Chapter Text
*** 1st August 1974 ***
Trust Narcissa to make an engagement party feel like a funeral.
Sirius sat at the main table in a stuffy set of dress robes, a sour look on his face — in a room that shimmered under entirely too much light and scrutiny. It gleamed: all purple, glitter, and enough gold to bankrupt Gringotts. Extravagant, but lifeless. Even by Black family standards.
His hands were sore from twisting the napkin in his lap — an ugly lavender thing, trimmed in gold like everything else in the room. It matched Narcissa’s gown and Lucius’s tie, because Merlin forbid anyone forget they were betrothed now.
He wasn’t even sure what they were meant to be celebrating. The engagement? The wealth? Themselves, maybe. But none of it felt like joy. More like a well-rehearsed performance — smiles in all the right places, without a flicker of sincerity between them. Even the love looked choreographed: the way Lucius rested a hand on the back of his cousin's seat, how she tilted her chin just so when he looked her way. And the ring — the ring was the biggest performance of all. His cousin had been flashing it at guests all night, as if she hadn’t already been showing it off for weeks. An obnoxious, expensive thing. Pointedly visible.
It was the kind of heirloom that said more about the Malfoys than anyone in the room cared to admit. Namely, that Lucius’s parents had allowed the engagement to go ahead despite the scandal still clinging to the Blacks — Andromeda gone, Sirius slipping, the family image cracking — because Lucius had asked. And because, inconveniently, he and Narcissa were in love. It made the Malfoys look soft, and they knew it. So they'd compensated for it with the size of her ring.
Somewhere to his right, Lucius laughed at something Narcissa said — too loud, too polished, just shy of genuine. The sound curled down Sirius’s spine. He didn’t turn.
Above them, the chandelier looked sharp enough to fall and kill someone. All cut crystal and shards of glass, straining against the ceiling. Sirius watched it sway and thought, not for the first time, that he almost hoped it would — that it might be a cleaner end than whatever this night was pretending to be. And no one at the table would be much of a loss.
He’d been seated with his family, of course. His younger brother, Regulus, to his left, surrounded by their cousins like some young king. To his right: his mother and father, Walburga and Orion Black. They all wore the same look on the same face — pale, pointed, vaguely bored. Same eyes, same jawlines, same miserable little smirks. After a while, they all sort of blurred together.
He supposed that’s what inbreeding did to a family.
Everyone was talking among themselves — except Walburga. Which might’ve been a small mercy, except she was trying. With him. And that was absolutely worse.
“Sirius,” she said, with the brittle politeness that always came just before a blow. “You’ve hardly touched your food.”
He glanced at the plate. Cold. Pink in the middle. Still untouched.
“Not hungry,” he said, barely moving his mouth.
“You’re looking awfully thin. It’s starting to hollow out your face.”
And there it was. The first jab of the night.
He didn’t answer, just twisted the napkin tighter until it bit into his fingers. The tips were turning purple— to match the room.
She tried again, voice clipped. “And you could at least pretend to be pleased for your cousin. Everyone else is.”
Regulus was laughing with Evan and Pandora Rosier, cousins from Narcissa’s other side, one arm slung over the back of his chair like he’d been born to it. He looked like he belonged, in every way Sirius never had.
It used to bother him, seeing how easily Regulus fit in. How naturally it all came to him — the posture, the charm, the approval. But not anymore. Not really. These days, Sirius was just going through the motions.
“Sorry,” he said, still not looking at her. “Didn’t realise we were celebrating.”
Walburga sniffed. “Well. At least you’ve made an effort with your hair, for once.”
And there it was again. Not even cruel. Just automatic. Like breathing.
Sirius didn’t know if she meant to insult him every time she opened her mouth, or if it just came naturally at this point. He’d smoothed it down and tied it back. A peace offering, or something like it, though he wasn’t sure why he still bothered. Old habits, maybe. Or keeping the peace for his brother’s sake, perhaps.
Across the table, Orion was deep in conversation with a woman Sirius didn’t recognise at first. She was blonde, elegant, laughing a little too loudly at something his father had said. At one point, she reached out to touch his wrist — not dramatically, just casually. Polished. Familiar.
He should’ve known her, really. She’d been a guest at their house plenty of times, always when his mother was out of town for one reason or another — conveniently. One of the Travers’ wives, if he wasn’t mistaken. Walburga had called her “audaciously tacky” once, with the kind of venom she usually reserved for Mudbloods and half-breeds.
She didn’t call her anything now.
Walburga didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Her gaze slid toward them, slow and surgical, then back to Sirius like as if nothing had happened. Only the slight adjustment of her grip on her wineglass gave her away.
“At least she knows how to work a table properly. You could learn something.”
Sirius didn’t look up, just back at the napkin.
Right, he thought. Because out of everything happening at this table — the wandering hands, the fake laughter, the extramarital affairs — he was still the most offensive thing in the room.
He wouldn’t dignify it with a response. Instead, just pushed his chair back and shook his head at her.
“Sirius, sit back down. You’re causing a scene.”
But he’d well and truly had enough.
He stood his ground, jaw tight. “Bit late for that, isn’t it?”
Of course, he didn’t just mean tonight. He meant all of it — all the ways he’d embarrassed her from the start. Sorted into the wrong house. Friends with all the wrong people. Too loud, too brash, too opinionated. Never quite what she wanted, or expected, him to be.
The words threatened to claw their way up, but he bit them back.
She didn’t try to stop him. Didn’t see the point, probably. She never did.
He made for the bar at the far end of the room: which was meticulously polished and staffed by a house elf who didn’t speak, just poured drinks with silent precision and a blank, unreadable stare. Sirius wove through suited guests and clinking glasses, past laughter that didn’t sound real, and a string quartet playing something bland and self-important.
Say what you would about pureblood parties — at least they weren’t stuffy about underage drinking. Which meant his brooding could go uninterrupted.
It was the acceptable kind of rebellion here: quiet, polished, easy to overlook. The right drink, in the right room, with the right amount of detachment. Nothing loud. Nothing worth remembering. He blended in perfectly. Just another man who didn’t want to be here, pretending not to care.
He rolled the glass between his hands, not really drinking. Just needed something to hold. Something to keep him tethered. Enough to look occupied.
From the outside, he probably looked like he belonged — tailored robes, neat hair, the right kind of bored. And there was a kind of satisfaction in that: playing the part so well they couldn’t tell he was taking the piss.
He wished his friends were here to see it.
James would’ve hexed the violinist by now. Or set fire to the tablecloth just to watch everyone scramble. Something loud. Something alive.
Sirius took a sip and winced. Old and bitter — naturally.
He could almost hear Peter’s laugh, high and wheezy. Could picture Remus raising one eyebrow in quiet judgment, even while trying not to smile.
It was stupid. But it helped.
Then—
“…her sister Andromeda. Can you imagine?” one of the women near him whispered — not loud, but not exactly quiet either.
Sirius stilled.
“Threw everything away for a Mudblood,” the other replied, pitying and sharp. “She used to be so close with Narcissa, too.”
“I suppose there’s no accounting for taste.”
A pause. A sip of champagne.
“Well, you know how it goes — one steps out of line, the rest start thinking they can too.”
Sirius sipped too, letting it sit bitter on his tongue.
Maybe they meant Andromeda. Maybe him. Probably both.
She’d married a Muggle-born — Ted Tonks — and for that, they’d burned her off the family tree. Sirius hadn’t heard her name in years. Didn’t matter. Either way, it landed harder than it should have. Because that was how it worked, wasn’t it? One wrong step. One wrong choice. Love the wrong person, be sorted into the wrong house — and suddenly, you were something to be whispered about.
He stepped away before they could notice him, drink still clutched in one hand, tight enough to show the scars on his knuckles.
The air felt thinner now. The walls, closer.
He needed out. More than a drink. More than just space from his mother.
He needed air — real air, not whatever this room was pretending to be.
The air outside wasn’t much cooler, really, just less stuffy. Which was a small mercy, he supposed. Less clinking glassware. Less rehearsed laughter. Fewer cousins whispering behind his back. Just the quiet, distant hum of a celebration he wasn’t really welcome at.
Sirius tipped his head back against the stone wall and let out a long, shaky breath before downing the last of his drink in one practiced swig. It burned on the way down — and not in a good way.
The starkness of his hair made his skin look paler and sharper — like something carved from stone. The clean lines of his dress robes did little to hide the tension in his shoulders. But from a distance, he probably looked composed. Or at least, he hoped he did.
He really should’ve brought another drink. Or the whole bottle. Or channeled James and hexed the violinist — anything to liven up the night. But instead, here he was.
Maybe if he drank fast enough, he’d black out before someone else asked how school was going, or what he planned to do after Hogwarts — or, worse, whether he’d considered courting that nice third cousin twice removed from Paris.
He actually shuddered at the thought.
That was the moment the door creaked open beside him.
Brilliant.
Cassius Avery stepped out like he owned the place — which, to be fair, was entirely possible, considering his family owned half of Wiltshire. He looked like something the family tapestry had spat out: all blonde hair, pureblood poise, and just enough smugness to make it look effortless.
They’d grown up together, more or less. Like brothers, once — before house colours and blood politics muddied it all.
Mulciber trailed behind him — broader, darker, and far less refined. He wore the permanent expression of someone who’d been wronged. Which, to be fair, might’ve been true once. Sirius hadn’t exactly gone easy on him growing up.
Then again, that might’ve just been his face.
“Mind if we join your exile, Black?” Cassius asked.
Sirius shifted sideways on the step. “Misery loves company.”
Cass clicked his tongue. “Consider it charity work.”
Sirius huffed a short breath through his nose — amused, despite himself. Mulciber looked like he’d bitten into something sour.
Sirius tried not to revel in it.
Mulciber had never liked that he and Cassius got on. But it was worse now — now that Sirius had become... inconvenient. Now that friendship came with consequences.
“I’m not sulking,” Sirius muttered. “I’m escaping. There’s a difference.”
“Escaping what, exactly? Fun?” Cass drawled.
Sirius snorted.
“Or Wilkes’s cousin?” Cass added, grinning. “She’s been eyeing you off all night.”
“Oh, please,” Sirius said, wrinkling his nose. “She should be so lucky.”
He gave a dry little laugh, and shook his head.
“Right. Lucky,” Cass drawled. “Since everyone’s dying to bag the Black sheep.”
Sirius nudged him with the back of his hand and laughed. He’d almost forgotten how easy this used to be. How good it could feel.
“Oi.”
Mulciber groaned audibly. “This is ridiculous.”
Cassius didn’t miss a beat. He leaned back on his elbows, smirking at Sirius.
“He’s always like this,” he said, loud enough not to be polite. “No sense of humour whatsoever.”
“Charming,” Sirius said, shooting Mulciber a glance. “Like a curse to the teeth.”
Mulciber scowled. Sirius raised his eyebrows at Cassius, as if to say: Seriously?
Cass just shrugged — unapologetic.
“So what’re you doing talking to the Black sheep, then?” Sirius asked. “Didn’t think that was allowed.”
Cassius gave a little shrug, like the question didn’t deserve an answer — but his glance toward the manor said otherwise.
“Technically it’s not,” he said. “But technically, I also don’t care.”
“Risky.”
Cass turned toward him, something sly sparking behind his eyes. “You’re the risky one. I’m just… adjacent.”
