to him. He doesn’t even look up.
Sirius carefully extracts himself from the wall and tries not to laugh as Regulus raises a singular eyebrow at him. His brother is looking at something on his phone, looking infuriatingly put together as usual, and on closer inspection, Sirius notices that Regulus has, for once, actually made some attempt to style his hair. It’s curled slightly, the effortless look that comes from just a few minutes in front of the mirror, and the stray pieces that often shield his eyes seem to be purposely tucked behind his ears and away from his face.
It seems that Sirius isn’t the only one putting effort into his appearance tonight, and when Regulus realises that his brother has noticed exactly this, he flushes bright red and lifts his phone higher as if he can hide behind it.
Nevertheless, Sirius wipes the grin from his face and turns back to the living room, to the matter at hand and the real reason that he took so long to get ready. He clears his throat, albeit unnecessary, and begins the speech that he may or may not have practiced in the mirror.
“Mum,” he starts, “Dad. I know you prefer us to come straight home after these rehearsals to prevent any,” he tries to mask a sigh, “- distractions , but I’ve noticed that quite a few of the others go out for food afterwards, and I was wondering if we’d be able to go too?” Regulus’ head snaps up and he gives a warning look, but Sirius isn’t deterred. “I know you don’t want us to get attached, which I understand,” - a lie - “but I think that in order for us to really thrive in this environment, we need to form good working relationships with our fellow musicians.” Walburga eyes him curiously, and silently, and Orion looks at him blankly before huffing and returning to reading his paper. Sirius almost wants to bow.
“I don’t think you appreciate that we’re trying to help you,” Walburga says eventually. “We put you in this orchestra because it will help with applications to music schools and conservatories, and I’m almost certain that the majority of your fellow musicians are there for the same reason. They’re not your friends, Sirius - they’re your competition.” Sirius chooses not to mention that he doesn’t actually want to go to a music school or a conservatory, something that he’s sure his parents have worked out, or to point out that most of the people at Hogwarts are there because they love it. Take Barty, for example - there’s no way that he’s destined to be a professional musician, he’s said it himself, but no one is forcing him to be there. In fact, his father is adamant that his son could have far better uses for his time than ‘hitting things’, but Barty loves it. Loves it in the same way that James does, that Remus seems to, that Marlene clearly does.
Sirius takes a deep breath. “From what I understand, experience with orchestras is encouraged for such applications because it shows that we can work with others and form strong interpersonal relationships. Forgive me if I want to work on that.”
“Don’t talk back to your mother,” Orion says sharply. Then, his face tightens and a sneer creeps onto his lips. “Oh, I know what this is about. I know that look. You’ve taken a fancy to someone there, haven’t you?”
It takes almost all of Sirius’ energy to ensure that his face doesn’t betray him. “Excuse me?”
Orion grins, a cruel thing. “I’d be willing to bet that this sudden interest in interpersonal relationships is a scheme to spend more time with someone.” His father looks pleased at Sirius’ obvious discomfort. In Sirius’ peripheral, he sees Regulus freeze. “Go on, what’s her name?”
Sirius actually laughs at that, can’t help the almost theatrical giggle that crawls up his throat and spills out of his mouth. “Jesus Christ,” he drawls, “How many times do I have to come out to you?”
Orion rolls his eyes. “Sirius, let’s not start with this nonsense again.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Dad. Am I making you uncomfortable ?”
In one sharp movement, his father closes his newspaper and stands. “I will not accept this! We have tried to deal with or ignore most of your behaviour, as you seem set on embarrassing us, but I refuse to tolerate my son so proudly being a -”
“ Orion ,” Walburga says sternly, and there’s something about her tone, something almost dangerous, that doesn’t go unnoticed. It’s enough to make Orion sit back down and, inexplicably, makes Sirius feel as if his mother might be on his side for once. It’s no secret that Walburga, although cold and stern and everything Sirius hates about himself, has always been far more tolerant than her husband, for a reason that remains unclear but that Sirius, and Regulus, though he won’t admit it, appreciate all the same. When Sirius first told her, some years ago, that he thought he might like boys instead of girls, his mother had looked at him like she was seeing him for the first time, before giving him something that could almost pass as a smile and nodding, her only comment being that maybe he should refrain from telling his father. There was no declaration of ‘I love you regardless’ that he knew some of his friends had received, no warm embrace, but it was something. Still, his mother’s acceptance of his sexuality is still something that surprises him everytime he experiences it. A part of him, a bitter, self-sabotaging part, that almost wishes she wouldn’t support it. Of all the parts of him, it’s the one he craves her validation of the least. He could live with her disdain, her judgement, if it was under the guise that he knows some parents use; the excuse of ‘worrying’ what their child’s life might look like if they don’t quite fit the mould that’s been made for them. Sirius would gladly live with her hatred of his sexual identity if it meant she openly loved the rest of him.
It’s this finality in the way she speaks to his father, though, that gives him the strength to ignore Orion’s taunts and talk to her instead. “Okay, fine - let’s say I do just want to make friends. Is that such a bad thing? You once told us how much you enjoyed orchestra when you were younger because of the people you met there. Are we not allowed to want that too?” He gestures to Regulus, who is yet to say a word, but he looks at their mother and communicates something with his eyes that Sirius can’t interpret, a side effect of the bond they have that Sirius has always envied and despised himself for wanting.
“One hour.” It’s so quiet that Sirius almost doesn’t hear it.
“What?”
Walburga straightens up slightly. “You can stay for one hour. But I expect you home straight after that. Am I clear?” She flexes her hands and then winces, trying to mask the latter with a small cough.
Sirius can’t help but smile. “ Crystal .”
“Thanks, mum,” Regulus says, an edge to his voice that suggests he can’t quite believe the conversation that has taken place.
Before Walburga can change her mind, Sirius practically drags Regulus out of the door and into the street, violin case on his back and a spring in his step.
*
The two of them crowd into the seats at the back of the bus amongst their instrument cases and bags. Regulus rummages through his tote, dark blue with the emblem of Rowena Institute from when the two of them had attended an open day, and pulls out his headphones. Wordlessly, he offers one to Sirius, who connects them to his phone and scrolls through his music library.
“Any requests?” It would be easier for the two of them to listen to their own music rather than sharing one song across two earbuds, but some habits are hard to break. Besides, despite their differences, one thing they can always agree on is music.
Regulus hums in contemplation. “What was that album you put on the other day?”
Sirius grins. “The Bowie one?”
Regulus nods, and Sirius presses play on Aladdin Sane , closing his eyes and leaning back against the seat at the opening guitar riff of Watch That Man. He drums his fingers against his knee and taps his foot, practically hearing Regulus’ eye roll. Briefly, he thinks back to that second week of orchestra, when he caught Remus humming along to The Prettiest Star , as if he wasn’t already Sirius’ type on legs. And then he’d turned around, eyebrow raised and voice dripping in sarcasm that Sirius could almost taste, and completely ruined Sirius without even realising. Or maybe he has realised, which would explain the way Sirius catches him looking at him sometimes, a small frown on his lips and the expression of someone who has just realised the power that they hold over someone else.
Sirius has the urge to find out how he knows Bowie, to know whether his parents raised him on the music of their youth the way that so many do. Not Walburga and Orion, though. No, they ensured that the first music Sirius heard was Vivaldi’s Four Seasons , with classical music being the only music he heard until one day, his aunt picked him up from school with his cousins in the car and a thirteen-year-old Andromeda put in a Led Zeppelin CD, much to Druella’s disdain, and changed Sirius’ life for the better. Now, he wonders if Remus likes Led Zeppelin too, and makes a mental note to ask.
“Are you thinking about Remus?”
Sirius’ eyes fly open as he sits upright. “What the fuck? How could you tell?”
Regulus smirks, a mannerism that reminds Sirius of Narcissa. “You’ve got that stupid dopey look on your face that you only get when you’re talking to Remus, talking about Remus, or, as you’ve just confirmed, thinking about him. It’s embarrassing, quite frankly.”
“Shut up. As if you’re not drooling over James.”
“I don’t drool!” Regulus exclaims, looking affronted as Sirius continues to laugh at his obvious discomfort. “I don’t!”
“But you definitely feel something for James, right? Come on, Reg, I see the way you look at him. You’re not subtle.”
“Yeah, well, neither is he,” Regulus points out. “Did you hear him after the second rehearsal? Calling me Reggie ?” He shudders. “Who does that?”
“James, apparently,” Sirius says with a grin, nudging his brother with his elbow. “And besides, it was enough to make you run away , so you can’t have been that put out by it.”
Regulus buries his face in his hands and muffles a scream. “He’s just - he’s hot, obviously - anyone can see that - and he’s cocky, and so unbelievably pathetic and stupid , but-”
“But what?”
Pulling his hands away from his face, Regulus looks what can only be described as defeated. “But he’s so lovely . I want to hate him for being hot and cocky and stupid and pathetic, but I can’t, because he’s so fucking nice that if I try to hate him, I feel awful.”
“Poor Reggie,” Sirius coos, “It must be so terrible having a hot guy be interested in you and for it to be mutual. How will you ever survive?”
“Shut up, Sirius,” Regulus huffs, going quiet all of a sudden. One moment he’s blushing and reassuring Sirius that his brother is in fact a real teenage boy and not some kind of robot, and the next, he looks as if he wants to shrink, hugging his arms tight to his chest as if it’ll make him disappear.
Sirius pauses the music, adjusting his position slightly so that he’s facing his brother. “That stuff that Dad was saying, you know it’s bullshit, right? You being queer - us being queer - isn’t nonsense or something to be ashamed of.”
It has always seemed almost comical that both Sirius and Regulus have turned out to be queer, a giant fuck you to the universe and to their family, but there’s also something wonderful about it, about having a kind of solidarity that you can’t escape. However, whilst Sirius loves to flaunt it, mostly to anger their father, Regulus keeps his identity more like a secret, the kind of secret that Orion and Walburga seem to think it should be. As far as Sirius knows, Regulus hasn’t even told their mother, even though he knows that she has been quietly supportive of Sirius. If he had told her, Sirius is almost certain that he’d know about it, one way or another.
“I know it’s not. I’ve never been ashamed of who I am,” Regulus says, and it warms Sirius to hear that. They’ve never explicitly come out to each other, with Regulus finding out about Sirius through a screaming match with their father over family dinner, and Sirius finding out about Regulus after they watched Love, Actually together one Christmas and Regulus’ eyes widened ever so slightly when Hugh Grant appeared on screen.
“That’s good. You should never be. It’s him who needs to change, not us.”
“He won’t though, will he?” Regulus says quietly, sounding as if he already has an answer to that particular question.
“It’s unlikely,” Sirius says solemnly.
“I’m not like you,” says Regulus, then, the words hardly above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
Sirius frowns, swallowing down accusations and a verbal assault of their parents that coats his throat with bitterness, the kind that he shouldn’t have to taste when he thinks of the people who created and raised him. “What do you mean? What on earth are you sorry for?”
“I can’t do what you do. When you get into it with Dad and so openly criticise him and show who you are, I admire it so much, but I can’t do that. I support you entirely, and I love you for it, but that’s not who I am. I’m proud of who I am, but this battle you have with Dad? That’s not my fight, and I’m sorry for that.”
Sirius shakes his head so quickly that it hurts. “No, Reg, listen to me. This doesn’t have to be your fight. I don’t know why I have this innate need to rile Dad up and piss him off, but I will never expect you to do the same. You have a very different relationship with them than I do, but I will never resent you for that or try to sabotage it, do you understand?”
Regulus nods. “I just feel like I’m letting you down,” he says, voice watery. Due to them only being a year apart, Sirius often views Regulus as being more like a twin, sometimes forgetting that he’s the older one. He’s protective of Regulus, of course he is, but he’s always put it down to part of being a sibling rather than something that aligns with their age difference. But now?- Sirius has never felt more like a big brother. The only other time he’s really felt like this was when they argued a few weeks ago about Marlene and the concerto, but even then, Sirius felt older because of the distance that Regulus’ stubbornness put between them. This, here, is a result of the responsibility that Sirius feels, his determination to do and say what their parents never have and make sure that Regulus knows his worth and how loved he is. Sirius tries every day, with every breath he takes and everything he does, but he’s not convinced that it always works.
“Listen to me,” Sirius says, wincing at how sharp it sounds. He gently lifts Regulus’ chin to make sure he can see his face. “Look at me. You will never, and I mean never , let me down. Especially not over something like this.”
“Okay,” Regulus says.
The bus pulls in outside of Hogwarts, and the brothers stand up, gathering their things and making their way to the door.
There’s nothing more that can be said, or at least nothing that either of them have the words for. Despite the thousands of languages that exist and even the few that they speak fluently as a result of in-depth tutoring, there’s no vocabulary that can articulate the chasm that formed in the landscape of their family the moment that Sirius said the wrong thing at that fateful dinner and widened when Regulus chose to say nothing at all.
The solidarity and understanding that was found later can only mend so much, and love can fix even less.
*
“Marlene,” Sirius says carefully as they pack away their things at the end of rehearsal, “I know that a few weeks ago you invited us out with you guys, and I’m just wondering if the offer still stands?”
Marlene’s head snaps up as she closes her case and zips it up, the zipper catching on her dust cloth for a moment. As she undoes it to fix it, she looks almost bewildered. “Of course it does, everyone is welcome.” When Sirius nods in thanks, she grins. “Plus, I’m sure I can think of at least two people who will be pleased.”
Sirius follows her gaze to the back of the room where the brass players are packing away, and to where Remus has James gripped in a headlock that has the latter laughing rather than being uncomfortable. Their eyes lock on Sirius at the same time. James gives a smile and a wave before, predictably, looking past Sirius to where Regulus is tidying his own things. Remus’ face softens slightly and his eyes brighten in a way that Sirius can even see from far away, going from brown to gold, unaffected by the harsh, artificial lights that are studded into the ceiling. Sirius lets Marlene’s words warm him, the suggestion that Remus might be as excited about spending time together outside of rehearsal as he is. Something a lot like hope bubbles in his chest, and he indulges in it whilst he can and whilst the illusion remains unshattered.
Marlene swings her case onto her back, snapping Sirius out of his trance when it almost cuffs him around the shoulder. She makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like “Ugh, men,” and strides towards the door, turning around to give Sirius and Regulus a look that says: you coming ?
People from all corners of the room seem to blend together into one group, with Remus and James falling into step beside Sirius and Regulus, Marlene leading, and Lily, Pandora, Barty and Evan bringing up the rear. It’s strange, really, to see Barty, someone from school and a whole different part of their lives, so seamlessly existing as a member of this group and this environment, but it’s comforting.
“So you’ve finally decided that you like us enough to hang out with us, then?” Remus says, leaning close so that he can be heard over the chatter. Once he’s spoken, though, he moves away, and Sirius immediately feels the loss of him.
“Nope,” he teases, leaning in himself and relishing in the way Remus stiffens and then relaxes, “I actually despise you all. I’m just bored.”
“My mistake,” Remus muses, “You’ve made your hatred clear.” His eyes, gleaming with metal and mirth, track over Sirius’ face, and Sirius doesn’t miss the way they linger on his lips for a split second too long. He smells faintly of cigarettes, and Sirius understands for the first time why so many people get addicted. When Remus straightens up, Sirius swears he starts experiencing withdrawal symptoms.
James turns around in front of them and starts walking backwards, expertly avoiding the furniture and doorways in a way that is actually quite impressive. He smiles and tilts his head slightly, exposing what Sirius and Regulus notice at the same time, judging by the way Regulus freezes and lets his mouth fall open.
“I like this,” Sirius smirks, tapping the side of his nose. James looks confused for a moment before he grins and taps the left side of his own nose and the small gold hoop that’s pierced through it.
“Oh yeah!” he exclaims, clearly oblivious to the way Sirius’ brother is having an internal breakdown in front of him. Regulus has a look on his face that Sirius wishes he hadn’t seen. “Marlene wanted a new piercing so we went with her, and I’m nothing if not impulsive.”
“It suits you,” Regulus says quietly, and James practically lights up.
“So,” Sirius says, turning to Remus as casually as possible as he holds open the door for him, taking in the cool air that greets them, “Did you get anything?”
Remus huffs a laugh that makes Sirius' stomach flutter, lifting up a handful of loose curls to expose the shell of his ear and the thick metal bar pierced through it. “I was going to get my eyebrow re-pierced but the healing process was hell the first time around.” That answers Sirius’ question about where that scar across his eyebrow came from, and he feels a sharp pang of disappointment that he never got to see it. “Although I don’t think this is going to be any easier.” He touches the bar and winces.
“Well, touching it certainly won’t help,” Sirius points out, and Remus just shakes his head in response.
“Your wisdom astounds me.”
“Call me Merlin,” Sirius deadpans, earning him a snort.
“Oh, please,” Remus drawls, “You would not last two minutes as a wizard.”
“How so?”
“You’d probably do some stupid magic and end up in wizard prison.”
“I resent that accusation!” Sirius exclaims, “Besides, do wizards even have prison?”
“I guess you’d find out, wouldn’t you?” Remus says with a smirk that Sirius wants to taste.
“You’re such a dick,” Sirius huffs, gently shoving Remus as they follow their friends through the doors of a diner on the corner of the street. “It would be pretty cool to be a wizard, though. To be magic.”
Remus watches him carefully, a flicker of something across his features. He swallows. “I don’t think you have to be a wizard to be magic, Sirius.”
Before Sirius can even begin to decipher what that might mean, Remus is pushing his way through the crowd to a table at the back of the room that is slowly filling up with people from the orchestra, stacking cases against walls and sliding into the vinyl booths.
Sirius follows him, and decides that maybe, just maybe, following Remus Lupin is what he was made for.
*
“Absolutely not!” Pandora declares, waving a chip around and nearly painting ketchup on Evan’s cheek. “You can’t say that brass instruments are better than woodwind. They’re too farty.”
“ Farty? ” Remus and James exclaim in unison as Evan gently extracts the chip from his sister’s hand that she seems to have forgotten about.
“That’s a low blow,” Sirius mutters behind his glass. Regulus snickers, stirring the half-melted ice in his own glass with his straw, switching between clockwise and anti-clockwise motions, four one way and four the other.
“That’s rich coming from you,” Remus says with a grin, all teeth, pointing at Pandora. “Whenever I listen to the flutes, all I hear is squeaking.”
“You’re on thin ice, Lupin,” Lily says, tightening an arm around her girlfriend.
“Don’t even get me started on you,” laughs Remus. “I think we can collectively agree that both brass and woodwind are better than strings .” Lily clutches her chest in mock offence as Remus is met with various noises of affirmation from everyone else, except Sirius, Regulus and Marlene.
Sirius sits up, his defence strategy, which has been perfected over years, activated.
“You’ve made a big mistake, Remus,” Regulus mutters, low and teasing. Sirius is pleased to see him joining in, even though group gatherings like this aren’t usually his style.
“This,” Sirius says slowly, grinning as Remus pulls his eyes up to meet him, “is war .” In the purple-tinted fluorescent lights, Remus’ scars seem to be glowing against his skin, and when he smiles, his teeth gleam, sharp and wolfish.
“Bring it on, Black.” Remus winks, and Sirius is going to pass the fuck out. Either Remus is an idiot and has no idea what he’s doing to Sirius, or he’s the cruellest person alive. Sirius is willing to bet on either, and it scares him that he doesn’t know which outcome he’d prefer.
“This is going to be good,” Barty says from across the booth, reaching an arm around the back of the seat and pulling Evan into him.
“Your instrument sounds like a dying cat,” Remus says by way of an opener.
“Only when played incorrectly,” Sirius corrects. “Yours sounds like shit all the time. Pandora was onto something.”
“That wasn’t very creative,” Sirius hears James whisper to Regulus. Regulus silences him with a glare and James sinks back into his seat, blushing furiously.
“At least brass is allowed in bands, not just orchestra,” Remus continues.
“I don’t want to be in your band. Strings are what make an orchestra an orchestra, and violinists are always concertmasters. Call me when you get your name in the programme,” Sirius says sweetly, leaning forward on his hand and shrugging.
Remus tongues his cheek and tilts his head. “Your instrument is wood and horsehair.”
“At least I don’t have to spend ten minutes at the start of every rehearsal putting it together .” Sirius scoffs, struggling to conceal a smile as Remus gives him a look , calculating.
“At least I don’t have to spend ten minutes at the start of every rehearsal just trying to tune .”
Sirius hums. “Yeah, but, I don’t have to carry Vaseline with me just in case my lips burst mid performance.”
“Violins are unflattering to play,” Remus declares, and Sirius takes the bait.
“We both know you don’t think that, Wolfboy,” Sirius says, “I’m not stupid. And besides, you play the French horn. Your opinion is worth nothing.”
“This got personal really quickly,” Mary points out, laughing almost nervously as Sirius and Remus both sit back in their chairs.
“And really sexually charged,” Barty stage-whispers, earning him a chorus of groans.
“You just had to make it dirty, didn’t you,” Remus says with a sigh, but there’s a glint in his eye that Sirius only notices when Remus thinks he isn’t looking and turns to face him.
Barty winks at him and blows a kiss. “Always, love.” Remus wrinkles his face up in disgust, and it’s so strangely endearing that Sirius wants to cry.
“Notice how no one slandered oboes,” Mary says, raising her hands in a symbol of victory.
James whirls on her. “Trust me, I am more than happy to slander oboes any day of the week.” He starts listing, counting on his fingers for dramatic effect. “We have to tune to you but you’re never in tune, squeaky as hell, double reed instrument,” he shudders, “oboes are for people who want to be different when really they’re just worse versions of clarinets.”
Mary’s jaw drops. “You bitch.”
Pandora picks up another chip, this time on a fork and coated in a mixture of mayonnaise and barbecue sauce. “I know I’m supposed to be backing the woodwind here, but I have to agree with everything James has just said.”
“Pandora,” Evan says carefully, “Given that you willingly play the piccolo, I really don’t think you’re allowed to comment.” He’s echoed with a cacophony of jeers and noises of assent. Pandora frowns as Lily presses a kiss to her cheek.
Regulus buries his face in his hands. “Fucking hell, here we go.”
*
“Do you have to leave?” Barty complains as Regulus and Sirius stand up and gather their things. He bats his eyelashes, as if that’s enough to convince them to stay.
“You know what mum’s like,” Regulus says, waving a hand, and Barty’s face falls slightly in understanding.
“But you’ll come to my party on Friday?” His Halloween party, apparently, judging by the spiel he’s been on for about fifteen minutes.
Sirius and Regulus exchange a look, a silent argument that Sirius wins. “We’ll try,” he tells Barty, and Regulus rolls his eyes in disdain.
“Bye!” Marlene calls as they head towards the door, and the goodbye is repeated by the rest of the people at the table. It feels genuine and warm in a way that’s so unfamiliar to Sirius. he wants to bottle it and keep it with him, this feeling.
James jumps up and pulls on his coat. “I’ll walk you guys to the bus stop.”
“Why?” Regulus asks, folding his arms across his chest. “It’s not like we’re going to get jumped.” He looks James up and down. “And if we were, I don’t think you’d be much help.”
Sirius groans internally as James’ face goes through a carousel of about eight different emotions, ranging from horrified to incredibly smug. “Just let him do it,” Sirius hisses to his brother, who shrugs and heads for the door without another word.
When they step outside, however, into the crisp October evening, they’re met with the sight of a familiar car and an even more familiar figure leaning against it.
“Mum?” Regulus says in greeting. James freezes beside him and takes a couple of steps back.
“I’m going to head back inside, I’ll see you guys later?” he says, eyes flickering between the three of them. As he goes, Walburga gives him a strange look that, if Sirius didn’t know better, could be interpreted as familiarity or recognition.
“I thought you weren't feeling up to driving,” Sirius says slowly.
Walburga’s gaze remains fixed on James’ retreating figure until he’s firmly indoors, at which point she looks at her sons. “I’m feeling better now.” No one comments on the brace that remains on her wrist. “It didn’t seem fair to make you get the bus when I’m entirely capable of picking you up.”
Sirius is about to point out that fair isn’t usually a word in Walburga Black’s vocabulary when Regulus speaks.
“How did you know where we were?” he asks quietly, something else in his voice that Sirius can’t place.
Walburga shrugs, a gesture that’s oddly casual and incredibly unlike her. “I guessed. This is where we-” She pauses, running her tongue over her teeth. “Where the other orchestra-goers went after the rehearsal. Some traditions stick, or so I’m led to believe.”
Too tired to argue or to decrypt the code of her words, Sirius opens the car boot and puts his case in, taking Regulus’ off him and putting it in too. He closes the boot with a thud. “Well, you found us,” he shrugs. “Don’t worry, I didn’t get into any trouble.”
“I know,” his mother says quietly as she gets into the driver’s seat. In the flicker of the streetlights, she looks younger, the contrast of the shadows on her face making the skin appear smoother. From this angle, she almost looks like someone who Sirius can imagine attending rehearsals with likeminded people and killing time in cheap diners on weekday evenings. The orange glow acts as some kind of portal into the past that Sirius wants to fall through, if only to try and understand the woman in front of him better.
“Get in, Sirius,” she says sharply. She closes the car door, hard, and with it, the illusion shatters.
Notes:
for some reason, sirius chapters are always the longest and over 6k words...but the next one is even longer!!
also there's been a secret little implied plot line running through the past few chapters that's been hinted at and is going to become more important, so lets see who catches it!!! i'd love to hear your guesses/predictions/thoughts in the comments!
love you all!!
Chapter 8: chapter eight
Notes:
as promised, here’s the second part of the double upload!!!
i tried something new with a dual POV between sirius and marlene and i love how it’s turned out, so i hope everyone else loves it too!!
this is by far my fav chapter so far so i hope you enjoy!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Interlude: The Halloween Party
The house in front of them is almost the exact opposite of the kind of house that Sirius would assume Barty to live in, and it's for that reason that he’s certain they’re in the right place.
“It’s the right house, I promise,” Regulus says from behind him, as if he can read his mind. “I’ve been here before.”
Sirius turns to look at his brother, who’s very blatantly avoiding eye contact. “You have? Why?” He knows that Regulus and Barty are friends, have been for years, but Regulus isn’t really the kind of person to go to people’s houses.
Shrugging, Regulus walks up to the door and hits the heavy brass knocker against the wood. It's in the shape of a snake, and Sirius swears its eyes move. There’s loud music spilling out through cracks in the windows, the heavy bass swallowing the lyrics so that Sirius can’t quite identify it, and it only gets louder when the door swings open to reveal Barty, wide eyed and grinning, holding a plastic cup in one hand three different coloured vapes in the other.
“Gents! Come on in!” he yells over the music, gesturing for them to follow him.
Regulus stares at him in horror. “What the fuck are you wearing?”
Barty looks down at himself as if he’s already forgotten his outfit, taking in the black sequins, fishnets and ridiculously short shorts with the expression of someone who can’t remember how such clothes ended up on his body. “I’m Frank-N-Furter, obviously.”
With a sigh, Regulus pushes past him without another glance and Sirius follows, clapping Barty on the back on the way. “I like it,” he tells him, “You look hot.”
Barty grins and winks, batting a dark, makeup-covered eyelid. “I know.” He gestures to the room, the crowd of faces that Sirius can only recognise half of from either school or orchestra, and points towards a door that Sirius can only assume leads to the kitchen. “Drinks and food through that way- help yourself to whatever you want. The more you have, the more pissed off my dad’ll be, so getting shit-faced is heavily encouraged.”
Sirius nods in thanks, but unfortunately he’s not able to get as ‘shit-faced’ as he’d like. Somehow, he’s managed to convince his parents that there’s an extra late-evening rehearsal that both he and Regulus have to attend, so they can only stay for a couple of hours to make the excuse plausible. Regulus had been far less than enthusiastic, but had relented after Sirius pleaded for the best part of half an hour. He’s not certain that their parents believe the excuse, Walburga less so than Orion, but they happen to be hosting a few of their friends for a dinner party tonight, and they always prefer to have their sons, especially Sirius, out of the house on such occasions. If they were confused by Sirius’ insistence that they could get the bus to the ‘rehearsal’, or if they spotted the backpacks of costumes and lack of violin cases, they didn’t mention anything.
Pushing his way through the sea of bodies, draped in cheap costumes and painted with thick layers of face paint, Sirius catches up with his brother in the kitchen. Regulus is standing by a table covered in a flimsy plastic tablecloth and stacked with what looks like the entirety of Tesco’s alcohol aisle. He picks up a half-empty bottle of some absurdly-flavoured liquor, radioactive in colour and puts it down with a grimace.
“How can people drink this stuff?” he says, glaring at the bottles as if they collectively murdered their entire family.
“Because it’s delicious and gets you pissed at record speed,” says a new voice, recognisable over the music and background chatter only because of its friendliness and the way it makes Regulus whirl around and flush crimson. James grins at them and Remus appears behind him, giving Sirius a small smile that makes his nose crinkle up and Sirius’ stomach flip. Maybe he will have to get drunk tonight.
“Nice outfits,” Sirius manages, gesturing to James and Remus’ matching cowboy hats, flannel shirts and denim jackets. The outfits look familiar, like a reference Sirius knows he’s supposed to get, but he’s too distracted by the shadow of the hat on Remus’ face, the way it cuts across his cheekbone, and the small area of exposed skin where his collar has slipped away from his neck.
“Holy shit,” Regulus breathes with a huff of a laugh, “You’re Brokeback Mountain.”
“We sure are,” James says in a painful imitation of a Wyoming accent. He tips his hat in Regulus’ direction, and Sirius stifles a laugh.
“You’ve watched Brokeback Mountain?” Sirius asks Regulus in slight disbelief. Regulus raises an eyebrow.