Sirius chuckled, but didn’t look away.
“Can we go now?” Mulciber cut in, voice flat.
Cass didn’t even glance over. “Anytime you like. Door’s over there.” He nodded lazily toward the manor.
Mulciber shot him a look — sharp and disapproving — then stalked off, muttering under his breath about Sirius being a traitor and throwing his weight around like he expected Avery to follow.
Sirius watched him disappear. “Always a pleasure,” he muttered.
Cass exhaled slowly. “He’s not all bad.”
“Might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said about anyone.”
Cass chuckled, and then they fell quiet.
The murmur of the party drifted faintly through the walls, softened by stone and distance — like a life they were both half-pretending not to belong to.
“You look taller,” Sirius offered after a beat — like it wasn’t the stupidest thing in the world to say.
Cassius smirked. “And more chiseled, right?”
Sirius smiled — properly, for the first time in hours. He wasn’t chiseled. Lanky, if anything. All slicked-back blonde hair and an arrogant smile. But it worked for him.
Cass glanced over, something quieter flickering beneath the usual swagger. “How’re you holding up?”
Sirius leaned his head back against the wall. “Oh, you know. Got called a disappointment six times before dessert. Might be a new record.”
Cass made a low sound — almost a laugh. “Impressive. Even for you.”
“I try.”
The quiet stretched again, but it felt different now — less brittle. Less like silence for silence’s sake.
“You used to hate these things less,” Cassius said, after a pause.
“I used to be less hateable.”
Cass’s gaze lingered — unreadable — then, with a slight tilt of his head, let it slide.
“Anyway,” he said, lighter now, “thought I’d say hi before someone cornered me with a thrilling conversation about tariffs.”
“What a party,” Sirius muttered.
“Mm. But you always make a party better.”
Sirius shot him a sidelong look. “Are you flirting with me, Avery?”
Cass’s grin curled — slow and self-satisfied. “No. You’d know if I were.” A pause. Then the eyebrows. “Would you like me to be?”
Sirius rolled his eyes, but didn’t stop smiling.
“You don’t have to stay, you know,” he said after a while.
“Maybe I want to,” Cass replied.
Sirius narrowed his eyes slightly. “Why?”
Cass shrugged, easy. “Because you’re interesting. Because it pisses people off. Take your pick.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“So are you, Mr Dark and Brooding.”
Then — from somewhere inside — a voice rang out: “Cass!” Sliced through the air like a warning.
His mother, maybe.
Cassius sighed and stood, brushing down his cuffs with theatrical care. He glanced down at Sirius playfully.
“That’ll be Mother, wondering where I’ve snuck off to.”
“Don’t brood too long,” he added. “Someone might start thinking you’re being poetic and not just going through a difficult teenage phase.”
“Couldn’t have that,” Sirius muttered.
“See you at school, Black.”
Cass walked off with his hands in his pockets, like he had all the time in the world. Even in scratchy French dress robes, he looked unbothered — shoulders loose, smirk in place, like none of this touched him at all.
He envied that — the ease, the detachment. How easily it all came to him.
Sirius rested his head back against the stone and closed his eyes for a moment. Then — a breath and a faint smile.
Tonight hadn’t been a win, exactly. But he felt a little less awful now, at least.
And that had to count for something
The rest of the night dragged from there — all fake smiles, flat jokes, and drinks that didn’t burn nearly enough on the way down.
By the time they Floo’d home to Grimmauld Place, it was well past midnight and Sirius was more than unsteady on his feet. Still in those awful dress robes. Still wishing he were anywhere but here.
The house hit him like it always had — like a gut punch. Cold, horrible and heavy.
Walburga took one look at him — bleary-eyed, collar undone, and utterly unbothered — and barked for him to go straight to bed.
“You’re fourteen, not twenty-one.”
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even look at her.
That suited him just fine.
He didn’t bother getting undressed. Just collapsed onto his bed, face-down, and let the sleep take him.
Notes:
In the next chapter:A hangover, a mirror call, emotional damage.
The Marauders are back. So is Regulus.
Sirius is fine. Probably.Notes: what do we think of Avery? I realise that he’s a slightly rogue addition!
Chapter 2: Aug, 1974 - Summer Break
Summary:
Sirius spends the rest of his summer stuck at Grimmauld Place. He speaks to James and Peter through the two-way mirror.
Chapter Text
*** 2nd August 1974 ***
Which was exactly how he woke the next morning — fully clothed, long hair plastered to one side, tie askew — when the two-way mirror stirred beneath his pillow. It was one half of a pair of old, brass-rimmed pocket mirrors, charmed earlier that year so he and James could talk from opposite ends of the castle. Or the country. They’d mostly used them during detentions — to talk shit about professors and plot petty revenge from separate rooms. But as it turned out, they worked over holidays too.
Thank Merlin.
It was the only thing keeping him tethered to the outside world over summer. Since his mother wouldn’t let him write to “them.”
The Marauders.
His friends.
James Potter was right on schedule, and somehow too early all at once. As he often was: first to rise every morning, full of too much optimism and entirely too much enthusiasm. The kind of punctuality that felt less like routine and more like invasion at this hour. He didn’t arrive so much as burst in, all elbows, questions, and wind-blown hair.
It startled him.
He’d been dead to the world — lying face-down, half-buried under a heavy, dark duvet, in a room that barely felt lived in. Not cold, exactly. Just hollow. Like the air hadn’t moved in days. Like everything else in Grimmauld Place.
There were signs of life there though, if you knew where to look: a well-loved Gryffindor scarf shoved under the bed, a half-empty flask on the windowsill, a torn Muggle poster curling off the wall. Quiet acts of rebellion, tucked away where no one would notice. Just enough to prove he was still here — but not enough to rock the boat.
He groaned and pushed himself upright, rubbing sleep from his eyes as the mirror pulsed again.
This was fine.
He was fine.
By the time he flipped the mirror over, he’d just about pulled himself together. Enough not to look completely wrecked, anyway.
He blinked blearily at the glass and tried not to look surprised when it wasn’t just James grinning back at him, but Peter Pettigrew too. The square frame caught them both: James, leaning in close; Peter, sprawled beside him on a pile of red and gold blankets, already half-laughing.
Of course they were together. Of course. It was James’s mum’s birthday — the sort of thing you only missed if you were under pureblood house arrest.
Which he was.
He’d almost forgotten.
James beamed — all morning hair and obnoxious energy, impossibly cheerful for the hour. Beside him, Peter looked just as chipper, grinning wide enough to show the gap between his front teeth. His hair, dull blonde-brown and hopelessly lifeless, hung limply in his face. Something about the sight twisted in Sirius’s chest — not jealousy, exactly. Just… longing.
He’d spoken to James through the mirror, obviously. But not the others. Not since June. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed Peter’s stupid grin until he saw it again — crooked and overly pleased, like he was just happy to be included.
“Oi, Sleeping Beauty,” James said. “You alive?”
“He looks dead,” Peter added, cheerful.
Sirius groaned, voice gravelly. “What time is it?”
“Ten.”
He sank back into the pillow, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth. He missed this — the chaos, the closeness. Them. Not that he’d ever say it out loud.
Even the pounding in his skull couldn’t ruin it — though it certainly tried; a dull, relentless thud that refused to be ignored. Like it was begging him to roll over and go back to sleep.
“Thought you lot had forgotten me,” Sirius muttered, tugging the covers higher like they might block out the chill in the house — or at least the thin draught creeping in under the door.
“Never,” James said, mock-offended. “Mum confiscated the mirror this morning. Said I had to ‘be present.’” He put on a voice.
Peter laughed. “She told him she wasn’t his servant. Said the least he could do was talk to her over toast.”
Sirius snorted. “Sounds like her.”
“So,” James drawled, drawing out the word. “How’s pureblood purgatory?”
“Positively thrilling,” Sirius said flatly. “Narcissa’s engagement party had two oboists and exactly zero personality.”
Peter frowned. “What’s an oboist?”
Sirius chuckled. James pressed on, undeterred. “You missed Mum’s party, mate. Millard followed us around like we were celebrities.”
Sirius could picture it vividly: enchanted streamers tangled in chandeliers, Fleamont’s full bodied laugh booming through the halls, Effie entertaining in the kitchen, Millard McKinnon underfoot. Warm, messy, alive.
“And then Marlene’s middle brother Macbeth got caught smoking out back,” James added, grinning like it was the best part. “Didn’t even flinch — just looked my dad dead in the eye and went, ‘What, you want one?’”
Sirius huffed a laugh. “Legend.”
They all cracked up at that, voices overlapping. Peter chimed in with something about the cake, James purposefully embellished everything with wild hand gestures and increasingly implausible details. It was their usual brand of mess, ridiculousness and inside jokes.
Sirius held the mirror a little tighter, his fingers curled hard around the frame, like if he let go, even for a second, they might disappear.
Then James leaned closer, eyes gleaming behind his glasses: the kind of look that usually preceded trouble. His grin was wide and a little too eager, like he was two seconds away from suggesting something utterly dangerous or stupid. Sirius braced himself.
“Right — so get this,” James said, voice low with excitement. He glanced quickly over his shoulder, like he was worried about being caught. “I’m thinking we nick the Death Hawk Moth chrysalis from Dad’s potion shelf this afternoon. Then all we need is the dew and the mandrake leaves to start the process.”
Right. Of course. The Animagus thing.
He’d almost forgotten they were still doing that — summer had made it feel hazy and distant. Like a fever dream he’d left behind with the term. But this wasn’t something he could just shove to the side. They were doing it for Remus... so he wouldn’t have to be alone on full moons anymore.
Sirius didn’t even question James’s idea. It had become his pet project — his baby — and whatever James Potter put his mind to, he made happen. Besides, of course Fleamont Potter, world-famous potioneer, had an extremely rare, difficult-to-come-by chrysalis tucked away somewhere. Probably five, in colour-coded jars, labelled in Latin.
Peter’s mouth dropped open. “We’re what?”
“You’re unwell,” Sirius said, already grinning.
“Oh come on,” James huffed. “His potion-making’s more of a hobby now. Man hasn’t worked in years.”
“So we’re just… stealing it, then?” Peter asked, eyes wide. “What if he’s saving it for something important?”
“He’s got a point,” Sirius said. “A man’s Death Head Moth is a sacred thing.”
Peter looked like he might combust — then rolled his eyes.
“Don’t worry, Pete,” Sirius added. “I’m sure James would take the fall — wouldn’t you?”
James smiled wickedly. Like it depended on the day.
“This is how I die,” Peter muttered, shifting uncomfortably like he wasn’t sure if he was in on the joke — or the butt of it.
Sirius snorted, shaking his head — but the laugh faded quickly. For a second, he just watched them. The tangle of blankets behind James. The morning light spilling through the window. The easy closeness between them. He could almost feel it.
Almost.
“Wish I could be there,” he said, softer now, mostly to himself.
James glanced over. Like he wanted to fix it but didn’t quite know how. So he just carried on.
“You can help with the mandrake leaf when we’re back at school,” he said. “It’ll be fun.”
“And not full of oboists,” Peter added firmly, still clearly confused by the term.
Sirius let out a breath — not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. But the smile stayed, smaller now. Softer.
“Looking forward to it.”
A voice called from out of frame — Effie, probably.
James sighed. “Right, gotta run. Try to have a less sucky holiday, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Sirius said, quieter now. “I will.”
Peter waved. “See you soon.”
“Talk later,” James added, already starting to pull away.
But before they could go—
“Wait—” Sirius blurted, sitting up straighter. “Tell your mum happy birthday. For me.”
James’s mouth twitched — quick, almost casual. But it stalled at the corners, like maybe he was going to say something else, then thought better of it.
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
And then the mirror dimmed — the glow fading from his hands until all that was left was the cold weight of it.The silence that followed wasn’t dramatic. Just… sharp. Empty. Like the house had swallowed the sound whole.
No more chatter. No warmth. Just the room again: stale and still.
Sirius sat up, the quilt slipping from his shoulders in a heavy slump. The air felt colder. Or maybe that was the hangover, crawling back behind his eyes.
He looked down at the blank mirror and slid it back beneath the pillow. Like he could keep the warmth there and moment alive a little longer.
He rubbed at his eyes, hard — like it might shake something loose.
Fine.
He was fine.
Funny, though, how a ten-minute conversation with his friends could make the whole house feel emptier than before.
As much as Sirius would have liked to rot in peace for the rest of the afternoon, with nothing but an empty mirror and his Black Sabbath posters for company, his stomach had other plans. It let out a loud, angry grumble — sharp enough to make him wince. Like it was already punishing him for ignoring it this long. The smell of lunch being served in the dining room was tempting him downstairs. Like bait. Or a trap maybe.
He lay there for a moment longer, stewing in it, questioning whether it was worth the hassle— limbs heavy, mouth dry, brain still fuzzed from last night’s drinking — before letting out a dramatic groan and rolling upright.
Fine . If he had to be alive, he might as well be fed.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and shuffled toward the door, already bracing for what waited downstairs. Not the food, obviously — but the fallout. His mother, most likely, still furious about his disappearance last night. Or at the very least, looking for a new reason to be.
This was what he got for daring to have a good time. Or half of one.
Walburga sat at the far end of the heavy dining table, perfectly upright — one hand resting on her fork, the other idly circling the edge of her plate. She wasn’t eating, just pushing the food around with that familiar, sour look on her face: lips pursed, nostrils slightly flared, her gaze fixed somewhere just past the end of her fork. She looked thinner than usual, but not the kind people whispered about admiringly — it was the sharp, joyless kind. The kind that came from skipping meals out of principle. Like her food was just one more thing she might try to control, or dominate into submission.
Sirius dropped into the seat across from Regulus, a year behind and somehow already twice as composed, with a pointed humph — just loud enough to earn a flicker of irritation from their mother.
If looks could kill, she’d have well and truly buried him.
For a moment, there was only the quiet scrape of expensive cutlery. Until, without looking up, Walburga spoke.
“Tell me, dear,” she said, too warmly to be sincere, “are we nursing a hangover this morning, or are wrinkled shirts and half done ties just the fashion nowadays?”
Sirius thought that was a bit rich coming from her; dressed to the nines for lunch with her family. In dark green robes, a brooch, and her hair twisted into some severe knot, like she was expecting to host the Minister for tea. Everything about her was sharp-edged — from cut of her robes to her smile to the set of her jaw.
Sirius didn’t answer right away, just spooned potatoes onto his plate with exaggerated interest. “Bit of both,” he said, keeping his eyes on the potatoes instead of her face. Safer that way.
He could get away with more when it was just the four of them. No audience, no scandal, no appearances to maintain.
Her smile didn’t waver. “How charming.”
Her eyes lingered — cold, grey and calculated — but when he didn’t rise to it, didn’t flinch or fumble or give her the pleasure of reacting, she let out a soft hum and turned away. Like she’d grown bored of him. Like he wasn’t worth the trouble.
And just like that, they all went back to playing their parts.
Walburga launched into conversation with Regulus in that clipped, performative tone she used when trying to pretend that Sirius didn’t exist. She was off about Narcissa’s dress — so tasteful, so classic — and how Druella had outdone herself with the monogrammed serviettes. Clearly, it had been the highlight of her social calendar… which was a bit sad, really.
Regulus nodded along, dark locks falling in front of his face, dutiful as ever, occasionally piping up to agree with something she said, as if he gave a shit.
Orion, meanwhile, sat at the head of the table with The Daily Prophet raised like a shield. He wasn’t reading, so much as hiding. Sirius could tell by the way his eyes didn’t move.
The headline — Muggle Family Dead After Death Eater Attack — stared back at Sirius in bold, unforgiving text. Like it had been printed just to test him.
Every so often, Orion would grunt or hum along like he was listening, but it rang hollow. It was a habit Sirius both resented and, in a way, respected.
Because neither of them really wanted to be there. Sirius could at least understand that much — even if he couldn’t understand why his father didn’t just speak his mind. Or walk out.
His father looked a lot like Regulus, really: same sharp jaw, pale features, and dark hair — just more worn around the edges, and a little greyer. He’d shaved for the party, which only served to make the hollows of his cheeks look more pronounced.
He didn’t say a word. Just stayed behind the paper like it still anything less to say, while his wife sent subtle jabs across the table.
No one spoke to Sirius again — only about him — until Walburga cleared her throat.
“We’ll be going robe shopping this afternoon.”
Sirius blinked slowly, then rolled his eyes. “Can’t wait.”
“I expect you ready by four.”
Across the table, Regulus glanced up. Their matching grey eyes met — just briefly. Long enough to say Merlin help us without saying anything at all.
Sirius stabbed another forkful of potatoes. “May I be excused?” he asked around them, mouth half-full on purpose.
Walburga didn’t answer straight away. Just looked him over like she was deciding whether to say no out of spite.
And he wasn’t going to storm out, not again, not after last night. That wasn’t how this house worked.
He gestured vaguely with his fork, still chewing. “You know. To go get ready. I can’t go out in last night’s robes.”
Another pause — long enough to be pointed — before she sighed and flicked her hand. “Alright. Go.”
Thank Merlin.
He didn’t wait for her to change her mind. Just vanished upstairs without a backward glance.
Sirius didn’t walk through Diagon Alley so much as he was paraded — like a show pony. Purebred. Polished. Bred for display. At his mother’s request, his hair had been forced into a neat, low tie at the base of his neck; and his shoes were stiff, painfully shiny, and clicked too loudly against the cobblestones.
Walburga led the charge, pinched-faced and overdressed in emerald gloves and a ridiculous feathered hat that bobbed like a dead bird every time she turned her head. Her jewellery clinked with every step — a performance of wealth and disdain.
Behind her, Sirius and Regulus followed like reluctant prize stock; robes immaculate, faces identically sour, looking far too formal for what was meant to be a casual family outing. Walburga glanced back at them every so often, her frown deepening each time Sirius slouched or let the scowl slip past his mask.
There had been a time — before he got taller, louder, wrong — when she’d looked at him like he was everything she’d ever wanted. Her clever little heir. Her second chance.
She used to brush the hair off his forehead and call him darling. Flout him in front of her friends like he was proof she’d done something right, the boy who’d marry well, carry the name, erase the embarrassment of the mess she came from. Back then, he’d basked in it — the praise and the pride — too young to see it for what it was.
Because his mother, despite current appearances, hadn’t always been welcome at the centre of things. Her parents had married in scandal — her father barely thirteen when she was born, baby-trapped by an older girl with more ambition than shame. It had marked the whole family. Made Walburga cold before she was grown. After that, no one decent had looked twice at her — not when it mattered. So her parents married her off early, to a second cousin, not just for purity’s sake but to quietly solve a problem. A private scandal in itself.
And Orion had known it. He resented her for it — for the arrangement, for what it cost him, for what it made them. Which was perhaps why he kept so many mistresses Sirius wasn’t supposed to know about.
So she’d tried to make Sirius perfect instead. Groomed. Presentable. Desirable. A future someone would choose.
Until he’d gone and got himself sorted into Gryffindor and thrown it all away. All the good looks, piano lessons, and French classes down the drain so he could sulk through Diagon Alley with a moody look on his face, smelling faintly of last night’s firewhisky and sourness.
Still — every so often, they’d stop so Walburga could make a show of greeting other pureblood families, each interaction more ridiculous than the last. She went through the motions anyway, all brittle smiles and forced niceties — even if she didn’t believe in the performance anymore.
Sirius bore it with the patience of someone plotting a homicide.
“Look how tall he’s gotten,” she trilled more than once, squeezing Sirius’s arm with faux affection. “He’s so strong for his age.”
Which was a bold faced lie, and everyone knew it. He was built like a twig.
It was enough to make him want to gag.
The robe fitting was somehow worse. The seamstress poked and prodded at every soft spot, while Walburga circled them like a general inspecting her troops. Every so often she’d pinch a sleeve or adjust a collar, humming thoughtfully — as if she knew anything about sewing at all.
Sirius stood there and let it happen, arms limp at his sides, eyes fixed on the far wall.
He just wanted to go home. To bed. To anywhere else.
When the final stitch was pinned and paid for, he half-expected to be granted his release. Instead, Walburga straightened her pristine white gloves and turned toward the alleyway.
“We’ve one more stop,” she said.
Sirius groaned.
Regulus didn’t say a word. Just followed behind them, his face unreadable, the way it always got when he was trying to shut the world out completely. Sirius knew it well.
Borgin and Burkes was just as vile and dirty as he rememberedL narrow aisles, low ceilings, everything coated in a faint layer of dust. It smelled like something had died in the walls more than a century ago and no one had bothered to air it out since.
He drifted toward a shelf of oddities, trying to put some distance between himself and his mother while passing the time. There were all sorts of horrible things on display: fossilised fingers in jars, blackened coins, a music box that played out of tune.
Tucked behind the glass, a row of knives gleamed in the dim light. One caught his eye — thin, curved, its handle pale and smooth, carved from old bone.
He leaned in closer.
Behind the counter stood a man Sirius recognised immediately as Alaric Mulciber’s older brother. He was broader, about a head shorter, but somehow even harsher looking than his sibling, if that was possible.
The shopkeeper and Walburga made small talk in clipped tones, voices low and practiced.
“Ah. Mrs. Black,” Mulciber’s brother said. He stood rigid and straight, hands clasped loosely in front of him, posture just formal enough to show he meant business, and knew exactly who she was. “Got your order wrapped and ready, just like you asked.”
Walburga nodded, tone cool. “Good. I wasn’t expecting it in until next week.”
“Came in early. I think you’ll find it… persuasive.” He grinned like it was a private joke.
Walburga opened the brown paper parcel and inspected it with a critical eye, then gave a short, satisfied nod. She tossed the string to the wayside.
“Very good. Shame the Ministry won’t let us use them properly.”
“Wouldn’t stop half the people I know,” Mulciber’s brother said. “Did you read the Prophet this morning?”
That made Sirius look over from where he stood beside the cabinet. Regulus, too.
“Of course,” Walburga replied, cool but amused. “Dreadful, wasn’t it?”
“Depends on your view. They even got the children.”
“Good riddance.”
Sirius froze mid-step. His jaw clenched.
The words sat there in the air, foul and horrible. He could feel his pulse rise — fast, insistent — a throb behind his eyes. For a moment, all he could hear was the sound of the music box behind him, dragging out some warped lullaby.