“Obviously. You haven’t?”
Sirius clears his throat. “Yeah, I have. Obviously.” He hasn’t. Instinctively, he turns to Remus, who’s already watching him. Liar, his eyes say as he raises a bottle of beer to his lips. Sirius looks away and does everything he can to clear his mind of the way Remus’ fingers looked wrapped around the neck of the bottle.
“Where’s your costume then, Reg?” James says. Regulus rolls his eyes, reaching into his pocket to pull out the mask he bought from a craft shop and cut up so that only a part of it remains. Unimpressed, he holds it up to his face, not even bothering to pull the elastic over his head.
“Guess.”
To his credit, James really does look like he’s trying to work it out, eyes roaming over the rest of Regulus’ entirely black outfit. His gaze lands on Regulus’ face, the corner of whose mouth is twitching in amusement. “No idea.”
Remus looks at James in despair. “Phantom of the Opera, James.” He looks personally offended, as if James had forgotten his name rather than the name of a musical. “It was the school show last year, you played in it and had to watch it every night for a week.”
James’ face lights up in recognition. “Oh yeah!” he exclaims, before launching into an absolutely disastrous imitation of the overture. “Duuuuun..dun-dun-dun-dun-duuuuuun.”
“Jesus Christ, how much have you had to drink?” Remus asks, “We’ve only been here for twenty minutes.”
James giggles. “Not enough. Why the mask then, Reg?”
“Covers my face,” Regulus says simply, still holding up his pathetic excuse for a costume.
James frowns, as if this is the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “Well, that’s silly. I kinda like your face.”
Slowly, Regulus removes the mask, staring at James in what could be either awe or terror. He turns to the table of drinks, picks up the same bottle that had so offended him earlier, and pours a slightly worrying amount into an empty cup. He drinks the whole thing with not so much as a wince, a skill devised of his infuriatingly high alcohol tolerance and apparent inability to emote, before turning around and disappearing out of the kitchen door and into the throes of people. James stares at his retreating back for a few seconds before jolting awake and following him.
“Wait, Reg, come back!”
“Well,” Remus drawls, depositing his empty bottle on the table and picking up two more, offering one to Sirius. Sirius nods in response and watches as Remus pats his pockets and looks around, presumably for a bottle opener. He’s about to offer his own, the one in the Swiss army knife he keeps in his pocket, but stops himself as Remus resorts to opening one bottle with the other, popping the lid off, and then, much to Sirius’ delight, he easily opens the remaining one with his teeth. “I think James has just discovered something new about himself,” Remus says, passing a bottle to Sirius and nodding his head in the direction that James went. Sirius tries not to think too hard about the fact that the bottle he’s now drinking from is the one that Remus just had his own mouth on. Me too, he thinks, taking an embarrassingly large gulp of beer. It’s warm and tastes cheap, which it probably is, but he doesn’t mind.
“I really don’t want to think about that,” Sirius grimaces, shuddering. “God knows what he sees in him.”
“I’d be more concerned if you did understand what James sees in your brother.”
“Well, it's not like out family tree is entirely void of incest,” Sirius muses before he can stop himself. Nice one, Sirius. Because the best way to chat up cute guys is to talk about your inbreeding.
Remus coughs, almost choking on the mouthful of beer he’s taken at just that moment. “Come again?”
“Long story.”
“No offence, but I’d need to be a hell of a lot drunker before I’d sit through a story like that.”
“Understandable,” Sirius says with a grin, “The night is still young.”
Remus stills for a moment before giving a small laugh, opening his mouth as if he’s fighting an internal battle with himself about whether he should say whatever made him freeze like that. “You know,” he says, apparently losing the battle, “That's one of the first things you said to me. When I pointed out that you hadn’t met me properly.”
“Back when you were set on being a prick to me?” Sirius teases, leaning against the table. Remus mirrors the action. “Trust me, I remember.”
“Sorry about that. Again.” Remus looks down at his feet, grip tightening on the bottle, his hat obscuring his face as he tilts his head.
“Don’t be,” Sirius says, just so that Remus will look up and let Sirius see his face again, “And besides, I’ve met you properly now.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sirius smiles, “Lucky me.”
“Lucky you, huh?” Remus says with a twitch of his mouth. He doesn’t say anything for a while, and Sirius can’t help but worry that he’s said something wrong, until Remus pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his back pocket. “I’m gonna go outside for a smoke, you coming?”
Sirius follows him perhaps slightly too quickly. “Yeah, okay.” Remus turns and gives him a grin that makes him feel drunker than the lukewarm beer or any of the alcohol at this party ever could.
The fresh air hits Sirius’ skin like a slap in the face, cold and sharp, but the way Remus smiles when he offers Sirius a cigarette warms him slightly. He debates for a moment about whether he should accept, mulls over the likelihood of Walburga somehow smelling it on his clothes. She seems to have a sixth sense for anything Sirius does that would disappoint her.
Ultimately, the part of his brain that chants RemusRemusRemus wins, and he nods. Remus leans over to slot one between Sirius lips, a jolt of something igniting every nerve ending in Sirius’ body as Remus’ fingers briefly graze his chin. With the flick of a lighter, the tip of Remus’ own cigarette glows red, and instead of passing Sirius the lighter like Sirius assumed he would, he leans forward, touching the glowing end to Sirius’ own unlit one. Sirius inhales sharply, the sudden proximity shocking him, and immediately regrets it.
He coughs, harsh and unwanted, the burn of smoke coating his throat and settling deep in his chest. “What the fuck?”
Beside him, Remus barks a laugh, and when Sirius finally looks up at him, he sees the beginning of tears of mirth in his eyes. “You’ve never smoked before, have you?”
Sirius shakes his head, still not trusting his ability to speak. He pounds his fist against his chest again, nothing if not dramatic. Stupidly, he really thought he’d be able to convince Remus - he’s watched enough movies, seen enough people smoke in real life. It doesn’t look that difficult to mimic without coughing his lungs out, but apparently not. “Sorry,” he croaks, “I’ve just wasted a cig, haven’t I?”
Remus shakes his head, almost fondly, reaching over to pluck the barely-smoked cigarette from Sirius’ mouth, and Sirius is certain he must be doing this on purpose to mess with him. If nearly touching his lips wasn’t enough, Remus simply puts both cigarettes between his own lips at the same time, and Sirius is going to die. His tombstone will read: Death by Remus Lupin, he’s sure of it.
“What’s your costume, anyway?” Remus says, snapping Sirius out of his trance. He thinks about a poem he studied in English Lit, The Flea by John Donne, in which a man tries to convince a woman that since they’ve both been bitten by the same flea, their blood is already mingling, and so they might as well just sleep together. Using the same -somewhat twisted- logic, between the beer bottle and the shared cigarette, it could be argued that he’s technically already kissed Remus, so really what would be the harm in reaching over, in grabbing Remus’ stupid cowboy-esque collar and pulling him down to meet him? He shakes his head to clear it and takes twice the time to process Remus’ very simple question.
He gestures to his outfit; the flowing white dress shirt that he’s only buttoned halfway and the vintage jacket that he found at a charity shop a few months back and has finally found an excuse to wear. “Guess,” he grins, baring his teeth and the fake plastic fangs that he painstakingly applied on the bus. They dig into his gums when he closes his mouth, and he had to resort to using (probably) expired eyelash glue that he stole from his cousin Andromeda years ago as adhesive. He can taste chemicals that he’s almost sure shouldn’t be anywhere near his mouth, let alone in it, but it's all worth it for the way Remus’ eyes widen slightly as he runs his tongue over the sharp points of the fangs.
“Fuck off,” Remus says quietly with a tone that Sirius can’t place but still makes his skin tingle and his heart almost beat out of his chest. Remus clears his throat, then, and stands up slightly, his hat slightly askew. Sirius fights the urge to straighten it. “Forgive me for not recognising it earlier. I mean, you’re always pale as shit and you haven’t even tried with the hair.”
Sirius’ hands fly to his head in mock offence. “Rude! How dare you assume that I would ever do anything to alter my hair. I will never let any kind of bleach near it. I’m not that committed to Halloween.”
“You couldn’t even get a wig?”
“God no. I wasn’t made to be a blonde.”
“Fair enough. You wouldn’t be able to tell where your face ended and your hair began,” says Remus, sounding amused. When Sirius looks at him, he doesn’t even try to hide the fully-formed grin. It softens his face, and in the combination of light from the moon and the windows, he looks so beautiful that Sirius wants to cry.
“I know it wasn’t, but I’m taking that as a compliment. I will not be embarrassed of being deathly pale.”
“You shouldn’t be, You’re still gorgeous,” Remus hums, then stills, as if he didn’t mean to say the last part. Sirius feels like he might explode.
“Oh I am, am I?”
“Shut up,” Remus says, and he’s blushing, “You know you are.”
“Still doesn’t hurt to hear you say it.” It's true. Sirius has had a number of people tell him that he’s gorgeous, beautiful - various adjectives of similar connotations, but this is the first time it’s made his heart swell. The first time it matters.
There’s silence for a while, the kind that has the potential to be awkward, but is instead comfortable and warm. Sirius looks over at Remus, who isn’t looking back, and that just simply won’t do.
“I have to know,” Sirius starts, “Obviously you play a brass instrument.”
“Astounding observation.”
Sirius ignores him. “And you smoke. A lot. Does it not impact your ability to, you know-”
“My ability to?”
Sirius makes some vague hand gestures that just seem to confuse Remus even more. He can’t blame him, but he also can’t decide on an appropriate phrasing that won’t completely kill the mood and make him wish for the ground to swallow him up. In the end, he just has to bite the bullet.
“Can you still, like,” he winces and looks away, “blow?”
Remus’ eyebrows shoot into his hairline and he barks out a laugh that does indeed make Sirius want a hole to open up beneath him and take him straight to Hell.
“You’re enquiring about my ability to blow things?” Remus says, so sly and infuriating, because he knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Fuck off, I didn’t mean it like that.” Sirius leans back against the wall, face buried into his hands. He can still hear Remus laughing, and there is nothing he’d like to do more than kiss him to shut him up, but it’s definitely not the time. Not when Sirius has somehow unintentionally done what can only be described as proposition him.
“You sure?” comes Remus’ reply, and Sirius definitely can’t look at him. Not when he can feel his face burning up. What the fuck.
“I just wanted to know whether your lungs still work okay!”
“I didn’t know you cared so much about the state of my organs.”
“God, Remus, why did you have to make it weird?” Sirius finally pulls his hands away and turns his head. Remus is looking straight at him, expression unreadable, but still conveying a frustrating amount of amusement.
“You started it,” Remus points out.
“I know, I know. Can we just pretend this conversation never happened?”
“So you don’t want to know?”
Sirius feels his jaw drop, because yes, he does. He’s only human after all, of course he wants to know about the effect of smoking on lung health! And, yes, the other thing, but that's by the by. Remus just looks smug, ridiculously so, as he takes another swig of beer. Sirius wonders how much he’s drunk. He knows he’s had at least two, and can’t help but think about whether the alcohol has had any effect on how Remus is talking to him. How Remus is looking at him.
He’s about to test the theory, somehow, when the back door opens and Regulus pops his head out.
“There you are. Can we go?” He’s wearing a cowboy hat that looks suspiciously like James’, and Remus gives Sirius a look. Sirius pulls his phone out of his pocket to check the time. He rolls his eyes.
“Reggie, it’s only eight. We’ve been here less than an hour.” He doesn’t mention that it feels like much longer, and judging by the way Remus’ raises an eyebrow in his peripheral vision, he isn’t the only one who’s been pulled into some alcohol-fuelled timewarp.
“Yeah, I know, but we have to get the bus and soon they’ll only be one every hour.” He pauses. “And I want to leave.” Sirius looks at his brother, cheeks flushed, presumably with alcohol, and then grins as James appears at the door too. That could also be the reason for the blush.
“Hey guys!” He takes the hat off of Regulus’ head and winks. Regulus glares at Sirius, and it's clear what he wants. Honestly, Sirius is proud that Regulus has lasted even this long. He’s never been one for parties. Or people.
“Yeah, okay,” Sirius says, pushing himself off the wall and downing the rest of his drink, “Lets go.” He feels Remus watching him as he walks past, and it's as if he can pinpoint the exact pattern in which Remus’ eyes track him from the way his whole body burns. “I’ll see you later, Remus.”
“Yeah,” Remus breathes, and if Sirius didn’t know better, he’d think about how Remus sounds almost out of breath, like it pains him to watch him go. “See you later. And, um, get home safe.”
“I will.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
Regulus grabs Sirius’ arm and drags him inside. “Pack it up. This isn’t The Fault in Our Stars.” Briefly, Sirius wonders whether Remus would agree with Gus that smoking is a metaphor, but then realises that Remus definitely cares less about lung health. Fuck, he’s just spent the best part of an hour with the guy, but he’s still thinking about him. “You’re pathetic,” Regulus hisses, leading him back through the house as Sirius awkwardly tries to wave at James over his shoulder.
“Where are we going?”
“To find Barty. We need to thank him for having us.” Sirius sighs.
“Christ, do you have to be so polite all the time? I can almost guarantee that Barty has already forgotten that we’re here.”
Sure enough, they find Barty, but he’s not alone. Unsurprisingly, he’s pressing Evan against the wall and aggressively making out with him, not even coming up for air.
“Thank you, Barty!” Regulus yells, “We’re leaving now!” In response, Barty removes his hand from Evan’s hair to give a thumbs up and a wave, before promptly returning it to his boyfriend’s head. He doesn’t look up.
“Great chat!” Sirius calls across the room, earning no response. Regulus grabs his arm again, pulling him through the room as if they’re trying to push their way to the front of a concert, and doesn’t let go until they’re through the door and outside. The night air is a shock to Sirius’ system again, such a contrast from the suffocating warmth of body heat inside the house, but this time there’s no Remus to offset it.
“Right,” Sirius says, “What the hell was that all about?”
“What do you mean?” Regulus walks down the pavement a few paces ahead of Sirius, seeming to have the intention of putting as much space between them as possible. He speeds up.
“You just appeared out of nowhere and dragged me out of there as if it were a burning building.” Regulus ignores him, so Sirius darts forward. “Hey, hey, no. You’re not allowed to decide we have to leave and then give me no explanation. That’s not fair.”
“Oh, sorry,” Regulus bites back, “Did I cock-block you?”
“What? No, no! I just want to know if you’re okay.”
“I’m fine,” Regulus says then, stopping so that Sirius can catch up. It's something. “I just fucked up.”
Sirius puts an arm around Regulus’ shoulder as they start walking again in the direction of the bus stop. His brother relaxes into him, and Sirius takes it as an opportunity to ask. “With James?”
Regulus freezes for a moment but nods, almost robotically. “Yeah.”
“Did you…” Sirius pauses, because he really isn’t in the mood for another awkward conversation tonight, “Kiss him?”
“No.”
“No? Okay, so what did you do? He seemed fine when we left.”