“That’s not funny,” he said, mostly to himself, but not softly. There was a sharpness in his voice that he couldn’t quite disguise.
Walburga turned toward him, one brow lifting in cold amusement.
Regulus shot him a look — quick and cutting, more warning than plea. Sirius. Don’t.
“Mind your tone,” Walburga said.
Sirius didn’t respond. Didn’t move. He just stared at the knives, chest tight, jaw locked.
The adults kept talking. As if nothing had happened.
His hand moved before he could talk himself out of it—slipping between the panes of the cabinet, palming the knife with the bone handle.He tucked it into his coat like he’d done it a thousand times before, and tried to ignore how hot and heavy it felt in his hand. His heart was hammering against his ribs, fast and sharp.
When he glanced back up, Regulus was staring at him, but he was limp as a rag doll. His eyes narrowed.
“Are you mental ?” Regulus hissed, barely moving his lips.
Sirius didn’t answer.
And then—a flicker of motion from out the corner of his eye caught his attention.
Mulciber’s brother. Watching him.
He winked at Sirius.
Sirius held his gaze. Didn’t blink.
The knife pressed tightly against his hip… and burned.
He told himself it didn’t mean anything, that he probably hadn’t seen.
That it was probably just a tick.
Right?
He didn’t know who he was trying to fool.
Regulus shook his head, barely breathing. “You’re going to get us in trouble.”
His brother’s face was pale in the low light, eyebrows knotted too tightly. He looked too young to be standing here — in this shop, with this family — but somehow too old, too. Like something had already settled in his eyes that didn’t belong to a thirteen-year-old.
Sirius said nothing. Just adjusted his dark wool coat and turned away like it didn’t faze him.
Outside, Walburga swept ahead again, like she hadn’t just been caught talking about the murder of four children.
Regulus waited until they were out of earshot.
“What the hell was that?”
“He won’t miss it. There were at least a dozen more like it,” Sirius said.
“He saw you.”
“So? He doesn’t own the place. What does he care?”
They walked in silence for a few paces.
“He won’t tell?”
“Would ruin the fun, wouldn’t it?”
Regulus didn’t respond. Just stared ahead, mouth tight.
They kept walking.
Didn’t speak again.
And that, Sirius figured, was the end of that. Or at least it should have been.
*** 10th August 1974 ***
A few days later, Sirius lay sprawled across his bed, Gryffindor scarf slung loosely around his neck, twirling the bone knife between his equally bony fingers like he wasn’t actively flirting with getting hexed.
The room was dim — curtains half-drawn, air thick with dust and teenage defiance.
The blade felt right in his hand. Heavy in all the right ways.
He liked the weight of it. Liked that it was his. That no one had given it to him. That it might be dangerous. Maybe even cursed.
Especially if it was cursed.
He flipped it again, watching the edge catch the afternoon light. A distraction, really — something to focus on that wasn’t this house, or how much he missed his friends, or the way his mother’s voice still echoed down the hall long after she’d stopped speaking.
He was so wrapped up in it he didn’t hear the footsteps until it was too late.
Regulus stood in the doorway, hovering. At first, his face was unreadable — just that calm, polished mask he’d been taught to wear. Then he saw what Sirius was holding. His jaw tensed, and something sharp flickered behind his expression.
They locked eyes.
Regulus stepped inside and shut the door behind him with a quiet, deliberate click.
“Are you being serious right now?” he asked, voice clipped.
Sirius lit up. He let out a stifled laugh — the kind that said: you walked right into that one.
Regulus didn’t even blink. “Don’t you dare.”
The edge in his voice only made Sirius grin harder. Not because it was funny — but because winding up Regulus was second nature at this point. And right now? It beat thinking about everything else.
He set the knife down on the table beside him. Quietly. Deliberately.
Still smiling.
“You nicked that from Borgin and Burkes,” Regulus said, stepping closer. “You don’t even know what it is.”
“Not yet,” Sirius replied, propping himself up on one elbow. “Could be cursed. Could be decorative. Could be nothing. That’s half the fun.”
“It’s reckless,” Regulus snapped. “That place deals in dark magic, Sirius. Real stuff. You could’ve brought home anything.”
“Lucky me,” Sirius muttered. “Bit of excitement to break up the endless joy of our summer.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“Oh, lighten up.”
“No — you need to wisen up.”
For a moment, Sirius didn’t say anything. Just looked at his brother — standing there like he had something to prove. Like he was bracing for a punch that never came.
He used to be softer.
It hadn’t always been like this.
Sirius’s gaze drifted toward the window.
He could still remember a night — years back now — when they’d sat right there, side by side, watching a thunderstorm roll in over the rooftops. Two kids with their noses pressed to the glass, eyes wide, counting the seconds between the flash and the crack. Breath fogging up the pane. Fingers twitching every time the sky lit up.
That Regulus was gone. Traded in for something quieter. Neater. Safer. Something that said “yes, sir” and kept its chin down.
The memory made Sirius’s throat tighten.
He sat up straighter, jaw clenched.
“Why? Because I didn’t sit there smiling while Mother made excuses for people who murdered a Muggle family, Reg?”
Regulus looked away, mouth set. “That’s not the point.”
“No — the point is they talk about it like it’s a bloody game. And we’re just supposed to sit there and listen.”
Sirius was watching him now — not just angry, but waiting.
For Regulus to agree. To look even a little ashamed.
Nothing. Just: “Oh, grow up .”
And that was somehow worse.
“Not if it means ending up cold and jaded like her.”
That landed.
Regulus blinked — just once — and looked away.
Not a flinch. Not a comeback. Just distance.
Sirius almost wished he would lash out. At least then he’d still be in there somewhere. Instead Regulus let out a sharp, exaggerated huff — the kind designed to be heard.
From down the hall, Orion’s voice rang out, muffled but crisp. “What’s going on down there?”
Both their heads snapped toward the door.
“Nothing!” they called back, in perfect unison.
The echo of it hung in the air for a beat too long.
Sirius exhaled and dropped back against his pillow, one hand flung over his face. He was tired. Tired of pretending he didn’t care. Tired of actually caring. Tired of this — all of it.
“I hate that you’ve dragged me into this,” Regulus said, voice tight.
Sirius let his hand fall away, sitting up again with a scoff. “Oh, now who needs to grow up?”
“I mean it. If this comes back on me — if she finds out—”
“What, you’ll tattle?” Sirius cut in, smirking.
“I will.”
“Like I care.”
They sat in it for a second — all sharp edges and breathing room that wasn’t really breathing room at all.
Then Regulus rolled his eyes and stormed out, slamming the door behind him with a bit too much force.
It rattled on its hinges.
Sirius didn’t move. Just stared at the space where his brother had been.
He wasn’t even angry. Not really. Just… tired.
Then he reached for the knife again. Flipped it once, caught it.
It didn’t feel fun anymore.
But it was something. And right now, that had to be enough.
Notes:
Up Next: Introducing Remus Lupin, first day back, a dark and mysterious stranger and some well overdue levity.
Notes: Let me know if you would like to see this story from any other character’s perspectives. This fic was originally part of a multi pov story, so there’s plenty of POV’s to go round! Just let me know who!
Chapter 3: Sep 1, 1974 - Welcome Home
Summary:
Sirius returns to hogwarts. The marauders are back together. Chaos ensues.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
*** 1st September 1974 ***
The platform was complete and utter chaos — as always. Full of shrieking children, hooting owls, and frantic parents shouting over the whistle of the train. But to Sirius, it felt like sunlight after weeks spent underground.
Loud. Messy. Free.
Steam curled around him, catching in his hair, softening the edges of everything. Somewhere to his left, a cat darted between trolleys. A handful of first-years were already crying. And yet somehow, for the first time all summer, it felt like he could actually breathe.
Well — aside from the tie choking him half to death.
He tugged at it absentmindedly as he walked, fingers working at the knot. Walburga had insisted, of course, that they arrive in full uniform: robes pressed stiff as parchment, tie tight, collar strangling. As if starch and polish could undo a decade’s worth of scandal.
But Sirius knew better.
And so did everyone else on the platform.
Walburga swept through the crowd like a woman on a mission, brows furrowed, stiletto heels clicking against the cobblestone. Regulus matched her pace step for step. Sirius dragged behind.
“Hurry along,” Walburga snapped, barely glancing over her shoulder.
Sirius rolled his eyes but picked up the pace anyway — not because she asked, but because he didn’t feel like starting the Second Wizarding War before breakfast.
His foot caught the back of Regulus’s heel. Just a clip, nothing serious. But enough to make Regulus jolt forward like he’d been shoved off a cliff. He looked small, suddenly. All wiry limbs and stiff posture, like a kid trying to stand taller than he was.
For a moment he almost felt a flicker of guilt. Until —
Regulus spun around, exasperated. “Would you watch it?”
Sirius threw up his hands, all mock innocence. “Sorry, Your Highness. It was an accident.”
He could’ve kept quiet. Could’ve let it go. But something meaner itched in his chest — something that wanted to remind Regulus he wasn’t above it all.
They hadn’t talked properly since that day in his room. But sniping came easy. Sniping was safe.
“It’s always an accident with you.”
They walked a few more paces in silence, Sirius dragging his feet, Regulus all poise and purebred posture. Both of them knew this wasn’t entirely about clipping his heel. Not really.
Then Sirius did it again — caught the edge of his school robe this time.
Regulus whipped around faster this time, eyes flashing. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake—”
“You’re walking like a bloody snail.”
“Maybe try watching where you’re going.”
“Maybe try not walking like you’ve got a stick up your—”
“That’s enough,” Walburga hissed, grabbing Sirius sharply by the elbow and dragging him to the side like she might try shake the disobedience out of him. Her grip tight enough to leave a mark.
“I expect you to behave this term. No more letters. No more scandal. Or so help me, Sirius, I will give you something real to complain about.”
Sirius gave a lazy half-smile. The noise of the platform had blurred into the background now — replaced by something better. Sharper. The low thrum of anticipation buzzing beneath his skin. The sense that freedom was close. Just a few steps away.
It was enough to put a bit of swagger back in step.
“I’m wearing the tie, aren’t I?” he said, tugging at it with mock pride. Gryffindor red. Bright and damning. He knew it would grind her gears — the colour alone was enough to set her teeth on edge.
Which, of course, was half the point.
“Thought you’d be thrilled.”
Regulus groaned beside him. Loud enough to make a point.
“Sirius…”
“Keep your voice down,” Walburga snapped, her tone disapproving and clipped. “Unless you’d like the entire platform knowing our business.”
Sirius gave a dramatic little salute. “Anything to please you, Mother.”
For a moment, she looked like she might slap him. Something ugly flared behind her eyes — a flash of heat, fast and sharp — twisting beneath her otherwise pretty features. Not soft necessarily, but elegant in that old money sort of way: high hollow cheekbones, expensive makeup and porcelain skin.
The kind of beauty that tricked people.
Instead of striking him, she stepped forward, and reached for his collar. Her fingers were cold, spindly and precise — adjusting the fabric like it was a punishment. Then she grabbed the tie and yanked it tight, sharp and deliberate. Daring him to flinch.
He didn’t.
He just met her gaze and held it. Unblinking.
Walburga held his gaze a moment longer, her expression unreadable.