“I didn’t kiss him, but I wanted to.” He says it so simply, so full of a warped kind of acceptance and finality that it breaks Sirius’ heart a little bit.
“So? James is great, and as much as I don’t want to imagine my little brother kissing anyone, he’s clearly obsessed with you.”
“Exactly. He’s,” Regulus sounds like he’s about to cry, but Sirius knows he won’t. Sirius is the crier out of the two of them - Regulus just shuts down. Closes in on himself. Gets angry. “He’s wonderful. I don’t deserve him.”
Sirius stops walking, doesn’t remove his arm around Regulus so that he’s forced to stop too. He just stares at him. “Can you not be self-deprecating for one fucking minute? Please. Why on earth would you not deserve him? You’re the best person I know.”
“You’re my brother - you have to say that.” Sirius almost laughs at that.
“I absolutely do not. If I’m supposed to sing the praises of everyone I’m related to, I’m doing a pretty shit job of it. I mean it. Completely unbiased.”
Regulus gives a watery laugh and leans his head on Sirius’ shoulder as they set off again. It’s a difficult position to walk in, but they manage. Sirius refuses to let him go, even if it's impractical for them to be tangled up like this. “I just feel like he deserves better. Especially because of what I did.”
“What did you do?”
“The Marlene thing. I don’t regret it, and I’m not going to change anything, but she’s still his best friend.”
“Is that it? You’re not letting yourself be with an amazing guy who’s clearly crazy about you, because you pissed off his friend? I thought you didn’t care about that.”
“I thought you did.”
Sirius shrugs, jostling Regulus’ head. “I mean, I still don’t understand it, and I don’t necessarily agree with your decision, but at the end of the day, you’re my brother. I support you, and I’m not going to sit back and let you punish yourself over something relatively inconsequential.”
Regulus doesn’t say anything, just keeps walking, dodging cracks in the pavement the same way he always has. “Fine.” He kicks a stray pebble, and they both watch as it bounces along the ground and eventually rolls onto and down a drain.
Sirius presses a kiss to the top of Regulus’ head. “I love you, okay?”
“Yeah,” Regulus says quietly, “I love you too.”
“Just tell me, please,” Sirius says, because he trusts Regulus, he does, but there’s a gnawing in his gut that says otherwise, “Is there something else going on that I need to know about?”
Regulus inhales sharply, shakes his head as if it’ll change whatever’s going on inside it. “No.”
“Promise?” Sirius asks as they reach the bus stop and the bus arrives, because of course Regulus perfectly timed it.
“Promise.”
*
“I look ridiculous,” Marlene grimaces, running a hand through the hair that she spent an absurd amount of time tying into pigtails, her skin now stained with blue hair chalk when she pulls it away.
“No you don’t!” James says, “You look badass!” His shirt is halfway unbuttoned down his chest, and Marlene knows he had a cowboy hat at some point because he and Remus sent her a selfie when they first arrived, but it’s nowhere to be seen.
Marlene has only just arrived at Barty’s party, the one he’s held every Halloween for the past three years, and it's already in full swing. James and Remus, however, have been in a daze since she got here, with no explanation as to why. At first, she wondered if they’d taken something, but then she noticed the beer bottles in both of their hands, and although they’re stupid, she knows they’re not stupid enough to mix drugs and alcohol.
“Did I miss anything?”
“Just Sirius and Regulus,” Remus says, “They left just before you got here, actually.” On reflection, Marlene thinks she saw them walking in the opposite direction when she arrived, two heads of dark hair pressed together, almost morphing into one in the dark.
“Pity,” she huffs, only partially meaning the sarcasm that the word ends up dripping with. She’s over it - really, she is. She likes Sirius enough, he’s funny and insanely cool in a way that makes it take extra effort to not like him, and although she’s still slightly bitter towards Regulus, with the amount James fawns over him it’d be unwise for her to openly dislike him for much longer. Still, she doesn’t exactly want to try and hold an alcohol-fuelled conversation with either of them, and is grateful that she’s missed the opportunity to find herself in such a situation.
Almost the whole orchestra is here, along with some of Barty’s friends from school, she assumes. Already, she’s spotted Lily and Pandora making out on the couch, Benjy and Caradoc doing shots in the kitchen, Sybill successfully convincing a very drunk person Peter that she can tell his future by looking at the bottom of his empty glass, and Kingsley engaged in what looks to be a very heated game of beer pong with who she assumes is Frank, but it's hard to tell due to the white sheet draped over them. Aside from Remus and James, who thought it would be hilarious to do a couple’s costume, and Barty in his Rocky Horror get-up, everyone seems to be dressed as either a zombie, ghost or vampire. In the corner, Lucinda is in all black with a single drop of fake blood by her mouth, and Marlene feels very overdressed.
She can’t help but scan the room, hoping that her eyes land on the one person she really wants to see, but she can’t find Dorcas anywhere.
“Marlene!” comes a yell as she feels someone launch themself at her back. She almost jumps out of her skin and turns around to find Mary, dressed as, shockingly, a vampire, with Emmeline in tow. “You look great!”
Marlene looks down at the costume that she haphazardly threw together after scrolling on Pinterest for outfit ideas. Not one for skirts and dresses, she’s having to rely on her hair and makeup to make it obvious who she’s supposed to be dressed as. “Thanks, Mary. So do you!” Mary does, as always, look amazing, with artfully smudged eyeliner and the perfect amount of fake blood that coats her teeth when she smiles. Emmeline wraps her arms around her from behind, and it takes Marlene a moment to notice the black cat ears on her head. They almost blend into her hair.
“Have you had anything to drink yet?” Mary asks, “I know you like cider and there definitely was some when I got here, but I don’t know how much is left.”
“No need to worry!” James says, suddenly, reappearing with three cans of cider. Marlene didn’t even notice that he left. “I’ve got mixed berries, strawberry and kiwi, or kiwi and lime. Take your pick.” Laughing, Marlene takes the first one she can reach, not really having any preference. She’s not a big drinker, staying away from anything that poses the risk of getting drunk too quickly, but she’ll never says no to cider.
“Is everyone here?” she asks. It's not the question she really wants to ask, but it’s a shortcut.
“I think so!” Emmeline says cheerily. “I saw Emma and Amelia earlier, Hestia is throwing up in the downstairs toilet, so maybe steer clear, and I think Dorcas is with Kingsley. Or Alice.” She pauses for a moment. “She’s making the rounds, I think. She’ll probably end up here soon enough.”
As if on cue, Dorcas appears through the doorway, eyes lighting up slightly when they land on Marlene, and Marlene rejoices in the knowledge that her makeup will probably disguise her real blush. “McKinnon!” she exclaims, placing her hands on Marlene’s shoulders as she looks at her. “Your outfit! It’s amazing! I don’t feel as overdressed anymore.”
That’s when Marlene gets a chance to look at the girl in front of her, at the emerald green satin dress that hugs her waist, at the fake vines wrapping around her arms and shoulders, at the green eyeshadow that blends from her eyelids to her temples, and - oh.
Because Dorcas? Dorcas is dressed as Poison Ivy, the comic-book girlfriend of Harley Quinn.
“You’re Harley Quinn!” Dorcas says, in case Marlene had forgotten.
And Marlene? Yes, Marlene is in fact Harley Quin. Marlene is also so incredibly fucked.
“And you’re Poison Ivy,” she says weakly.
“Don’t they date in the comics?” Remus says, and when Marlene turns to glare at him, he’s sporting an evil grin.
“I think so,” Dorcas muses, so casually, as if Marlene’s entire world hasn’t just tilted on its axis because she’s accidentally shown up to a Halloween party in a couple’s costume with the girl she’s been halfway in love with for years.
Just then, the music changes, and Dorcas, Mary and Emmeline simultaneously let out a squeal.
“I love this song!” Mary says as she drags her girlfriend out of the kitchen and towards the area of the open-plan living room that’s become the dancefloor. Marlene watches them go, and when she turns to Dorcas, the other girl has her hand outstretched.
“What do you say, girlfriend?” she says with a smile, and Marlene hates how much of an effect Dorcas calling her her girlfriend has. She’s certain that her legs are going to give out if Dorcas does that again. “Wanna dance?”
It’s like a magnetic pull, how easily Marlene fits her hand into Dorcas’ and lets herself be led into the crowd. They find a space in between the swaying bodies, and even as Dorcas herself starts to dance, so natural and without a care in the world, she doesn’t let go.
“I have to admit,” Marlene shouts over the music, “I don’t recognise the song.” Dorcas clutches her chest and gasps dramatically.
“Marlene McKinnon! Uncultured swine.” She laughs as she twirls Marlene around, and Marlene is more than happy to let her take the lead. She has musicality, of course, but it's restricted to playing the violin - as soon as she has to move her body, it all crumbles. “It’s Suki Waterhouse,” Dorcas says over the music before humming the lyrics under her breath, so quiet but somehow Marlene can hear it clearer from her mouth than the speaker. “I know you're in the city, should be spending all my time with you, I can't forget that feeling even if I wanted to.”
Marlene shakes her head.
“You still don’t know her? No? Okay, she was in Love, Rosie.”
“Never seen it.”
“Daisy Jones and the Six?”
“Nope.”
“What? I think she was in the second Divergent movie?” Dorcas muses, before her face lights up. “She was! Her character was even called Marlene.”
Marlene laughs, partly at her own lack of pop culture knowledge and partly at how determined Dorcas is. She’s listing off popular songs and film cameos as she places her hands on Marlene’s waist and moves her hips back and forth.
“Oh! She has a kid with Robert Pattinson!”
“Is that the guy from Twilight?” Marlene asks, because the name sounds familiar. Dorcas’ hands are still on her waist, and she is absolutely, completely (not) fine.
“Yes!” Dorcas says with enthusiasm. She almost sounds proud. “Now we’re getting somewhere.” Marlene ducks her head slightly in an attempt to hide the blush that’s spreading over her face, the kind that even makeup can’t hide, and Dorcas leans their foreheads together for a brief moment, before she puts a hand on the back of Marlene’s neck and brings her head forward so that it rests on her shoulder.
Marlene stops breathing, just for a moment. The exposed skin of Dorcas’ shoulder is warm, and she smells of vanilla and smoke, and Marlene can’t help but smile against her. They only break apart when Lily appears from another doorway and shouts.
“Dorcas! Marlene! Get in here, there’s a karaoke machine!”
Dorcas grins at Marlene, an eyebrow raised in question, and Marlene responds by tightening her grip on her hand and pulling her towards the room that Lily has disappeared back into. There’s a brief moment where the music from the two rooms overlaps into an overwhelming flood of just noise, but it settles when they step through and close the door behind them.
In the corner of the room, there’s a TV displaying lyrics, and Pandora is halfway through a startlingly accurate rendition of Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights. Lily watches her adoringly, whilst James and Remus lounge on an armchair that’s definitely only designed for one person. On the floor beside them, Mary, Emmeline, Peter and Sybill are sitting in a row, backs against the wall, certainly looking like they’ve seen better days.
Marlene suddenly feels very, very sober.
“Wow,” Dorcas breathes, and when Marlene turns to her, she looks to be struggling to contain a laugh.
James sits up and waves them over, almost knocking Remus to the floor in the process. “Hey!” He ignores Remus’ glare. “Do you guys want to sing something? Me and Remus are up next but I can add you to the list?” From the way Remus’ eyes widen, it seems this is the first time that he’s hearing of this.
“Fuck no,” he grumbles. “James, I love you, but absolutely not.”
“Please?” James whines, batting his eyelashes, “We’ll do our song?”
Remus rolls his eyes but relents when James procures a fresh beer from somewhere and presses it into his hand. He takes a large sip and mutters “I’m going to need this.”
“Do you want to have a go?” Dorcas asks, “At karaoke?”
Marlene laughs, because she can’t help it. “I’m going to be honest, my musical ability does not extend to vocals.”
“That’s the fun, isn't it?” Dorcas points out, putting a casual hand around Marlene’s shoulder that feels distinctly not-casual. Marlene’s breath catches in her throat as she’s pulled against Dorcas’ chest. “I’ll even let you choose the song.”
“I think we’ve established that we don’t know the same songs,” Marlene manages.
Dorcas shrugs. “I’m sure we’ll work something out.”
James stands up with a flourish, holding out a hand to pull Remus up from his seat as Pandora receives a round of applause. She curtseys and skips over to sit on Lily’s lap.
“Right,” declares James, flicking through YouTube. With his now free hand, he passes Remus a microphone, the latter accepting it with a poorly-concealed grin. “Let’s show you how it’s done.”
The opening notes play, distorted slightly by the volume, and Marlene actually laughs as Remus and James break into a horrendous duet of The Whole of the Moon.
Marlene is glad to hear that she isn’t the only one whose musicality does not translate to karaoke. Remus and James are singing in two very different keys, neither of which is the key of the song, and they keep switching between octaves and pitches when they can’t reach certain notes. During the chorus, James tries to harmonise, earning him a series of groans.
Dorcas plugs her ears. “Jesus Christ,” she mutters. “This is awful.”
“Agreed,” Marlene giggles, and then shouts to Remus, “You can’t say that violins sound like dying cats and then do this!”
Remus gives her a middle finger and continues to drunkenly warble into the microphone.
“I think we can do better than that,” Dorcas says with a glint in her eye as Remus and James receive a round of applause after their performance.
Dorcas takes the remote and searches up a song, turning to look at Marlene in question. When Marlene reads the title of the song, she’s certain she physically lights up. And as if Dorcas has noticed, she presses play, passing over a microphone with a smirk and a wink that warms Marlene’s insides and gives her goosebumps.
When the song starts, Lily cheers in recognition, and even Mary looks up from her place on the floor to clap.
Dorcas is certainly no Joan Jett, but as she sings the first verse of Cherry Bomb, Marlene gets the same feeling in her chest, the same all-encompassing sense of awe that she had the first time she heard the song. Comfort and excitement in equal measure, pulsing through her veins.
She joins in with the chorus, accompanied by her friends, even Peter, who surprisingly knows all of the words, and feels so grateful for the people around her.
On the surface, they’re musicians in an amateur orchestra, but the truth is that they’re so much more than that. They’re family.
Marlene finds herself nestled between James and Remus, their arms around her shoulders and hers around their waists, swaying into them as they stumble back out into the main living space where the rest of the party is in full swing. They join the crowd, who are dancing to what Marlene recognises to be Under Pressure.
Dorcas catches her eye, sandwiched between Mary and Lily, and gives a smile that makes Marlene feel more at peace than she thinks she ever has.
Maybe Halloween isn’t so bad after all.
Notes:
hope you enjoyed!!! comments are always appreciated as always 🫶🏻🫶🏻
Chapter 9: chapter nine
Notes:
sorry for how long this chapter took!! for some reason i was in such a slump, mostly because i knew exactly what i wanted out of this chapter and it just wasn't working. i think this is the best it'll get, but hopefully you enjoy!!!
lots of things happening!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Rehearsals remaining until the Christmas recital: 7
Minerva looks around at the orchestra, a glint of mirth in her eyes that is only recognisable as such after years of hearing the same annual speech. James can almost say the words with her. “Now that it’s November,” she begins, “It’s time to start looking at Christmas music!”