“Try not to embarrass us this year.” she said sternly, then turned and swept off without waiting for a reply, footsteps echoing sharp and fast across the platform.
Regulus lingered half a second longer, looking every bit the child he still was. He shot Sirius a warning looking, all narrow eyes and sharp corners. A silent Why did you have to do that?
Then he turned and followed. His footsteps were faster — not as sure as Walburga’s, but just as loud, desperate to keep pace.
Sirius stayed where he was.
The crowd surged around him — voices shouting, trunks rolling, rats scurrying across the platform — but for the first time in weeks, he felt almost steady.
Once she disappeared from view, he loosened his tie without hesitation. The knot slid back beneath the second button, and he breathed just a little easier.
Then he reached up and tugged the band from his hair, letting it fall loose around his shoulders. He ran a hand through it, shaking it out until it sat messy and unkempt.
A small smile cracked through. Sharp. Satisfied.
Then, he turned to the crowd, scanning the platform for the only people who made any of this mess feel bearable.
No sign of them.
Yet.
So he boarded the train alone. But lighter.
Sirius wrestled his well-worn leather trunk down the corridor, muttering profanities under his breath as it scraped against the walls of the train. It was loud, clumsy, completely ungraceful — but almost joyful, somehow, in a way he couldn’t quite explain.
The floor buzzed and jolted faintly underfoot as the train picked up speed, almost humming. Somewhere behind him someone slammed a compartment door. A burst of laughter echoed down the corridor.
Third from the right. That was their compartment; always had been. Peter claimed it had the best view of the countryside. Which was ridiculous, obviously — but it had stuck.
It hadn’t changed much since first year. The leather benches were a little sunken in the middle and sticky at the edges, and there was a light tear in one of the cushions.
Even thinking about it now tugged a smile out of him. A real one — not the brittle, polite shadow of one he’d been wearing all summer. Or even the bold, performative one he had worn around Avery and Mulciber.
There was a dent in the doorframe from the year before, when he and James had gotten into an argument over Fizzing Whizbees that turned unexpectedly violent. Sirius brushed his hand against it fondly as he passed.
James jumped to his feet the moment he saw him round the corner, eyes lighting up with some mixture of joy, relief and excitement.
“Speak of the Devil!” he boomed.
He reached for the trunk without ceremony, yanking it from Sirius’s grip and shoving it to the side beside a small pile of crumbs he’d brushed onto the floor as he stood. And then — without hesitation — pulled him into a bone-crushing hug, like they were leads in a romantic play and not just two teenage boys who’d spent a summer apart.
Sirius could feel his breath catch in James' nest of dark hair as he smiled. His head came up just under Sirius' chin, but he was broader — and stronger too. Strong enough that his grip knocked the wind out of him.
Sirius laughed into his shoulder, caught off guard. “Why am I always the devil?”
“Because I missed you. And also — you are absolutely the devil.”
“Can’t argue that.”
Peter groaned, full-body, like he was about to be violently ill.
“Disgusting,” he muttered, flopping back into his seat like the world had personally wronged him — legs thrown up over the backrest, feet dangling above his head. His mismatched socks peeked out from under his robes, one striped, one plain, and both worn thin at the heel.
Naturally, this only encouraged them.
James threw an arm around Sirius’s shoulders; Sirius batted his eyelashes like he was trying to impress someone. All mock affection and unchanneled chaos.
Remus sat by the window. Quiet. Just watching them. Dressed in a half-buttoned Muggle flannel shirt and a pair of pale blue jeans that were ripped at the knee.
It was the first time Sirius had seen him since term ended, and it took every ounce of his self-control not to tackle him then and there.
He’d grown — almost a head taller, by the looks of it — though you wouldn’t know it, the way he was curled up by the glass. Folded in on himself. Like he didn’t want to take up too much space.
He knew better than to spook him with too much affection all at once.
Remus offered a small smile — soft, almost sad — and Sirius clocked how pale he looked right away.
The full moon was tonight. He’d known that, of course. All three of them had the lunar calendar well and truly committed to memory by now. But seeing it written across Remus’s face was something else entirely.
His heart kicked up for half a second, like maybe Remus would smile properly. Or say something like I missed you.
But then he really looked at him: drawn, distant, exhaustion stitched into the lines of his face. And it knocked the air right out of him.
Because here he was, buzzing like an idiot to see him — and Remus looked like he could barely sit upright.
The mid-morning sun caught him sideways, blurring the edges of the fatigue without quite hiding it. Highlighting a few streaks of blonde in his dusty brown hair.
Sirius didn’t say anything. Just gave a small, steady nod.
And Remus, in return, tilted his head the slightest bit. A few curls fell loose, hiding half his expression.
But not enough to miss the look.
Not enough to miss the weight of it.
James flopped back into his seat, and Sirius dropped down beside him — throwing his legs across James’s lap like any distance between them at all might be the undoing of them both.
In years past, Remus would’ve spent the whole train ride curled up next to them, shoes off, reading aloud from some book he swore was “absolute rubbish” — the kind he claimed he just grabbed off the shelf, even though Sirius knew he’d spent all summer choosing it. One he thought might make them laugh. Impress him, maybe.
They’d laughed the whole way to Hogsmeade.
Now, Remus hadn’t cracked a smile since London.
“So,” James said, grinning, “tell us everything. Was it horrible?”
“Hmm.” Sirius tilted his head, mock thoughtful, snapping back to reality. “On a scale from stuffy to get me out of this hell dimension — somewhere around Regulus playing Clair de Lune on the piano for three months straight.”
Peter snorted — too loud, almost choking on it.
“Exactly,” Sirius said, flashing a grin. All confidence. All bravado. But his eyes lingered on Remus a second too long.
Gave him away.
“How were your holidays, anyway?” he asked, softer now — voice shifting like it always did when it came to Remus.
Remus mumbled something — barely audible. “Quiet. Fine.”
“Oh yeah?” Sirius said. “You sound thrilled.”
Peter leaned in. “I think that’s Remus for I missed you sorry lot.”
“Right, of course,” Sirius deadpanned. “My mistake. We missed you too mate”
Remus smiled in return but the silence stretched, almost uncomfortably, before James jumped in. Never one to sit comfortably in dead space.
“I woke up one night,” he said, a little hesitantly but quickly, like he had been holding onto it all break, “and heard my parents talking about the war. About maybe not sending me back this year.”
Peter groaned. “Not again. This is the third time I’ve heard this story.”
But Sirius shot him a look — a quiet frown — and Peter held up his hands, waving James on like fine, sorry, go ahead. He had a bandage wrapped around one of his fingers, for Merlin knows what reason.
James gave a half-smile, and adjusted his glasses, but there was something uneasy beneath it. “I don’t think they meant it. Not really. Just scared, I reckon. About everything.”
That sat wrong with Sirius.
The idea of James not coming back. Of the train pulling out without him. Of sitting in their usual compartment with one seat empty.
He didn’t want to think about it. Not properly.
It would’ve ruined him.
Across from him, Remus was watching too — shoulders stiff, jaw set — like the thought had landed the same way with him: heavy and unwelcome.
“Mate,” Sirius said, nudging James with his foot, “you know I love Effie and Monty.”
Again, he had to fight the urge to spring across the carriage gap and pull James into another hug. Instead, he leaned back, arms crossed behind his head, and pretended to play it cool — like he wasn’t panicking just a little bit inside. “But if they ever try to keep you home again, I will come over there and fight them.”
Peter perked up. “You wouldn’t last five minutes.”
James snorted. “Mum would absolutely hex you through the wall.”
“She’d have to catch me first, I’m slippery as hell,” Sirius said, smug.
Remus spoke up at last, voice quiet but dry. “She wouldn’t need to. She’d just call you by your full name and you’d heel like a puppy.”
James howled. “He’s right, you know. That voice? Terrifying. I’ve seen grown men cower.”
“I am not afraid of Euphemia Potter.”
Peter raised his eyebrows. “You should be. Everyone’s afraid of Euphemia Potter.”
“Well now I have to fight her on principle,” Sirius said matter-of-factly.
“And Dad?” James asked, already grinning.
“Oh, Fleamont would cheer me on. He’s been waiting for someone to stand up to her since their wedding day.”
That coaxed a real laugh out of Remus — quiet, but honest — and it broke the tension. Sirius smiled at him.
He and James slipped easily into some new tangent after that — something loud and ridiculous, involving a broomstick, the McKinnons, and all manner of contraband.
At one point, Sirius caught it — the flicker of a flinch on Remus’ face when the volume jumped too high.
He softened his voice after that. Didn’t say anything. Just… shifted. Recalibrated.
And maybe — somewhere in the back of his mind — he still hadn’t shaken the fact that James had nearly not come back this year. That Remus looked like hell, quiet and pale, with the full moon close enough to taste.
But still — despite the weight of everything unsaid between them, and the literal werewolf in the room — it felt like his world was slowly tilting back into orbit.
Things felt right again.
Peter and James bounded off the train like they’d been trapped for days and not just a few hours — shouting over each other, all arms and noise, loud enough to turn heads. James in a too-tight grey t-shirt and jeans that looked straight off some band member on an underground record sleeve; Peter trailing behind him in his new school robes.
They were swallowed almost instantly by the crowd — a blur of bobbing heads and trunks and voices shouting over the whistle. One moment they were there, loud, present, laughing — and the next, gone.
Sirius didn’t follow. Not right away.
He just shook his head, and smiled to himself. Then, after a beat, drifted toward the edge of the platform, where Remus was struggling with his trunk: head bowed, eyes downcast, worlds away from the chaos of the crowd, like he hadn’t quite managed to keep up.
They fell into step without speaking.
Remus rubbed at his temple with two fingers, squinting against the afternoon sun. “It’s just a headache,” he muttered, before Sirius could even ask — the light catching his amber eyes: sharp, golden, and far too tired for the first day back. “I’ll be fine tomorrow.”
He said it like he believed it. Like he had to. But the squint gave him away. Pulled too tight, like it was threatening to leave a permanent line, and his whole posture had the brittle look of someone who hadn’t slept properly in days.
Sirius gave him a small, crooked smile. “I know.”
Without thinking, he reached for the handle of Remus’s well-worn trunk.
To help.
Remus batted him off with a half-laugh. “I’m not some fragile thing.”
He was right, of course.
But still. He was pale under the weight of it all, jaw clenched like every movement hurt just a bit more than the last. Like someone bracing for the next blow.
He stood a little straighter now that the noise had fallen away. Like it might be enough.
Sirius suspected otherwise.
He raised an eyebrow but didn’t push it. Just slipped his hands into his pockets and fell back into step beside him.
They wandered down the platform, talking about nothing much at all — Peter’s dramatic leap after James, how the weather was uncharacteristically cold for September — until Sirius’s gaze caught on something ahead.
Or rather, someone.
Emmeline Vance. A Ravenclaw from the year above — tall and mysterious, dark hair tucked behind one ear, sleeves rolled just past the elbow. She was deep in conversation with another girl from her year.
But she caught his eye, just briefly, and smiled.
Sirius looked away a little too quickly to be considered casual.
Remus followed the line of his gaze, then turned back with a knowing shake of the head, half-laughing.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, all innocence. “What?”
“Go on, then,” Remus said, still smirking.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Remus didn’t dignify that with a response.