Remus shakes his head aggressively and buries his face in his hands as Minerva starts handing piles of music out. “No,” he chants, “Fuck this. Someone please kill me.”
“Come on, Moony,” James grins, elbowing Remus. “Where’s your festive spirit?”
“We have this same fucking conversation every year,” Remus points out, his voice muffled, “When have I ever had festive spirit?” James decides not to point out that Remus’ usual outfit choices are reminiscent of entries into one of those stupid Ugly Christmas Sweater competitions.
Now that James thinks about it, he doesn’t think Remus has ever shown interest in Christmas in the whole time he’s known him. He doesn’t even enjoy celebrating his birthday, which James can somewhat understand after what happened to his twin sister, but Christmas ?
There is nothing James loves more than holidays and celebrations. He loves his own birthday, his friends’ birthdays, Halloween, Christmas, Easter, Diwali - if it can be celebrated, it will be. In fact, he’s even certain that he cares more about Hanukkah than Lily does. It’s marked on his calender every year, even though there’s no need for him to celebrate it. There’s something beautiful, he thinks, about people coming together and spending time with one another, people who may have nothing in common except for their customs and traditions. Bonus points if there’s good food, which Christmas has in abundance.
“Don’t be a Grinch, Remus,” James chastises, “It’s just Christmas music. We can’t do a Christmas concert without it.”
“But it's the same Christmas music every year. A Christmas fucking Festival and then some obscure arrangement of a shitty pop song. There’s only so many times I can play Jingle Bells before I lose my sanity.”
“Well you’re in the wrong place if you want to avoid playing Jingle Bells . It’s a brass band staple.”
“Don’t I know it,” Remus grumbles.
“I’ve got your music here,” says a familiar voice all of a sudden. James looks down at the floor, sees a pair of black Converse, and immediately snaps his gaze up.
“Hi,” he says dumbly.
Regulus smiles shyly, a tiny quirk of his mouth that James only notices because, admittedly, he’s looking right at his lips. Sue him. “Hi. Music.” He hands James a stack of brass parts for, as Remus predicted, Leroy Anderson’s A Christmas Festival and an orchestral arrangement for Do They Know It’s Christmas? , arranged by none other than Albus Dumbledore. Dumbledore had been the conductor of the orchestra when James’ mum had played and was technically still the owner and head of the establishment, however he now had more of a background role, focused on admin and, occasionally, compositions and arrangements.
“Thanks, Regulus,” Remus says, taking the music out of James’ unmoving hands and beginning to distribute it to Frank, Edmund, Evan, Fabian, Xeno and Bruce, before putting the appropriate parts on his and James’ stands.
James blinks. “Hi,” he says again.
James would even go so far as to say that Regulus looks amused by his inability to form coherent sentences, judging by the way he tilts his head, studying James with welcome scrutiny, and purses his lips as if trying to contain a laugh. “Yes, hi James. Riveting conversation as usual.”
Remus shakes his head as, despite his best efforts, James is sitting still, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. He feels very very stupid, but his only concrete thoughts consist of pretty and he’s so pretty I want to cry.
“What the fuck have you done to him?” Remus asks dryly, flicking through the music with the look of someone who would rather be anywhere else.
Regulus hesitates with the familiar expression of someone who is about to make a witty remark but decides better of it. “I actually don’t have a clue. Are you sure he’s not always like this?” There it is again, that glint of humour in his eyes that James loves so much even though Regulus tries so hard to mask it.
That, amongst other things, is something James noticed at the party, once Regulus had allowed himself to relax, to loosen up, partially due to alcohol and partially, unless James is even more egotistical than he thought, due to him. When he replays the events of the night in his mind, he leans towards the latter as the explanation he uses the most, thrilled by the possibility that the smiles and laughter that Regulus displayed over the course of the evening were just for him.
“I mean he’s an idiot at the best of times,” Remus says with poorly masked affection, “but this? All you, mate.”
Regulus swallows, and James can’t stop his eyes from tracking the movement of his throat. “Huh.” Regulus heads towards the woodwind with another stack of paper, his only goodbye being a quick, tentative look over his shoulder that is undeniably aimed at James. The soft curl of his hair and the gentle flush of his cheeks make James’ pulse quicken like a schoolgirl with a crush, even though something deep in the marrow of his bones, the plasma of his blood, knows that what he feels for this boy, a boy who’s made his home in the unsteady limbo between stranger, friend and something else, is more than that.
“Fucking hell, James,” Remus says with a grin, because apparently fuck is his favourite word today, a sharp exhale accompanying the teasing glint in his eyes. “You’re pathetic.”
“You’re one to talk,” James grumbles. “Oh James ,” he mimics, “It’s just so disastrously unfair . His hair and his eyes and his voice and his smile and his hands . Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, Sirius, Sirius .”
Remus’ eyes darken, but his face betrays him by flushing deep crimson. “Fuck you. I don’t do that.”
“Yeah right. Remind me what you were up to for almost the entirety of Barty’s party?”
“You mean whilst you were embarrassing yourself in front of Regulus and practically declaring your love for him?”
“That’s not what I was doing.” At least James hopes it wasn’t. The memories are a bit fuzzy now.
Remus scoffs. “And what were you doing?”
James’ consciousness is assaulted with a myriad of images. Regulus’ face bathed in neon green light from the LEDs that Barty insisted on putting up everywhere. A drop of vodka trickling across Regulus’ lips before he mopped it up with his tongue. The bass of a song that James loves, his fingers around Regulus’ reluctant wrist, pulling him to dance. The mere inches that separate their faces, the need for James to whisper close to Regulus’ ear in order to be heard over the music. He swallows. “Just hanging out.”
Remus raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything else, something that James is grateful for. He isn’t sure what he’d say if Remus were to ask any more questions.
He looks back out at the room, to where Regulus has made his way back to his seat, settling in next to his brother with a small smile. It’s a private smile, gentle and clearly intended only for Sirius, but James thinks it should be framed. James wants to take it, to run his finger through the tiny dimple and pluck it from his face, to bottle it and keep it, to drink it. James thinks he could get drunk on that smile.
“You’re staring, James,” Remus singsongs.
James shrugs. There’s no use in denying it. If it’s a crime to stare at Regulus, to make even the smallest amount of progress in cataloging his beauty, every freckle on his face, every speck of colour in his irises, then James will gladly do time.
It should scare him, really, should terrify him to feel this much for someone. To be seventeen is one thing, to be seventeen and infatuated is another, especially if the target of that infatuation is someone he hardly knows. But somehow, the feeling in his chest that he shouldn’t name yet, but definitely could if he thought about it, feels more natural and familiar than the rhythm of his heart, the heart that pumps blood around his body to the beat of Regulus, Regulus, Regulus.
“How can I not stare?” James says simply. “Have you seen him?” He tries to sound as casual as he can, but he makes eye contact with Remus, and Remus’ expression softens because he knows James, and he knows what this is.
Remus sighs and gives a small smile. “Be careful,” he says, and James knows that the warning is for himself too, even more evident in the way Remus’ gaze drifts towards the front of the room.
There’s something special about Regulus and Sirius Black, something almost magical and incomprehensible in the way they make space for themselves in the lives of those they meet, altering the fabric of their livelihoods beyond repair. James can barely remember life before he met Regulus, even though it was mere months ago, finding it easy to divide the span of his existence into ‘Before Regulus’ and ‘After Regulus’, the process as simple and innate as breathing. The way Regulus, maybe even without realising, has ingrained himself into the very matter of James’ body, into his DNA, suggests inevitability.
James is an optimist, always has been, and has always believed in fate. Maybe some of that belief stems from his parents, from their undeniable love and connection that is evidence that some people are just meant to be together. And, rightly or wrongly, that’s how he feels about Regulus.
There’s something familiar about him, a dance that James can keep up with but doesn’t remember learning the steps to, and he can’t help but feel as if they’ve done this before.
“At least Do They Know It’s Christmas? isn’t technically pop,” James says in a bid to draw the conversation away from Regulus.
Remus picks up the pencil that’s resting on his stand, very clearly one that he’s just found on the floor, and chucks it at him.
*
James is one of the few members of the orchestra who has been trusted by Minerva to use the photocopier without supervision. Honestly, he thinks that it’s a rare example of poor judgement on her part, but he hasn’t abused his position. Not yet, anyway.
During the break, Marlene comes to him in a panic, declaring that she’s forgotten her copy of West Side Story , having left it on her music stand at home after practicing. Sirius hands over his and Regulus’ own copy without hesitation and James makes his way to the office.
There’s muffled voices that he can’t quite place through the closed door, one sharp and bordering on frantic, the other calmer and more reserved. James can’t help his curiosity, placing his ear to the door in order to listen in without risking interruption. Whoever is there is speaking quickly, fast enough that James can only catch a few words if he really pays close attention.
All he manages to pick out is ‘generous’, ‘budget’, ‘dedicate’ and ‘recital.’
He steps back, trying to school his features into looking less obviously perplexed, and knocks. The voices stop, and the door opens with a click.
Minerva frowns at him. “James? Is everything okay?” He isn’t sure why he’s surprised to see her, given that it’s technically her office.
He holds up the sheet music in response and she wordlessly steps aside, opening the door wider to allow him to slip through and walk over to the photocopier.
The office is only small, but every inch of space is used, the overflow from the storage cupboard stacked against the walls and in the shelves. Every available space on the wall is plastered with photographs of past students and staff members from various concerts over the years, and a few newspaper cuttings or recital programmes are scattered throughout, displaying those who have gone on to be successful musicians. Every time James looks at them, he can’t help but smile as he imagines Marlene on these same walls one day, and now he feels a fluttering in his chest as he pictures Regulus there too.
“James,” says another voice, and James turns around to see the other occupant of the room. “Lovely to see you again.”
Albus Dumbledore sits in one of the desk chairs, swivelling around to face James with the grace of someone who has never sat in a swivelling office chair before. His silver beard reaches his waist and is perfectly maintained, and he’s wearing olive green slacks and a knitted brown jumper. It's the kind of outfit that James can imagine Remus in in a few years, but then Albus peers at him over the half-moon spectacles that sit on his nose and he is brought back to the present.
“Hello, Albus,” James says politely. Although no longer the conductor, Albus makes an effort to attend all the concerts and learn the names of all the musicians that pass through the organisation. For some reason, Albus seems to have taken a liking to James, though that could be explained by the similar soft spot he had for Euphemia when she was his age. “I saw your Christmas arrangement for this year. It looks great.”
“Thank you, James,” Albus says with the same kind of grin that you get given by elderly relatives that you can’t quite remember the names of. “I hope it’s satisfactory for your final year.”
James nods as he turns to the photocopier, sliding the music under the lid and pressing the appropriate buttons as he tries not to think too hard about this being his last ever Christmas recital at Hogwarts. As he waits for the print job to be done, his eyes catch on a photograph that he’s never seen before. It’s faded and peeking out from underneath other scraps of paper, suggesting it’s been there a while, but for some reason, James is only just noticing it. It’s as if some higher power has decided that he needs to pay attention to it now.
Two girls, his own age, one he recognises and one he doesn’t. His mother smiles into the camera with the smile he recognises from the mirror and photos of himself, her eyes alight with youth and the prospect of the future. Her flute is gripped in her hand, but the photo seems to have been taken whilst she was in the middle of flailing it about like a weapon. She hasn’t grown out of the habit of talking with her hands. Her other hand sits on the waist of the second girl, pulling her into the frame as if it’s taken some convincing. James can only see one side of the other girl’s face, mainly because instead of looking at the camera, she’s looking right at Effie with a mix of amusement and something else that James can’t place. Effie doesn’t seem to have noticed. There’s a small smile on the girl’s face, the kind that must be genuine because she doesn’t appear aware of it, and something about it is so familiar that James racks his brain for any of his mum’s friends from orchestra that he may have met at some point, but he draws a blank. He struggles to draw his eyes away, so certain that he’s seen this face before. There’s something about her, something about the look in her eyes, the curl of her mouth, that makes James feel as if he should recognise her. As if somewhere, in some other time, there’s a version of events where this girl’s face is as familiar as his mother’s. The girl doesn’t appear to be holding an instrument of her own, not one that’s in frame at least, and so there’s nothing identifiable that James could ask his mum about later. Instead, he resorts to taking out his phone and taking a picture.
“It’s a lovely photo, that one,” Albus muses, and James can’t help but agree. It’s such a brief moment that has been captured, but it feels so human. So genuine. There’s so much emotion and context embedded in the ink that James may never truly understand. “Your mother was a joy to have in the orchestra.
James struggles to understand why he doesn’t know who the other girl is. It’s clear from the expressions and body language in the photo that she and Effie were close, close enough for them to agree to being immortalised in a photograph, and for that reason James would assume his mother would have shared stories of her. Even if for some reason they lost contact, surely Effie would mention her? Looking at this version of his mother, James can’t help but think that maybe he doesn’t know as much about her as he thought.
“Do you know who the other girl is?” James asks, because if anyone will know, it’ll be Albus.
Albus hums, a strange expression on his face. “Strangely enough, no I don’t. I rarely forget a face, especially not one as striking as that, but I can’t place her.” James can’t help but feel disappointed. “Even if I did know her now, she must be very different in order for me to not recognise the younger version of her.” He looks to Minerva, who is still standing by the door, arms crossed across her chest. “Minerva. You were in the orchestra with James’ mother. You must recognise her.”
With only a moment’s hesitation, Minerva shakes her head. “Maybe she wasn’t here for long.”
James looks at the photo again, recognition stirring in his gut, as if his body knows her but his mind doesn’t. It’s almost like he recognises the canvas, the girl herself, but the expression painted on it doesn’t fit her face, as if an artist has painted a portrait of clashing colours. As if it’s been started and then abandoned, picked up again years later with the artist forgetting his plan for it. Or even as if a different painter has continued it, disconnected from the original muse. That enough is enough to distort James’ memory. “Never mind,” he says with faux-cheerfulness, taking the photocopied music and original from the machine and heading towards the door. “I’ll ask my mum. Maybe she’ll know.”
Minerva’s eyebrows fly into her hairline, as if the mere suggestion is astounding, but she hums in assent.
James heads back into the corridor, the photograph burning behind his eyelids when he blinks at the earlier overheard conversation ringing in his ears, feeling more confused than he was before he got there and, most noticeably, feeling like he’s just missed something important.
*
“Never have I ever…”
“No,” Marlene says, interrupting Sirius. “I refuse to play a drinking game without alcohol. That’s just pathetic.”
Sirius pouts. “Boring. What do you guys normally talk about when you all go out together, then?”
James looks at Marlene, who looks at Lily, who looks at Remus, who looks at Barty, and they seem to collectively realise that they don’t have an answer to that.
“The weather,” Mary offers.
“The collapsing economy and political state of the country,” Lily chimes in.
Remus shrugs. “Childhood trauma.”
Sirius grins. “Well, me and Reg have plenty of that. Who’s starting?”
The rest of the heads at the table turn towards the brothers who are sitting together at the end. Sirius shrugs with a wicked smile that doesn’t quite seem appropriate, whilst Regulus looks pale and incredibly uncomfortable.
“Honestly, though, we all know far too much about each other by now, so Never Have I Ever is useless,” Lily says. “Well, we know some more than others.”
James doesn’t miss the way she looks pointedly at Remus, who ignores her and continues stirring his drink. Sirius mirrors her action, head tilted in curiosity. Remus meets his eye and they seem to have a silent conversation that James can’t translate. James is about to try and catch Remus’ gaze, maybe to tease him about Sirius even further, but instead his eyes stall, as they often do, on Regulus.
Although James is now considered to be somewhat of a social butterfly, someone who thrives in environments and situations with others, this wasn’t always the case. When he was younger, he spent most family gatherings locked in his bedroom, hands over his ears to muffle the sounds of conversation drifting up the stairs and through the gap under his door. In fact, it’s only in recent years that he’s been able to hold a conversation with a stranger without feeling like his heart is going to beat out of his chest or like the walls are closing in on him. What this means is that when he looks at Regulus sitting next to him and sees the way his nails dig into his palms and hears his sharp, unsteady breaths, he knows he doesn’t want to be here. It’s a feeling he knows all too well.
He leans across to him slightly. “Do you want to get out of here?”
“Are you propositioning me, James?” Regulus whispers back, clearly trying to sound teasing, but the sarcasm falls flat as his voice shakes.
James tries not to blush as he gestures towards the door. “Not this time, unfortunately. I could just do with some air and I’m under the impression that you could too.”
Regulus looks almost relieved at that, nodding as he slips out of his seat and follows James towards the door. Sirius raises an eyebrow as he passes, but James sees Regulus mouth I’m fine , and that seems to be enough to placate and reassure his brother.
The cold air bites at James’ neck and face as he and Regulus step outside. The street is empty of other people aside from the occasional car that goes past. James turns to look at Regulus and is secretly delighted to find the other boy already looking at him, his face illuminated under the street lamps. James has never seen the harsh artificial light look so golden.
“Where are we going?” Regulus asks.
James pauses. “I actually hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
Regulus shakes his head. “Idiot.” It sounds almost fond, and it takes James by surprise.
“Come on,” he says, suddenly inspired, cocking his head and motioning for Regulus to follow him. They walk to the crossing and, after waiting in comfortable silence for the light to turn green, James leads him to the small park on the other side of the road. They find a bench near the entrance and James sits right against the right arm of it, leaving it up to Regulus to decide how close he wants to be. Surprisingly, Regulus sits closer to the middle, leaving mere inches between them.
James really hopes Regulus can’t hear how loudly his heart is beating.
“Why did you come out with us tonight?” James says eventually.
Regulus looks surprised by the question, failing to mask his confusion before James looks at him. The corner of his mouth curls up. “And here I was thinking you wanted to see me.”
“Of course I want to see you!” James splutters indignantly. “I just mean that every time you’ve been out with us, you look like you’d rather be anywhere else. The party and both times we’ve gone to Fortescue’s. I don’t understand why you keep putting yourself through that.” He watches as Regulus’ expression shifts from stunned, to annoyed, to something unreadable. “No one would blame you for wanting to sit it out, yeah?”
“It’s not that simple,” Regulus says quietly, and James is reminded of how little he really knows about this boy, aside from the fact that his mere presence may have changed James’ life for the better.
James shuffles closer to him. “And why not?”
“Sirius.” Regulus says his brother’s name with so much unbridled care that it makes James’ chest ache. He looks almost sad, defeated, even, but he still speaks of his brother with love and affection, as if his body won’t let him do otherwise.
“Does he not know how you feel in those situations? I can’t imagine he’d be upset with you, and it’s not like he’d force you into anything.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Regulus sighs, and then elaborates when he sees that James doesn’t understand. “Sirius does so much for me, he always has, often to the detriment of his own happiness. But he loves that he’s gotten to know you guys, and he never stops talking about all the incredible new people he’s met and how excited he is to spend time with everyone.” Regulus shakes his head. “God, in the days before Barty’s party he was practically bouncing off the walls. But if I ever gave him the slightest indication that I was uncomfortable, he’d feel so guilty and stop seeing you guys outside of rehearsal without hesitation just to make sure I was okay. I can’t do that to him. He deserves this.”
“So you’re forcing yourself to be miserable just so that he can be happy?” James confirms, still confused.
Regulus gives him an undecipherable look, accompanied by the small smile that James has grown to love so much. “You’re cleverer than I gave you credit for.”
James ignores the backhanded compliment. “Well I think that’s fucking stupid.”
Regulus blinks. “Excuse me?”
“No offence, but that might just be the most bullshit thing I’ve ever heard anyone say, and I’m friends with Marlene, so that’s saying something.” Regulus’ eyes widen, so James carries on. “You’re no less deserving of happiness than Sirius, and so you sacrificing it is pointless. What you think of as some necessary gesture to, I don’t know, restore balance in the universe, is actually just, like I said, fucking stupid.”
“Right,” Regulus says slowly with a hint of amusement that seems to be becoming more and more common. “Thanks for that valuable insight.”
“I mean it, Reg,” says James. The nickname slips out and it tastes so natural on James’ tongue. Regulus’ eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t say anything, much to James’ surprise. He’d already prepared himself for the onslaught of murder threats that would surely follow once he finally found the courage to use it to his face, but there’s nothing of the sort.
Instead, they sit in silence, the only noise that of their breathing and of the wind rustling the tree branches. James tilts his head back to look at the clear expanse of the sky, black and infinite, and is reminded of his relative insignificance. He lets his eyes wander over the stars that form constellations he can’t recognise, and wonders if Regulus’ is there somewhere. He vows that one day, he’ll ask, and maybe, if all goes to plan, Regulus will show him.
“James,” Regulus says, his voice a welcome respite from James’ own thoughts. Why think about someone when the real thing is in front of you? “Do you believe in alternate universes?”
James scoffs. “I didn’t peg you for a conspiracy theorist.”
“You didn’t answer the question,” Regulus says, folding his arms across his chest in a way that he might assume to be intimidating but is actually adorable.
“I think so, yeah.”
“Why?”
James hesitates, because it feels like the right thing to do, but he can’t stop the words from spilling from his lips. “Do you ever meet someone and feel like you’ve known them your whole life, but you know you haven’t? The only way I can think to explain it is that they must have been important to you in another life. Is that crazy?” It’s a confession disguised as a hypothetical, somehow more honest and raw than saying something as simple as I want you or I think I might be falling in love with you even though I hardly know you, but it feels like I do.
James awaits Regulus’ response with baited breath, because he knows there’s no way that Regulus wouldn’t pick up on the thinly veiled meaning of such a statement, but the other boy just exhales, his breath forming a cloud in front of his mouth. “I think that’s nice.”
Relieved that he hasn’t fucked things up entirely, James turns to him. “What about you?”
“I’m not entirely sure if I believe in them, but I do hope such a concept exists.”
“Why?”
Regulus pauses, then, as if deciding between honesty and wit, and for one of the first times that James has been privy to, honesty seems to win. “I’d like to think that somewhere, there’s a version of me that’s not…”
“Not what?” James says carefully.
“Like this.” He says it as if it’s self explanatory, as if James should immediately understand and then agree, and it makes James’ heart clench, like someone has reached through the gaps in his ribcage and taken hold of it, squeezing until he’s certain it might burst.
“What do you mean?”
Regulus turns to him, and if he were anyone else, James is sure he’d be crying. Instead, tears that will never fall glisten in the corners of his eyes and the corner of his mouth is tugged into a smile that reeks of self deprecation. James wants to reach out with his fingers and wipe it away, to expose the dimple of his cheek and smooth over the wrinkle of his nose that would be endearing in any other circumstance. “Come on, James. I can’t be in a group setting without almost having a mental breakdown, unless there’s alcohol, in which case I drink until I can convince myself that I might be close enough to being likeable and normal . I push people away on the rare occasion that I let them close enough to need to. I’m arrogant. I’m ambitious. I don’t care about the goals or aspirations of others if they impact the achievement of my own. I can be cruel, unbelievably so. I’m bitter and I’m petty and I won’t hesitate to ruin people’s lives if I need to. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I don’t know how to be anything else.” He swallows. “I’m not a very good person, really, and I don’t even have the desire or ability to pretend to be.”
“Not being a very good person doesn’t make you a bad person by default,” James offers, his mouth dry. He feels as if he might be sick.
“James,” Regulus says weakly.
“No, stop it,” says James firmly. He looks at the boy in front of him and can’t comprehend how he can believe himself to be anything but incredible. Yes, he’s ambitious, but that ambition is accompanied by a determination and dedication that is admirable. He so clearly adores his brother, so much so that he’s willing to sacrifice his own needs to make him happy. He’s funny, and smart, and more beautiful than James ever thought possible. Generous, too. He thinks back to Marlene’s violin string, to Regulus not hesitating to try and make up for the upset he’d cause her. He’s a thunderstorm in summer, just as magical as he is infuriating, and it kills James that he can’t see it. He’s everything, really. “There’s nothing wrong with you. In this universe or any other.”
Regulus rolls his eyes, and that’s beautiful too. “Oh yeah? What if there’s a universe where I join a freaky, murderous dark magic cult?”
James can’t help but laugh at the ridiculousness of such a notion. “I’m sure you’d have your reasons. Maybe you’re actually trying to bring the cult down from the inside.”
“You think I’m capable of that?”
“I think you’re capable of anything.” It might just be the truest thing James has ever said.
Regulus looks at him like he’s seeing him for the first time, and James is certain that somewhere, a different Regulus has looked at a different James the same way. It’s familiar to see, and James is even sure that he’s worn the same expression on numerous occasions, most notably that first rehearsal back in September where James had seen Regulus across the room. His first thought had been the obvious, that Regulus was the most gorgeous person he’d ever laid his eyes upon, but on reflection he realises that the feeling that encompassed him was more than that. Seeing Regulus for the first time felt like coming home, and the way Regulus is looking at him now is as if he’s just realised what home could look like.
It’s moments like this that James thinks that Regulus could, at least to some degree, feel the same way that he does. Maybe a part of him sees it too, recognises that there’s something between them that is out of their control, something that has always been there, even before they met.
The other time James thought this way was at Barty’s party, once James had followed him through the crowd and found him perched at the bottom of the stairs, a drink in his hand and his Phantom mask awkwardly pulled up out of his face and worn on his head like a neglected pair of sunglasses. James remembers the way he’d felt after watching Regulus do a shot with no reaction, something that should have concerned him and definitely not made him even more attracted to him, but some things can’t be helped.
“Why did you run off?” James said, leaning against the wall as to not impose. They were separated from the rest of the party, but could still see their friends a few rooms over thanks to the open-plan layout of Barty’s house.
“Too loud,” Regulus said matter-of-factly, “Too many people.” He rolled his eyes. “I fucking hate people.” Looking up at James revealed a glisten in his eyes that was clearly the work of alcohol, not enough to make him drunk, but enough that James could tell that some of his usual inhibitions were nowhere to be seen.
“Do you want me to go?” James asked, nodding his head towards the door. “I didn’t realise you wanted to be left alone.” He turned to go, unable to find it in himself to be disappointed. He might have been head over heels, but he could still respect a boundary.
“No,” Regulus said sharply, and before James could take a step, there was a warm hand gripping his wrist and pulling him back. When he turned back around, he was almost standing chest to chest with Regulus, close enough that he had to look down to see his face. “You can stay.”
Heart pounding and air stolen from his lungs, James sat down next to Regulus at the bottom of Barty’s stairs. James suddenly felt very sober, even though he was far from it, as he watched Regulus sip from a red plastic cup that seemed more suited to American high school movies than a party like this. Sensing James’ inability to find something to do with his hands, Regulus wordlessly passed the cup and motioned for James to drink some. As James brought the cup to his mouth and swallowed, he could hardly taste whatever was in it, too focused on his lips being where Regulus’ had been just moments before.
“Fucking hate parties too,” Regulus said. A curl fell into his face and James resisted the urge to brush it away. “They’re just people drinking and complaining.”
“That’s a bit hypocritical of you,” James pointed out, earning him a dramatic eye roll to rival Sirius’ theatrics.
“Shut up, James,” Regulus said, but there was no malice. No bite. It almost sounded teasing, and James’ stomach flipped.
“There’s more to parties than just that, though. Like dancing.”
“Fucking hate dancing.”
James gasped, clutching his chest. “Blasphemy! How can you hate dancing?”
Regulus shrugged. “Can’t do it, don’t want to.”
“You can’t dance?” James said, incredulous.
“Well I can, but only ballroom. Nothing suitable for this setting.”
James tried not to think too hard about Regulus ballroom dancing, about him resting his hands on someone else’s waist and pulling them flush to him like he’d almost done to James before. “Well, that just won’t do.” He jumped up and held out his hand. “I’ll teach you.”
Regulus laughed, a real, genuine laugh. “Absolutely not. You’ve lost your mind.”
James shrugged. “Never said I had one to start with. Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“I can guarantee it won’t be.”
James moved slightly closer to the door in order to identify the song that’s playing and couldn’t help the grin that split across his face. “Oh I love this song.” The familiar synths of Somebody Else rang through the air. “ The 1975 .”
“I know who The 1975 are, James.”
Admittedly surprised, James raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“I don’t live under a rock. Their first album is their best.”
“Ooh, controversial,” James said with a grin as Regulus finally stood up and took hold of James' hand. His skin was warm and smooth, and James couldn’t help but decide with all the certainty in the world that his own hands were sculpted with the intention of holding Regulus’. “Are you really doing this?”
“I’m far too sober for it, but yes,” Regulus agreed, feigning reluctance that was contradicted by the smile on his face. “Lead the way.”
“You’ve got to loosen up, first of all,” James said, using it as an excuse to run his hands over Regulus’ tense shoulders. “None of this ballroom frame bullshit. Just relax.”
Regulus looked up at him then, his eyes molten metal and sharp as knives. “I’m trying,” he said, voice low and bordering on dangerous in a way that made James’ entire body feel as if it had been set on fire. And oh . That was new.
James took a step closer to him, and after freezing for a moment, Regulus let him. They were still far away from everyone else, but James suddenly felt exposed. “Now just move your body. Follow the music.”
“Very detailed instructions,” Regulus quipped, though there was an edge to his voice that James hadn’t heard before. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Regulus was nervous.
“Just do whatever your body tells you to,” James said, quieter now, as if a reduction in volume could mask the meaning that the words took on as soon as they left his mouth. Regulus looked up at him again, their height difference only minimal but suddenly significant. They feel simultaneously miles apart and closer than ever.