Because the truth was — Sirius had been seeing a bit of her lately, and they both knew it. Nothing serious, of course.
She was a half-blood, for one thing. And he was a Black.
But enough that James had started calling her his latest flavour of the month. And Remus knew her by name now, not just reputation.
He just called it, her, a bit of fun.
Still — she was there. And it would’ve been rude not to say hello.
“Are you sure?” he asked, already pausing mid-step.
Remus didn’t answer, just flicked one of those long, careful hands toward her and kept walking. Like he already knew exactly what Sirius was going to do.
He lingered a second longer, then peeled off toward the carriages — head high, step just deliberate enough to suggest he wasn’t trying too hard.
Even if he was.
Sirius rounded the corner with a grin, eyebrows raised. She was tucked away behind one of the carriages, smoking — framed by train steam and the late afternoon sun, smoke curling lazy around her. The platform noise felt far away here. Muted. Like she’d stepped outside of it on purpose.
“Careful,” he said, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek. “A professor might see.”
She gave him a playful shove. “And you’d better hope one of your cousins doesn’t. Kissing me like that”
He paused — just a beat too long. Then smiled, all lazy charm, like he didn’t care if they did. Their hands brushed. Not quite holding. But enough to feel it.
She glanced up through the smoke and smiled at him — tanned, freckled, sun-kissed. The picture of someone who’d spent the whole summer playing quidditch somewhere warmer.
Her fringe was shorter and darker than before. It suited her, he thought — made her look even more like she didn’t care what anyone thought. Even if she kept smoothing it down like maybe she did.
Wordlessly, she passed him the cigarette.
He took it like it didn’t burn — like he’d done this plenty of times before.
But his heart gave him away. Fluttered in that low, familiar way it always did when something felt reckless in just the right way.
He lived for that feeling.
It lingered — right up until she asked about his break. And just like that, it vanished. Dragged him straight back down.
He screwed up his nose in non-answer, exhaling smoke through barely-parted lips.
“Sorry,” she said, voice softer now. Already retreating. Like she knew not to push it.
He let the silence hang for a second longer than he needed to. Not to be cruel. Just to acknowledge it — the weight of what he didn’t say.
Then he flicked ash toward the gravel and shrugged. Casual. “What about yours?”
She smiled gently. “My brothers were insufferable. Worse than usual.”
Sirius huffed a laugh. “Mine too.”
They stood like that for a while, neither one rushing to fill the space.
She didn’t look at him. Just leaned back against the carriage wall, scuffing one boot against the stones as her hair fell across her face.
And then, without a word, she reached out and hooked her pinky through his.
It was nothing. Barely contact at all. But it made something shift in his chest — small and warm and stupid.
He didn’t say anything. Just let it happen.
She looked over at him then and asked, “D’you want to ride back with us?”
He hesitated — just for a second. Thought about whether James would be waiting. Whether Remus would care. Whether Peter would feel left out. But the feeling passed quickly. He’d see them at the Sorting, after all. Provided Remus hadn’t already left for the full moon.
“Sure,” he said, flicking the cigarette to the ground and stamping it out with the heel of his boot.
She let go of his pinky just before they turned the corner — like it hadn’t happened at all.
But his hand still felt the shape of it. All the same.
He and Emmeline stepped into the Great Hall together, close enough to feel the heat of one another’s skin. So, not exactly subtle. They exchanged a few quiet words — something that made her laugh — and then split off without ceremony, each toward their respective people. She veered toward the Ravenclaw table without another glance. Sirius turned, brushed his hair off his face, and kept moving. There was a kind of swagger to it: practiced, careless, just shy of arrogant.
The Hall was buzzing — second years whispering excitedly among themselves, upper years shouting across tables, ghosts drifting overhead like they’d never left. Familiar noise. Familiar faces.
He crossed to the far end of the Gryffindor table — the place they always sat, as far from the professors as they could get without actually sitting on the floor.
The others had beat him there and already moved in. Crumpled sweet wrappers were scattered across the table, someone’s jumper was tossed over the bench like a claim-stake, and a few rogue sheets of parchment lay abandoned, not a single quill in sight. It was loud, a bit messy, and unmistakably theirs — like the castle had made room to let them take root.
James and Peter were mid-conversation with Marlene McKinnon — James’s neighbour and childhood friend — all chipped nail polish, bad attitude, and toothy grin. She had that forgotten-middle-sibling energy: loud, scrappy, hard to ignore. Like someone who’d learned early how to take up space and hold it. Which, he supposed, made sense. Given she was one of five.
Sirius smiled faintly at her as he passed, but his eyes landed on Remus.
He sat slightly apart from the others, shoulders tense, eyes flicking toward the doors like he was already mentally checked out. The Sorting was about to begin — which meant dinner was near, and sundown was even closer. He’d be gone soon. And Sirius had barely said hello.
It all felt a bit unfair.
He came up behind him and gave his shoulders a quick, reassuring squeeze. They were a little too thin and bony beneath his robes to be considered healthy. Which was ridiculous really, considering Remus ate more than half the castle combined and still looked like he might blow away in a strong wind.
Marlene noticed him then and squealed loud enough to startle half the table.
“Sirius!”
He laughed — grinning without thinking — but felt Remus flinch beneath his hands at the sound.
So he squeezed again, gentler this time. Quieter. Letting him know he understood.
“Too good for us now, are you?” Marlene teased. “Where the bloody hell have you been? You reek like an ashtray!”
Her hair was freshly dyed — choppy, brassy blonde, cut like David Bowie’s but just long enough to fall in her eyes. She looked every bit the menace she sounded.
Peter chuckled into his pumpkin juice.
James rolled his eyes. “Give it a rest, Marls. The man’s been doing important work.”
“Oh, I’m sure he has,” she drawled, lounging back like she already knew the punchline.
Sirius just laughed and dropped into the seat beside them, tugging at his tie again.
Across the table, Remus sat half-turned away, nose in his Charms book. A distraction, probably.
Sirius caught the way his hand gripped the pages a little too tightly — the scars across his hands too stark to hide, even under the long sleeves he always wore.
“What’re you reading that’s so bloody fascinating, then?” James asked, clearly clocking the book too.
Remus groaned, but didn’t move fast enough.
Before Sirius could intervene, James swiped the book clean out of his hands — like a toddler who hadn’t quite learned to share.
“Oi,” Remus muttered, but there was no fight in it.
Peter shook his head, amused.
James flipped to the page. “Oh, brilliant,” he announced. “A levitation spell.”
Sirius didn’t need to hear the rest. He already knew where this was going.
He caught Remus’s eye. They were somehow even more tired than earlier. He didn’t even bother pretending to reach for the book back. Just leaned back with a sigh, like a man resigned to his fate.
James had his wand out before anyone could stop him.
Marlene was already on it. “Merlin, James — don’t.”
Too late.
James flicked his wrist, muttered something vaguely Latin — and somehow, miraculously, it worked.
Of course it did. James had never double-checked a pronunciation in his life. Never read the fine print. Magic just bent for him — fast, instinctive, like it belonged to him and him alone.
Half of Severus Snape’s belongings, stacked neatly beside him, shot into the air like lame, greasy confetti.
Sirius slapped a hand over his mouth in an attempt to stifle a laugh, but failed spectacularly.
“James!” Marlene hissed, whacking him in the arm.
And then gravity had its way. Ink hit the floor and spilled like blood. Juice arced through the air. A quill bounced off the heavy wooden table and somehow miraculously stabbed into a bread roll. The goblet shattered. The Slytherin girls across from him shrieked.
Sirius doubled over, wheezing with laughter. James beamed, far too proud. Peter practically glowed.
Remus just sighed and reached for his book back. It was damp now — wet enough that he had to shake it dry.
Snape turned, murder in his eyes and juice soaking through his robes, but before he could launch into one of his venomous little tirades, Lily Evans beat him to it.
“Potter! Black! What the hell?”
James winced. Peter busied himself mopping up the juice which had somehow made it all the way across the Gryffindor table too. Sirius blinked, all wide-eyed innocence, like What did I do?
His hands went up in mock surrender — but Lily was already glaring daggers. Her bright green eyes narrowed into thin slits, promising slow and painful death.
James, as always, doubled down. “Didn’t realise my own power,” he said, smiling like a prat.
Her face flushed so red it wiped the freckles clean off, matching her hair. “You’re unbelievable,” she bit out, cold and calloused.
Sirius knew that look. It usually came right before someone got hexed into next week — or worse, depending on who was holding the wand.
But before she could really get going, Remus stood up. The bench screeched violently against the stone floor, loud enough to turn more heads than the juice explosion had.
“I don’t have time for this,” he muttered — sharp-edged, brittle. “I have to go.”
Lily blinked.
Didn’t move at first. Just stared at him.
Her expression shifted — anger dissolving into something else. Concern, maybe. Confusion? Like she was rewinding the last ten seconds in her head, trying to figure out where it went sideways. It wasn’t like Remus to make a scene.
“Go where?” she asked, clearly thrown.
Remus didn’t answer. But the boys — in perfect, chaotic unison — scrambled to fill the gap.
“Sick bay,” said Peter.
“He’s got a headache,” said James.
“Broken arm,” Sirius added, a beat behind.
“And a cold,” Peter finished, like that might somehow tie it all together.
Lily stared at them like they’d grown second heads. She didn’t even finish her next sentence. Just shook her head slowly. Like this was all part of some larger play she didn’t yet understand.
Behind her, Snape was still on his knees, gathering ink-splattered things. Not one Slytherin had moved to help. Not Avery. Not Mulciber. Not Jugson. Not Wilkes. They were all just watching. And Lily was too busy yelling at them to notice.
Sirius should’ve felt bad. Might’ve, even. If Snape hadn’t told him two weeks before break that his mum should’ve done a better job raising him. Hard to summon even a shred of sympathy after that.
And then Dumbledore cleared his throat. Just once. Softly. But enough to silence the entire room.
“Mr Potter. Ms Evans,” he said, mild as anything, “if you and your friends would kindly sit down, so we might begin the festivities.”
Sirius snorted. Lily, impossibly, went redder — not just from anger now, but embarrassment too. She looked like she wanted to sink straight through the floor. As if being lumped in with Potter and his friends was the single most humiliating thing that had ever happened to her. Perhaps it was.
Everyone sat. Except Remus. He didn’t say anything. Not even goodbye. Just gathered his things — quiet, calm — and walked straight out the doors.
Sirius turned, tracking him the whole way out. Noticed the weight in his shoulders, the uneasiness to his step, the way his robe caught on the door as it swung closed behind him.
He didn’t know why he expected him to look back.
Across the table, Peter gave him a What was that? sort of look. Sirius didn’t answer. Just turned back around as Dumbledore launched into the welcome speech and the first name was called for Sorting.
Pretending that Remus, and the full moon didn’t bother him.
From the Slytherin table, Sirius could hear Snape muttering to his so-called friends about what had just happened — low and smug, somehow cutting through the clapping and cheering. Not that any of them were listening.
It was enough to make Sirius laugh again.
James simply grinned and held out a fist.
They bumped knuckles under the table — triumphant, chaotic, and entirely unbothered.
And just like that, they were back.
Or at least, pretending well enough that it almost felt the same.
They trudged up to the dormitory together after the feast, bellies uncomfortably full. Their footsteps echoed along the stairs, the castle already settling — quieter now that the first years had gone to bed.