Regulus leaned forward, just slightly, and James thought oh God, this is it , unable to stop himself from leaning closer too, not quite closing the gap, but then Regulus was reaching up to take the cowboy hat that James had forgotten he was wearing, placing it on his own head.
James leaned back, embarrassed, and Regulus tilted his head, giving him a knowing look that was laced with faux innocence, and James realised that he was well and truly fucked.
“It looks better on you,” he said quietly, his eyes flickering down to Regulus’ lips of their own accord.
“I know,” Regulus replied with unwavering confidence and a smirk that James had almost tasted and now wanted to cover with his lips even more.
But then, Regulus’ face fell, suddenly, like a glitch on an old DVD, and he cleared his throat, taking a step back. The song finished with a final chord, and the brief few seconds of silence before the next song, a Charli XCX one that Mary was definitely responsible for, was enough to bring them back to reality.
“I don’t understand how you say the things you do,” Regulus says now. “It's like you always know what people need to hear.”
“Not everyone,” James muses, “Just you.”
Regulus blows out another breath of air. “This is what I mean. You’re like..” He trails off and bites his lower lip as if that can stop him from talking.
“I’m like what?” James asks, his eyes stuck on the way Regulus’ teeth catch on pink flesh.
Shaking his head, Regulus looks at him. “I don’t know. And that’s fucking terrifying.”
James is grateful that he’s sat down, or else he might have fallen over. He’s watched enough movies and read enough books to know what this is; the beginning of an admission. Judging by the almost shy expression on his face and the unmistakable gleam of fear in his eyes, Regulus knows it too.
“That’s okay.” James doesn’t push, doesn’t feel any need to enquire further, because something tells him that in the end, they’re going to be okay. He’s happy to wait for Regulus to accept that he’s worthy of James wanting him, no matter how long that takes.
“Speaking of conspiracy theories,” Regulus says with glint in his eye after a while, “Have you heard the one about the Titanic not actually being the Titanic ?”
It sounds vaguely familiar, and it’s highly likely that Remus has explained something of the sort in the past, but James shakes his head. Feeling brave, he walks his hand over to the space in the middle of him and Regulus, palm face up in question. After a few seconds of hesitation, Regulus’ slots his fingers in James’. It’s tentative, but it’s as if he’s done it a million times before. As if it’s as second nature as breathing. “Tell me everything,” James says.
Regulus’ face lights up, and he does.
Notes:
the charli xcx song in question was party 4 u btw because of course it was
p.s. the titanic conspiracy theory is a very real theory that i myself was obsessed with when i was 11. i highly reccommend checking it out if you fancy going down a rabbit hole. it's the only conspiracy theory that i even slightly believe in if that says anything
thank you so much for all your lovely comment, they bring me so much joy and i try to read and reply to every single one
Chapter 10: chapter ten
Notes:
...heyyyyyy
so i'm back from the dead! since the last update i've performed in my final orchestra show (the inspiration behind this fic to start with) and i think that probably contributed to the lack of motivation to write, but i'm back!! i've spent most of my time away either writing a rosekiller one shot (that's up now if you're interested! shameless self promo (is it shameless self promo if its in the notes of a fic that people are reading anyway? someone please confirm)) or spiralling over the fact that i'm starting uni soon, but i've returned!!
going forward, i can't predict how often i'll update, especially whilst i'm settling into uni and getting used to the workload, but i've never once doubted that i'll be seeing this fic through to the end, however long it takes!!
i hope this chapter is worth the wait!!! it's a bit of a messy one, but a necessary one!! shit's getting real!!
love you all and feel free to let me know what you think!! i love chatting with you all in the comments, it makes my day and it's definitely helped me to pick up my laptop and get back at it!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Rehearsals remaining until the Christmas recital: 6
Marlene has absolutely no idea how she’s gotten to this point. It all seems like a dream, hazy and blurred around the edges like a memory of something you’re not certain ever happened.
“Have fun on your date,” her mum grins from the driver’s seat, dressed in her office suit for a meeting just a few streets away from where Marlene is headed. Natalie McKinnon, although arguably Marlene’s favourite person, is a perfect representation of everything Marlene aspires not to be. If there’s ever a time where she’s working corporate and has to wear suits to work, something has gone very wrong.
Marlene groans. “It’s not a date.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
“I’m just meeting a friend.”
“Sure you are,” Natalie says, “A friend who you’ve had a crush on for years.”
Twisting around to face her mum, Marlene finds her mouth falling open and her eyebrows flying into her hairline. “How do you even know that?” She cringes at her accidental admission, and shakes her head as her mum gloats at being right.
“Because you’re my daughter, Marlene, and I know you. And I think I’ve heard the name ‘Dorcas’ more often than my own ever since she started at orchestra. You’re not as subtle and mysterious as you think you are. Mother knows best and all that crap.”
“Why are you quoting Mother Gothel of all people? I don’t think she’s what’s considered a prime example of good parenting and of a mother caring about her daughter’s wellbeing.”
Natalie shrugs, a gesture that reminds Marlene of Nathan, and she suddenly misses him. She’d accept the relentless teasing if it was from him, and she makes a mental note to find out when he’s free for a video call. She wants to show him her new piercing. “It’s a good film,” Natalie continues as she pulls up outside the cafe where Marlene agreed to meet Dorcas. “Anyway, have fun, and let James and Remus know that I can pick them both up tonight as well. I’ll pick up takeaway on the way home, too, if you fancy?”
“Sounds great,” Marlene says with a smile as she gets out of the car and straightens her case strap over her jacket. “Chinese food?”
“Obviously,” comes her mum’s response as Marlene shuts the car door with a wave and watches the car drive away. “Love you!” is the last thing she hears before the car window is rolled up and the beat-up lime green Mini makes its way down the street.
Marlene tries to steady her breathing as she looks up at the cafe in front of her: Madame Puddifoot’s. It looks straight out of an Instagram post; violently pink and flowery in a way that makes her feel a little seasick, although that could also be to do with who’s waiting inside.
It all started a few days ago. Marlene had been sat at her desk, struggling through a biology practice paper so that she could compare her answers to James’, when her phone had pinged with a notification.
Curious and looking for any distraction from her work, she tapped her screen to find a notification box that declared Dorcas Meadowes has requested to follow you. Marlene almost dropped her phone down the side of her bed in her fumble to unlock her phone and accept the request, heart beating so loud that she wouldn’t have been surprised if it jumped out of her chest.
Almost immediately, up popped a message from Dorcas:
dorcasmeadowes: hey marlene! what are you doing before rehearsal this week? my fave cafe just released their winter/christmas menu and i was going to check it out if you wanted to come? no pressure though, but i’d love to see you x
Marlene had to stare at it for a while, resorting to pinching her skin to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. And when she found that the message was still there and awaiting a reply, she couldn’t help but grin.
marlenemckinnon: hey! that sounds awesome, what time works best for you?
Dorcas’ reply was almost instantaneous, and the mere thought that maybe, on the other side of town, she was eagerly sitting by her phone awaiting a response was enough to make Marlene feel the need to muffle a scream of glee into her hair-dye stained pillow.
They agreed to meet at 3, giving them just under an hour and a half before rehearsal started. Now, Marlene composes her breathing and pushes the door open, stepping into a suffocating cloud of high-pitched chatter and too-sweet sugary scents. The coffee machine hisses and wails as a pink haired barista steams a jug of milk, leaning against the counter and chewing gum with the air of someone who is moments away from quitting their job. Their hair is almost the same colour as the walls, making it difficult to decipher where the wallpaper ends and they begin. Already, Marlene can feel the beginnings of an anxiety-induced headache, the noise and lights and exuding body heat of other customers all getting to be too much, until she turns to her left slightly and everything softens. The pink decorations are muted, the background conversations and screeching coffee machine muffled, the temperature tolerable, and Dorcas Meadowes is sitting at a table at the back of the cafe.
Her headphones are pulled over her head, and she’s drumming her fingers on the table top as she sways gently from side to side. It’s as if she’s in her own world, and Marlene is content to just watch from afar until Dorcas catches sight of her and her face lights up as if a switch has been flipped within her, as if her beaming smile is some kind of Pavlovian reaction. Immediately, Marlene knows that she’s watching a dangerously accurate reenactment of how she behaves when she sees Dorcas, and it rekindles the flame of hope in her chest that maybe this could be something.
As absurd as it may sound, Marlene is almost certain that she’s well on her way to being, if not already, in love with Dorcas. She doesn’t have anything to compare it to, nothing aside from superficial schoolgirl crushes and mindless infatuations, but if the books and movies and stories from friends and family are right, then what she’s feeling is, without a doubt, love. It shouldn’t be this easy. She’s heard countless anecdotes about couples who have dated for months and still not been able to confidently say that they were in love with one another, so it doesn’t make sense, nor seem logical, that she can feel this deeply about someone who she’s only recently accepted that she can consider a friend. Yet, despite possible logistical issues, loving Dorcas Meadowes is as simple as breathing, something that has been destined since the moment they met, and Marlene has no intention of trying to argue with inevitability.
And if it ruins her? Well, that’s a problem for future Marlene.
“Marlene!” Dorcas exclaims as Marlene takes the seat opposite her. “You came!”
Marlene unwinds the scarf from around her neck with one hand, a poorly knitted Christmas gift from a distant relative that she religiously wears whenever the temperature hits lower than ten degrees. “‘Course I did. I’m not one to stand people up.” She resolutely doesn’t mention almost running away from the cafe mere minutes earlier.
Dorcas pushes a menu towards her. “What do you want? I’ll go up to the counter and order.” And then, as if she can sense Marlene’s impending argument: “Shut up. It’s my turn to pay.”
Marlene bites back a grin and lets her eyes roam over the lists of syrups and garnishes that she really doesn’t think should ever come into contact with coffee, before deciding on a cinnamon latte.
When Dorcas comes back from the counter, she’s holding two mugs: one that Marlene recognises as her drink through a process of elimination, and another that sports a mount of whipped cream, red and green sprinkles and a striped candy cane.
“What the fuck is that?” Marlene says through giggles, “It looks like an elf ate Christmas and then threw up on your drink.”
Dorcas shrugs, taking the candy cane out of the mug and licking whipped cream off it in one easy movement that had Marlene’s throat going dry. “I have a sweet tooth,” she says, before using the candy cane to scoop up more cream and repeating the action, because apparently she’s conspiring with the universe to make Marlene’s life far more difficult than it has to be. “Not everyone is as boring as you.”
“Boring?” Marlene says, outraged. “There’s cinnamon in mine, thank you very much.”
“Like I said: boring.” The corners of Dorcas’ mouth twitch. Marlene wants to reach across the table and press her fingers into the dimples that form.
Getting a smile out of Dorcas Meadowes is something that Marlene can’t help but triumph in. It’s the same sort of satisfaction that is felt when you manage to unwrap the foil from a chocolate or one of those overpriced tea cakes without ripping it, allowing you to begin the task of smoothing out the silver wrinkles with your nail or the back of your knuckles. It’s tedious, but worth it in the end: a little bit of magic with the power to make even the worst day that little bit better.
Marlene laughs into her drink, shaking her head as she lets the warm coffee coat the inside of her throat. When she looks up, Dorcas is looking at her with another tinfoil smile that she’s not quite sure what she’s done to deserve.
Then, the small smile spread across her face, dissolving into an even bigger one. “I’ve just remembered,” Dorcas says, retrieving her phone and typing something into it. She slides it across the table, open on Spotify and a playlist titled ‘marlene :)’.
Marlene almost chokes on her drink, blaming it on the slightly excessive cinnamon content rather than the fact that Dorcas Meadowes has made her a playlist that she’s trying desperately not to think of the implications of. “What’s this for?” she manages.
“Remember at Barty’s party? When you didn’t know who Suki Waterhouse was?” Marlene nods, cringing at the embarrassing memory as she prompts Dorcas to continue. “Well, I think you’d really like her, so I started making a playlist of some of her songs for you to listen to, but then I kept thinking of other artists and songs that I thought you’d like and it sort of spiralled out of control.” She looks almost sheepish, a pink flush on her cheeks that could be a blush, but could also be the reflection of the pink lights of the cafe.
With Dorcas’ nod of permission, Marlene starts to scroll down the playlist, her eyes catching on some familiar names - Fiona Apple, Clairo, Suki Waterhouse of course - though the majority are artists who she has never heard of, or at least couldn’t name a song by. She swipes past Sky Ferreira, The Marias, Faye Webster.
“Wow,” she says, awed that anyone, let alone Dorcas, would take the time and effort to put something like this together for her. “I just- wow. Thank you.”
Dorcas shrugs. “It’s nothing. What kind of friend would I be if I let you stay so uncultured?”
“I’m not uncultured!” Marlene retorts.
“Sure, babe,” Dorcas says with a laugh as Marlene tries to ignore that term of endearment, “You tell yourself that.” Her expression hardens, then. “It’s no pressure though, obviously. You don’t have to listen to it.”
Marlene shakes her head, already sending the playlist to herself from Dorcas’ phone. The tapping of the screen somehow seems more intimate than any kind of confession or act of physical affection that Marlene may or may not have imagined over the years. “Of course I will.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.” What Marlene doesn’t say is: I’d do anything for you.
Dorcas smiles, and unlike her usual grins, there’s no teasing edge to it. Nothing razor-sharp, no lingering smirk, no teeth biting down on her bottom lip. This smile is gentle, almost shy. If getting Dorcas to smile is like unwrapping chocolate, then getting this smile out of her is like finding a penny on the pavement. Subtle, barely there.
Time passes strangely after that.
The conversation picks up almost exactly where it left off in Fortescue’s diner with an ease that still manages to surprise Marlene. It feels as if they cover every topic, and then some, yet it isn’t long before Dorcas catches a glimpse of the time on her phone and nearly leaps out of her seat.
“Shit,” she says, drinking the rest of her peppermint-whipped cream monstrosity in one go, not even flinching. “How is it half four already?”
In an almost perfect synchrony that seems to exist even outside of rehearsals, they stand up and gather their things. Dorcas hoists her cello, which has been lying on the floor next to the table, onto her back as Marlene pulls one of her violin case straps onto her shoulder.
They wind through the maze of tables until they reach the front door, calling out ‘thank you’s to the baristas as the sharp air of the real world caresses their faces. Dorcas squints slightly in the face of the wind and Marlene has to press her tongue to the inside of her cheek to stop herself from grinning at how adorable it is.
In a swift movement that almost has Marlene tripping over her own feet, Dorcas links their arms together and pulls Marlene along. “Come on, I won’t let you make us late.”
“How is this my fault?” Marlene retorts.
Dorcas smiles, and it’s catastrophic. It’s an avalanche, an earthquake, a volcanic eruption of something inside Marlene that she was sure lay dormant. “Maybe you’re just very distracting. Made me lose track of time.”
A forest fire burns.