Their dorm room was just as he remembered it. Same four-poster beds with hangings a bit too faded to be called crimson, same window with the half broken latch, same smell of broom polish and burnt embers and something faintly boyish and unwashed — curling in at the edges like a welcome home.
Sirius flopped face-down onto his bed with a groan, letting the duvet swallow him, muttering something incoherent into the pillow. Across the room, Peter sat cross-legged, talking mostly to himself as he began unpacking.
Sirius glanced up — eyes drawn, without thinking, to the bed opposite his own.
Untouched. Empty.
It didn’t seem right, him missing this. The first-day back buzz. The noise. All the stupid, excited chatter Remus always pretended to hate actually didn’t.
James must have felt it too. Because he rushed to fill the space.
“So. Animagus plan,” he said, all false brightness as he tossed a look over his shoulder. “We got the moth chrysalis.”
Peter perked up. “Nicked it from Monty’s specimen drawer,” he said proudly. His chest puffed.
James pulled a small, sealed vial from the depths of his trunk and held it aloft like treasure. “One step closer.”
Sirius pushed himself upright, the faintest smile tugging at his mouth — even if, for once, he felt like the one playing catch-up. Not Peter.
They filled Sirius in on the heist, and then all three boys kicked the next steps of their plan around a bit longer — tossing half-formed ideas back and forth, none of it especially practical. But that wasn’t really the point. It felt good to talk about something ridiculous again. Something theirs. James even said they might be done by Christmas — which was more than optimistic, but Sirius let him have it.
They still had to find this dew that no light or human feet had touched. Then the mandrake leaf. Then bury the vial and —
It was all a bit overwhelming if he was being honest.
Eventually, James turned back to his trunk, still half-unpacked, and started to put his mark back on the room.
Sirius didn’t follow. Just sat there, hands loose in his lap.
He never had much to unpack. Nothing fun, at least. Grimmauld Place didn’t lend itself to sentimental trinkets. No contraband sweets or interesting muggle items. Just neat, impersonal clothes folded by a house elf who hated his guts, and a few books he didn’t even remember packing.
James, meanwhile, was already tossing things all over the place — Quidditch jersey slung over the bedpost, posters unrolled and tacked to the wall, robes flung into corners. He pulled out his broom last — some sleek new model he wouldn’t shut up about — and shot Sirius a look he knew all too well.
Sirius groaned. “It’s nearly nine.”
James raised a brow. “Exactly. The pitch will be dead. It’s the First night back, come on, just a quick one.”
He was practically vibrating — the way he always got when an idea took hold — and Sirius knew that it was pointless to argue.
James turned to Peter. “You coming?”
Peter shook his head, already elbow-deep in Remus’s trunk, sleeves pushed up. “I’ll unpack Remus’ stuff. So he can sleep tomorrow. You lot go.”
That earned him a blink of surprise and a rare, genuine “Thanks, Pete,” from Sirius, before he hauled himself to his feet with a groan. “Alright. But just a quick one.”
It was properly dark and chilly by the time they got outside — the kind of cold that nipped at your ears and fingertips. Summer felt like a far off, distant memory at this point.
The castle behind them glowed with warm light, but out here, it felt like the rest of the world had gone quiet.
They had rugged up a little, but not enough. Not that either of them were about to admit it. James had thrown on his long-sleeved Gryffindor jersey over his school shirt. Sirius wore a red and gold spray jacket James had grown out of. The kind his parents would have never let him own.
They walked side by side, crunching gravel and kicking at pebbles. James talked the whole way — about Quidditch strategy, tryouts, who might be good this year, whether they’d finally let Marlene take penalty shots. He wasn’t captain. Or even technically on the team yet. But they both know he would make it again.
Sirius mostly let him talk. He didn’t really care about Quidditch — never had — but James’s energy had a way of dragging you along whether you liked it or not.
The pitch came into view, all looming towers and shadowed stands. The hoops rose high against the dark, barely visible except where moonlight hit the metal. It was quiet out here. Big. Still.
Sirius slowed a little, just taking it in.
It really was massive, even more obviously so when it was empty like this.
He tugged his scarf a bit tighter, shoved his hands in his pockets, and followed James onto the grass. His silhouette was athletic and muscular, but also gangly in that way teenage boys sometimes got before they’ve quite grown into themselves. Like they were still stretching out.
Then, without warning, James kicked off from the ground — hard. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
Sirius grinned and followed, the broom jerking beneath him as he pushed off.
And then they were racing — wind in their ears, vision tunneling, the pitch blurring below. Sirius was never going to outfly James, not properly, but he was fast enough to keep pace. Fast enough to make him work for it.
James, naturally, couldn’t help himself — throwing in barrel rolls and loop-the-loops, diving low before pulling up sharp, showboating like it was muscle memory. Sirius barked a laugh as he followed, half-chasing, half-mocking, already knowing how this would end. Eventually James slowed; pulled into a wide, smug circle, with his arms stretched out like he’d just won the Cup. His dark, messy hair even more windswept than usual.
Sirius caught up more gradually. They hovered there together for a moment, high above the pitch, breath fogging in the brisk night air.
It was quiet up here. Far away from everything.
And Merlin, was it good to be back.
They didn’t talk at first. Just floated for a while. Let the world fall away.
Then—
“So, how was your summer, really?” James’s voice was low — not gentle, but careful. Like he was trying not to spook him.
Sirius scrunched his face. “It was fine.”
James made a noise — somewhere between a scoff and a groan, like he didn’t believe him. Sirius huffed out a laugh. “Really. It was fine.”
He paused. Then dropped in, more casually than it deserved, “Walburga dragged me to Knockturn Alley. I stole a knife from Borgin and Burkes.”
James’s face twisted into something between shock and admiration. “Merlin, Sirius. What?”
Sirius shook his head, still grinning. “She was being vile. Laughing about the Muggle murders with Mulciber’s brother. Thought I’d teach them a lesson.”
A beat of silence.
James shook his head. “Your mum’s a fucking ghoul.”
Sirius’s smile pulled wider. He hadn’t even needed to say it.
“Can I see it?”
“Thought you’d never ask.”
They landed near the edge of the pitch, where the grass was soft and damp. Sirius reached into his pant pocket and pulled it out — a slim, sharp thing carved from metal and bone.
James turned it over in his hands, inspecting the blade. “It’s cool,” he said eventually, then frowned. “I don’t know how you get away with half the shit you do.”
Sirius smirked, all teeth. “Because I’m brave. And dashing. And highly resourceful.”
“Bloody reckless, is what you are,” James muttered, tossing it back. As if that wasn’t reckless in itself.
Sirius caught it one-handed and slipped it back into his pocket. The metal left a strange feeling on his skin.
Or perhaps it was just the memory sat heavy in his chest. The wink. The argument with Regulus. His mother’s laugh cutting sharp through the room like it hadn’t meant anything at all.
He didn’t say any of that.
James was quiet for a moment, then nudged him with an elbow. “Well, at least you don’t have to go back there for Christmas.”
Sirius huffed out a laugh — this one more real. “Thank Merlin.”
He always spent Christmas at the Potters now. It wasn’t official or anything. No grand invitations. Just: stay as long as you like. And Sirius did. Because it was warm. And stupid. And easy. And no one looked at him sideways when he said something kind about muggleborns over dinner.
It was the only time of year he didn’t feel like running.
James stretched, arms overhead. “Come on. One more lap?”
Sirius groaned — but he was already smiling. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
And with that, they kicked off again — laughing as they vanished into the dark.
Notes:
In the next chapter: Full moon hangovers, class and exploding snap.
Notes: Let me know if you would like to see some one shots from any other character’s perspectives. This fic was originally part of a multi pov story, so there’s plenty of POV’s to go round! Just let me know who!
Chapter 4: Sep, 1974 (pt 1.) - First Week Back
Summary:
The boys try to fall back into their usual rhythm, but something is off. Or rather... someone.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
*** 1st September 1974 ***
They didn’t make it back to the dorm until late. Peter was already snoring by the time they crept in — one arm dangling off the bed, the other half-buried under his blanket.
Sirius and James slipped in like seasoned cat burglars — broomsticks slung over their shoulders, cheeks pink from cold, hair windswept. They navigated the dorm on instinct alone, having committed the path to memory; sidestepping every obstacle and squeaky floorboard without breaking stride. Thankfully, Pettigrew didn’t stir. Small miracles.
By the time they’d kicked off their boots and collapsed into bed, Sirius was wrecked — the good kind… mostly . The kind that settled deep in your bones after doing something just reckless enough. Like flying too fast and too high, after a summer of not practicing at all.
His legs ached. His fingers were half-frozen. And his lips were lightly chapped from the wind. But it was better than thinking. Better than lying still and letting his brain wander where it wanted.
At least he wasn’t thinking about the full moon. Or the knife in his pocket. Or the fact that Remus’s bed was still empty.
He just collapsed onto his back, arms flung out wide like he’d been thrown there, and let the giddiness spin him to sleep.
*** 2nd September 1974 ***
Which was why, when James shook him awake just after sunrise, he nearly got hexed for it.
His stupid, overly eager grin was only inches from Sirius’s face when he woke — far too close for comfort. His glasses were fogged at the edges, his breath minty, and his hair still damp, like he’d just come from the shower. Like he’d already been up for hours, doing Merlin-knows-what .
Sirius blinked hard. He didn’t know how James did it; how he could exist at full volume before sunrise.
“Off,” he muttered, swatting at him. “Off, James. Merlin—”
The dorm was steeped in soft, golden light — long beams of morning sun spilling through the curtains, warm against the floorboards. Fitting, for a Gryffindor dorm. But far too much to stomach on so little sleep.
“Come on,” James whispered, still shaking him. “We’re going to see Remus.”
Sirius groaned, but sat up anyway. He rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and wiped the dried spit from his cheek.
“Do you have any idea what time it is?” he grumbled. “You kept me up flying, you absolute tosser—”
Peter stirred, blinking blearily from the next bed over. His pyjamas were clearly fresh off the hanger and at least a size too big — they swamped him, making him look more like a confused toddler than a fourth-year.
“We’re what?” he mumbled.
James was already digging through his trunk looking for the cloak. “We’re going to visit Remus.”
The Invisibility Cloak — old, silvery, and worn thin from generations of mischief — had been passed down to James by his dad in second year. He’d known exactly what the four of them would do with it, of course. But still gave it to him anyway. Despite his better judgement.
It was, without a doubt, the coolest thing Sirius had ever laid eyes on. And James’s most prized possession.
Peter nodded and swung his legs out of bed without protest.
Of course he did , Sirius thought bitterly. He’d had a full night’s sleep, warm and uninterrupted, while Sirius and James had been out past eleven, freezing their arses off on broomsticks.
Sirius scowled at the back of his oversized pyjama shirt, a flicker of annoyance rising in his chest as he thought, somewhat unfairly: must be nice.
They probably wouldn’t be back before class, so he figured he might as well get dressed.
He tugged on his school robes without much thought — the fabric still stiff from the summer wash. His red and gold tie hung loosely around his neck, uneven and a little askew. It felt performative, somehow. Like dressing up as a version of himself he hadn’t quite slipped back into yet.
There’d been a time he wouldn’t have been caught dead in Gryffindor colours. When even thinking about it might’ve been enough to start an argument.