*
When she and Dorcas go their separate ways after arriving at rehearsal, Marlene is greeted with a wall of teenage boys, all watching her expectantly. Regulus and Sirius are sitting in their seats, rosining their bows in perfect unison as if they’re being programmed. Remus is sitting behind them in Caradoc’s seat, though he’s moved it forward slightly so that he’s able to fold his arms over the back of Sirius’ chair, and James is standing next to Regulus’ chair with one hand resting on it, just shy of Regulus’ shoulder. Surprisingly, though, Regulus is almost leaning into the touch and Marlene makes a mental note to ask James about that development.
“So?” Sirius says with a raised eyebrow and a smirk. Marlene had of course told Remus and James that she was planning on meeting Dorcas before rehearsal, and it seems they’ve passed on the message.
“I feel like I’m being interviewed,” she says as she sits down and starts getting her violin out. The four heads turn to face her in a perfect synchronicity that’s almost creepy.
“You are,” James says, “Tell us everything.”
Reluctantly, Marlene gives an abridged recount of her date (?) with Dorcas, consciously removing all references to her debilitating awkwardness and the arising feelings that she doesn’t know what to do with. If they know her well enough, and at least James and Remus definitely do, they’ll add that in themselves. She ends with her face buried in her hands and a mumbled “She made me a playlist.”
“I dunno, man,” James says, pushing his glasses further up his nose, reminiscent of a cartoon professor or scientist about to come to a life-altering conclusion. Marlene can’t help but mentally brace herself - for all James’ chaos and poor decisions, he notoriously gives brilliant advice and, although she’ll never admit it to his face, Marlene values his opinion above anyone else’s. He tilts his head to the side and gazes at her through lenses that do little to distort the glint of amusement in his eyes. He grins, the muscles in his jaw relaxing. “That sounds pretty gay to me.”
“James,” Marlene groans, “Can you just be serious for once?”
“He might not be able to, but I can,” Sirius says, evidently very proud of himself. He smiles, teeth glinting, and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, bordering on obscene. “I’m always-“
In a flash, Remus reaches in front of him to slap a hand to Sirius’ mouth, muffling the rest of his joke. Remus doesn’t even blink, simply lowers his mouth to Sirius’ ear. “Don’t you fucking dare.” He doesn’t even whisper, so the closeness is arguably unnecessary, but Marlene isn’t stupid. She rolls her eyes as Sirius, as if compensating for Remus’ lack of emotion, appears to be experiencing all five stages of grief, and then some. Carefully, Remus removes his hand, and Sirius’ jaw is slack, mouth hanging open.
Remus’ eyebrow twitches.
Regulus looks like he’s considering committing a crime and is weighing up whether or not the life sentence would be worth it. “See what I have to deal with?” he mutters, tapping his fingers on the neck of his violin, a silent practice of a tricky passage that he probably doesn’t even need to partake in.
“Not to be self-centred, or whatever,” Marlene says, “But can we circle the conversation back to me please?”
“Let’s just say that if someone made me a playlist,” James starts, “I’d absolutely assume they were into me. However, I’m not exactly a connoisseur of lesbian relationships, so I don’t think I can help you.”
“Are you sure, James?” Remus smirks, “You were in love with a lesbian for a good couple of years.”
James mimes stabbing something into his chest and twisting it, stumbling so that Regulus, slightly more stony-faced than before, has to hold out a hand to steady him. James wipes fake tears from his eyes. “Ouch, Moony. Still a sore spot.”
“Still?” Regulus says carefully.
Eyes widening, James shakes his head vigorously. “No. Absolutely not. I am one hundred and ten percent over it. Over Lily. No need to worry. We’re just friends.” He punctuates this final statement by yelling ‘love ya, Lily!’ across the room, prompting Lily to lift her head and raise her eyebrows in a way that suggests she doesn’t even have it in her to be surprised by such outbursts anymore. Next to her, Severus rolls his eyes so aggressively that Marlene can almost hear it and folds his arms tightly over his chest.
“What makes you think I was worried?” Regulus asks, not even looking up.
“I don’t know! You just-you don’t have to be worried, if you were going to be, but you also have no, like, obligation to be worried if you don’t want to be, because-“
“Shut the fuck up, James,” Marlene, Remus and Sirius say in unison whilst Regulus looks like he’d rather be anywhere else, though the corner of his mouth twitches. There’s something in his expression that looks almost fond, his eyes softening just a fraction in a way that Marlene notices, but no one else seems to. She catches his gaze and he stills when she does, a clear admission that she’s caught him, that she’s now in on some private secret.
And what a wonderful secret it is.
Marlene McKinnon loves nothing more than she loves holding a grudge, and the only thing that could rival that is the joy she feels at finding cracks in facades, watching masks slip. She’s tried so hard to not warm to Regulus, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult, especially when she sees how happy he seems to make James, for reasons she can’t begin to comprehend. At first, she wonders whether the fondness that Regulus is exhibiting is the crack, the slip, that she’s been desperately looking for, like sifting for gold in a river bed, but then she realises that maybe, the real Regulus has been here the whole time. Maybe, she just hasn’t bothered to notice, too wrapped up in spite and anger and bitterness that she can’t quite escape.
“Anyway,” Regulus says, clearing his throat, eager to divert the conversation away from himself. “I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know you very well, and I know Dorcas even less, but I do know that you two spend most of rehearsal eye-fucking across the room.” Marlene feels her face flood with heat. She splutters a string of incomprehensible sounds, but Regulus holds up a firm finger. “I’m not finished. I’ll also be the first to admit that I also know very little about the intricacies of lesbian flirting and relationships, or relationships in general,” - said with a slight waver to his voice - “but from what you’ve told me and what I’ve seen, you have every right to assume that she’s interested. And if, hypothetically, she isn’t, you wouldn’t be crazy for thinking otherwise.” Marlene blinks at him, trying to reel the information in. “In short, don’t be a coward. Ask her out. Properly.”
Sirius barks a laugh and smiles so widely that Marlene is surprised his face doesn’t split in half. “Reggie, did you just give someone advice? Relationship advice?”
“I did,” Regulus says, as if surprised that his brother would question it.
“I think you've said more words to me in the last 30 seconds than you have in the whole time I’ve known you,” Marlene says.
“Christ, Marlene,” Regulus sighs. He rolls his eyes but it’s too dramatic of an action to not contain some humour. “You can’t come to people for advice and then complain when they give you just that. None of these idiots were being helpful.”
“You’re right. Thank you, Regulus.”
Regulus nods and turns back to his violin.
“That’s exactly what I was going to say!” James says. “Wow, you’re good at giving advice, Reg.”
Reg?
“Don’t call me that,” Regulus says sharply, but there’s something in his cadence, in the smile that is heard rather than seen, that seems to indicate otherwise.
“I agree with Regulus,” Remus says. His fingers tap against the back of Sirius’ chair, faltering a few times as they graze Sirius’ hair. For a moment, he looks as if he’s going to bite the bullet and allow himself to play with the strands, but then he pulls away as if he’s been burnt and folds his arms tightly across his chest. Marlene isn’t surprised. She’d be a fool to believe for one second that Remus Lupin might finally allow himself to have something good, especially if it’s something he actually wants. “Everyone can see that there’s something going on between you two. It’s actually exhausting watching you two dance around each other without doing something about it.”
Marlene grins. “What’s that saying about the pot and the kettle?”
“Oh, fuck you, Marlene,” Remus grumbles, a fierce blush blooming across his face.
“No thanks,” she smiles, “My heart lies elsewhere.”
“Gay.”
“You’re really digging yourself a hole here, Lupin.”
“You know what?” Remus says, sitting up straight and rolling up the sleeves of his jumper, a hideous excuse for a garment that he found in a charity shop and somehow manages to pull off. James chokes on a barely contained laugh and Sirius looks as if he’s going to faint. Before he can finish whatever, undoubtedly creative, threat that is seconds away from being aimed in her direction, Minerva seems to materialise in front of them, gathering the room’s attention so easily that it’s almost hypnotic.
“Musicians,” she announces, even her voice melodic. “I have some wonderful news regarding this year's Christmas concert.” The room is silent, everyone hanging on her every syllable. Such a phenomenon is a testament to Minerva’s skill and how suited she is to her role. Only a special kind of person can unite a group who otherwise differ drastically from one another. “I am delighted to announce that the performance will take place at Rowena Hall. All necessary information will be emailed to your parents, and there’s paper copies of the letter available from my office if you wish to pick one up after rehearsal.”
The room erupts almost instantaneously.
“What the fuck?” Barty’s voice can be heard from the other side of the room and, for once, Minerva doesn’t chastise him for his language. From the looks on everyone’s faces, the sentiment is universally shared.
For as long as Marlene has been involved with Hogwarts, all recitals have taken place either at Hogwarts itself, parents and friends crammed into the tiny rehearsal hall, or at the Hogsmeade community centre. The Rowena Hall, however, is the performance venue attached to the prestigious Rowena Institute, a music school a few towns over that has been at the centre of Marlene’s mental vision board ever since she knew it existed. It has never before occurred to her as a possible venue for a Hogwarts recital, mainly because of how expensive it is for external groups to rent out the space.
As if they can read her thoughts, James and Remus turn to face her. “Marlene,” James says quietly, though there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “Marlene. Holy shit.”
“I know,” she breathes, because what more is there to say?
“Call me ignorant,” Sirius says, “but why is this such a big deal?”
“We usually perform at the community centre,” Remus explains. “Rowena is slightly out of our budget, especially in recent years with all the funding cuts.”
“Well,” Sirius grins, “Let’s fucking go. This is going to be a good show, then. I can feel it. Rowena Hall is gorgeous, I must admit.”
“You’ve been?” Marlene isn’t sure why she’s surprised, but jealousy stirs in her gut. She’s never even been able to afford attending a show there, despite her persistent begging of her parents for a ticket to act as her combined Christmas and birthday present for the next seven years.
“Yeah, we went for an open day a few months ago. Our mum wants us to apply. I’m not too bothered, though. It’s definitely Reg’s dream more than mine.”
Of course Regulus also wants to attend Rowena. And, Marlene is almost certain, he’s the one who might actually be able to pull it off.
Regulus pales slightly at Sirius’ mention of his name. He has that look on his face that suggests there are cogs turning in his head at a million miles an hour, and Marlene would do anything to be able to look into his brain and decipher them for herself.
It all seems like a cruel coincidence, a peculiar series of events that has resulted in Regulus, who is decidedly not Marlene, playing Marlene’s dream concerto in her dream venue at her dream school. It’s a combination of dreams that she would never have put together until this moment, each one seeming so far out of reach, let alone together, and it all makes her feel a little bit unwell.
Did she do something in a past life that she’s atoning for now? Is this some kind of twisted karma? Or, is this just the kind of life she’s destined for? A life of watching from the sidelines from behind an invisible wall.
She thinks back to her childhood, back to winter evenings in the garden with her father and the telescope that her mother bought him as an anniversary present.
“Look at the stars, Marlene,” her dad would say, “Aren’t they pretty?”
“The prettiest,” she’d responded once, her eye pressed to the eyepiece as her dad focused the lens. “I wish I could touch them.”
At that, her dad had laughed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “If anyone can find a way to touch the stars, it’s my little girl. Don’t ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”
In moments like that, the stars would seem so close, so attainable. She’d often find her arms reaching out, certain she could grasp them in her hand, until her fist would close around thin air and she’d pull herself away from the telescope, being cruelly reminded of how far away they really were and how, no matter if her dad said otherwise, she’d never be able to reach them.
Regulus, on the other hand, can touch the stars because he sits among them in more than just name, and Marlene can’t help but hate him for it.
As the room settles and Remus and James retreat to their own seats, Marlene places her violin under her chin and realises that she can’t remember the last time she even bothered looking at the stars, through a telescope or otherwise.
Notes:
hope you enjoyed!!!
FrigusSkye28 on Chapter 1 Thu 27 Mar 2025 06:05PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 1 Thu 27 Mar 2025 11:01PM UTC
Comment Actions
violamiamigo on Chapter 1 Thu 10 Apr 2025 10:11PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 1 Fri 11 Apr 2025 07:56AM UTC
Comment Actions
lialal1a on Chapter 3 Thu 08 May 2025 08:34AM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 3 Thu 08 May 2025 04:28PM UTC
Comment Actions
Love_Galore on Chapter 3 Thu 08 May 2025 10:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 3 Fri 09 May 2025 03:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
Love_Galore on Chapter 4 Sat 24 May 2025 01:12AM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 4 Sat 24 May 2025 07:40AM UTC
Comment Actions
nicexxdream on Chapter 4 Sat 24 May 2025 04:48PM UTC
Last Edited Sat 24 May 2025 04:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 4 Sat 24 May 2025 09:21PM UTC
Comment Actions
violamiamigo on Chapter 4 Sat 24 May 2025 11:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 4 Sat 24 May 2025 11:50PM UTC
Comment Actions
nicexxdream on Chapter 5 Thu 29 May 2025 12:23AM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 5 Thu 29 May 2025 07:36AM UTC
Comment Actions
violamiamigo on Chapter 6 Sun 08 Jun 2025 10:14PM UTC
Last Edited Sun 08 Jun 2025 10:15PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 6 Mon 09 Jun 2025 06:51AM UTC
Comment Actions
violamiamigo on Chapter 7 Fri 20 Jun 2025 11:33AM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 7 Fri 20 Jun 2025 01:11PM UTC
Comment Actions
jins_2016 on Chapter 7 Fri 15 Aug 2025 11:40PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 7 Sat 16 Aug 2025 10:26AM UTC
Comment Actions
RegulusDiAngelo934 on Chapter 8 Fri 04 Jul 2025 05:27AM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 8 Fri 04 Jul 2025 09:39AM UTC
Comment Actions
RegulusDiAngelo934 on Chapter 8 Fri 04 Jul 2025 10:12AM UTC
Comment Actions
RegulusDiAngelo934 on Chapter 8 Sun 06 Jul 2025 04:42AM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 8 Sun 06 Jul 2025 09:08PM UTC
Comment Actions
violamiamigo on Chapter 9 Wed 09 Jul 2025 10:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 9 Wed 09 Jul 2025 10:44PM UTC
Comment Actions
RegulusDiAngelo934 on Chapter 9 Thu 10 Jul 2025 01:36AM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 9 Thu 10 Jul 2025 08:09AM UTC
Comment Actions
p1nk_lem0nade on Chapter 9 Thu 07 Aug 2025 04:07AM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 9 Thu 07 Aug 2025 02:41PM UTC
Comment Actions
RegulusDiAngelo934 on Chapter 9 Sat 23 Aug 2025 11:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 9 Sun 07 Sep 2025 04:55PM UTC
Comment Actions
p1nk_lem0nade on Chapter 10 Sun 07 Sep 2025 10:39PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 10 Mon 08 Sep 2025 09:25AM UTC
Comment Actions
violamiamigo on Chapter 10 Tue 09 Sep 2025 12:56PM UTC
Comment Actions
siriusisaswiftie on Chapter 10 Tue 09 Sep 2025 01:07PM UTC
Comment Actions