It was almost funny, in hindsight — all the drama it stirred up. The shouting and slammed doors. The threats. The hexes. The silence.
All that fury… over a tie.
Ridiculous, really.
Sirius shook the thought loose as the three of them squeezed beneath the cloak, tripping over the hem and stepping on each other’s toes. There wasn’t as much room as there used to be — everyone had grown a bit over the summer — but they managed, somehow.
Nothing like half-tripping over your best mates to really start the morning right.
By the time they reached the hospital wing, James had had enough. He yanked the cloak off with a dramatic flourish and shoved Sirius forward.
“Merlin, mate,” he muttered, catching himself mid-stumble. “Learn to walk.”
Sirius just snorted and pushed open the door.
The familiar hospital-wing smell hit him immediately: antiseptic, with something faintly metallic underneath. Sharp and unpleasant.
Remus blinked up at them from the bed. He was pale, but awake. Still rough around the edges, sure — but better than the day before. The colour had started to return to his face. The bruised look under his eyes had faded a little.
Even so, he always looked smaller in the hospital bed. Shrunk down. Like he hadn’t quite unfolded yet. Dwarfed by long sleeves and sheets pulled high to his chin — as usual.
Too usual, maybe.
“How’re you feeling?” James asked, heading straight to his side.
“Okay,” Remus rasped.
He sounded like he was choking on gravel — but sure. Okay it was.
Sirius didn’t buy it. He saw the tension in his jaw, the way he kept one hand curled close, thumb grazing an old scar at his knuckle. He’d always been a terrible liar.
“Okay, my arse,” Sirius said, dropping cross-legged at the foot of the bed.
Remus huffed — something close to a laugh. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I will be.”
He could’ve pushed.
Could’ve said, Tell me the truth.
But there was something in the way Remus held himself — not guarded, exactly, but already halfway gone.
So Sirius just nodded. Like a coward, and flopped back across the blanket. “There he is. The stubborn git we know and love.”
Remus rolled his eyes.
The silence settled in. Somewhere in the distance, a clock ticked — steady and insistent, too loud in the stillness.
Then Peter piped up. “I, um… unpacked your stuff last night. Figured it might help, give you some time to sleep between classes. Everything’s where you usually put it. Mostly. Might’ve mixed up your socks.”
Remus blinked. “Oh. Thanks, Pete. That’s… that’s really kind of you.”
James raised an eyebrow, already grinning. “Blimey. He’s speaking in full sentences. And being sincere. Who are you and what have you done with Remus?”
Sirius didn’t miss a beat. “Quick, someone check for Polyjuice. Make sure he’s not an imposter.”
“Sod off,” Remus muttered, but his voice was softer now — just shy of fond.
“That’s more like it,” Sirius said, smirking.
The silence stretched again, but it felt different now, more comfortable.
Sirius almost smiled. Pete was good at that — filling the space without drawing attention to it. Making things feel normal.
“We went flying,” James added, gesturing to his and Sirius’s windswept hair, like that explained everything — why they hadn’t helped, what Remus had missed while he was off being a monster.
“I figured,” Remus said, voice still scratchy but a little warmer now. “You both look ridiculous. Like you spent the night in a wind tunnel.”
“Hey,” James huffed. “I just showered.”
“I haven’t,” Sirius said cheerfully.
Peter snorted.
“Checks out,” Remus said, and Sirius could’ve sworn the corner of his mouth twitched — almost a smile.
“You’re such a little shit,” Sirius muttered. “You’re lucky you’re already in a hospital bed.”
“Just being honest.”
Remus nodded. Just once. Letting it all wash over him. Quiet. Maybe even grateful.
But not quite with them.
Not all the way.
It was subtle, if you didn’t know him — the way his eyes never fully met theirs, how he fiddled with the cuff of his hoodie when he thought no one was looking. He was better, clearly. Just… not whole.
Not yet.
James got loud again — laughing at something Peter said, gesturing wildly like they weren’t in the middle of a hospital wing. Like he might rip off his tie and start swinging it over his head any second now, whooping. As if they had something anything celebrate.
Sirius glanced around, waiting for Pomfrey to swoop in and scold them — but for once, she let them be.
When she finally brought over Remus’s breakfast tray, she didn’t even pretend to be surprised. Just shook her head lightly at them, ponytail swaying, curls bouncing around her face like she couldn’t be bothered to pin them all back properly.
He smiled at her.
She was a young, competent mediwitch who didn’t seem to realise the effect she had on half the boys in the castle.
Even Sirius found himself blushing around her.
“It’s early, boys,” she said, setting the tray beside Remus. “Let him rest. You’ve got a whole school year to drive each other mad.”
“We’re being quiet,” Sirius said innocently. “Mostly.”
She rolled her eyes — and came back a minute later with three apples.
“Eat, then straight to class. You’re already late.”
Sirius caught his and turned it over in his hand. Brilliant, he thought. Nothing like Slughorn first thing to make you wish you were the one in the hospital bed.
She was right, though. They were already cutting it close.
Twenty minutes into Potions, they slipped in — Sirius with his tie undone, James still chewing on his apple, Peter mumbling apologies no one really heard.
Remus moved slower than the rest of them, but easier than the day before — not so stiff, not so ghostly-pale. Though the ache still clung to his steps, quiet and persistent.
It had to be brutal , Sirius though: dragging yourself through a double period on no sleep, fresh off a night spent tearing yourself apart.
Slughorn looked up mid-demonstration, one eyebrow raised. “Ah. The prodigal sons return,” he said. “Five points each from Gryffindor.”
Lily sighed from the row ahead. “Typical.”
Sirius winked. James grinned. Remus looked like he wanted to sink into the floor.
They split off without a word — James beside Sirius, Peter sliding in next to Remus. Easy. Practised.
From a few benches over, Marlene twisted in her seat. “Twenty points in twenty minutes — are you serious?”
“Slughorn loves us really,” Sirius said.
Mary Macdonald, scribbling notes a few tables down, didn’t even glance up. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“He’s playing hard to get.”
James snorted.
Sirius chuckled too, but his eyes flicked sideways, just for a second, to where Remus sat hunched over his cauldron, quieter than usual.
A few seats down, the other Gryffindor girls — Zazzy Wimple and Sarah Macmillon — joined in the laughter, which only seemed to irritate Lily further.
Sirius beamed at that.
By the time classes wrapped for the day, it was obvious Remus wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed and die quietly. Which, fair enough — he’d spent the morning in the hospital wing and the day pretending he hadn’t. But, James had pulled out his deck of exploding snap cards, and Peter had the nerve to say the words best of three — so now they were all trapped.
Peter had actually won the first round too — which felt like a cosmic prank. He’d celebrated like he’d won the bloody muggle lottery, nearly knocked the table over, and was still going on about “strategy” like he hadn’t just guessed his way through the whole thing.
Meaning, James had a point to prove.
He claimed he’d let Peter win. Sirius called him a liar. Peter just beamed like it was Christmas morning, smug as anything, still glowing.
Sirius sat cross-legged on the carpet, elbow-deep in cards, hair a windswept disaster. Opposite him, James was hunched over the pile, jaw set, tongue between his teeth like they were negotiating a treaty and not… playing a children’s game that occasionally caught fire.
Peter, Marlene, and her friend Giselda Wimple — Zazzy for short, with a razor-sharp pixie cut and an even sharper wit — were perched near the hearth, narrating like it was the Quidditch final. Remus had taken up residence in one of the big armchairs, tucked into himself like a cat: pale, quiet, but wearing that soft, almost-smile he got when they were being idiots and he didn’t have the will or energy to participate.
Sirius threw down a card.
It sparked violently and went off with a bang, sending James stumbling backwards, one hand raised like it might shield him from the fallout.
“Oi!” James yelped. “That was mine!”
“You snooze, you lose,” Sirius said, smug.
“I wasn’t snoozing! I was strategising.”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it—?”
He didn’t have time to finish his thought before the room dropped a solid five degrees.
Here we go, Sirius thought grimly, as the portrait swung open and revealed Lily Evans — all fire and folded arms and a glare to match.
James froze mid-grab for a card.
She didn’t speak right away, just gave the lot of them a once-over, like she was choosing her next words very carefully.
“I just came to say — what you did the other night was completely uncalled for.” she said finally.
None of them need her to ask what she meant. They all knew she was talking about the prank on snape yesterday. Which was… Unprovoked, technically.
But Sirius had still grinned into his pumpkin juice. Because fuck him . That glare he’d been shooting their table all night? That stupid, smug scowl like the rest of them were something stuck to his shoe?
No, James wasn’t exactly in the right. But Snape still deserved it. Somehow.
“Right,” James said now, rubbing a hand over his face. “That’s what this is about.”
Lily crossed her arms tighter. “It was petty and cruel, and you humiliated him in front of the entire hall.”
Sirius rolled his eyes. “Didn’t hear you crying when his mates called Remus a chopping board last spring.”
Remus winced at that.
“That’s not the point—”
“Oh, but this is?”
He could feel her gaze boring into the side of his head, so he did what any rational person would do: leaned into it. Slammed the next card down like it owed him money. If she was going to look at him like a public menace, he might as well act the part.
It exploded in a shower of green sparks.
“Really?” she said, deadpan.
“What?” Sirius said, eyes wide. “We’re in the middle of a match, Evans.”
He wasn’t trying to be dramatic — that was just a happy accident
She didn’t reply. Just glared, turned on her heel, and stormed off; a storm of bright crimson robes and even redder hair. The portrait door slammed behind her.
Sirius waited a beat. Then leaned toward James, smirking. “Your wife’s cross with you.”
“Shut it,” James muttered, pink creeping up his neck.
It had started in first year — the joke. Your wife. Mostly Sirius’s invention. Because James hated it. Because he and Evans bickered like they’d been married for decades. And because it never failed to wind him up.
Marlene snorted. “It really is like that, isn’t it? She really hates your guts.”
“She doesn’t hate me,” James insisted, sitting up straighter.
“Sure,” Sirius said, grinning wider. “Keep telling yourself that”
James lobbed a scorched card at his head.
And just like that, the game continued — louder, rowdier, and twice as likely to set the carpet on fire
*** 6th September 1974 ***
The week drifted by — quiet and steady and forgettable in the way September often was. Classes, meals, stupid conversations. It was almost enough to feel normal again.
Almost.
By Friday, they were mostly back in their usual rhythm — Peter by the fire with his Transfiguration notes, James flopped across the rug, still harping on about Quidditch tryouts. Sirius had taken up residence in his favourite armchair, one leg tucked under him, collar undone, hair behind his ear. Remus sat beside him at the table, head bent low over a Charms textbook, notes scattered around him.
It had flow — the familiar kind. The easy kind. The c omforting kind. Sirius let it buzz around him like white noise.
Except—
Remus hadn’t touched the tea Peter made him. Just let it sit, cold, by his elbow. Like he’d lost the taste for being cared for.
Because that wasn’t foreboding at all.
Usually he’d have bounced back by now. That was the pattern — two or three days of fog, then clarity. Four, maybe, if it had been rough.
But this was day five. And Remus still hadn’t returned.
He wasn’t sharp, or angry, just… less himself. Like something inside him had been left behind in the hospital wing.
And Sirius—
Well.
He hadn’t said anything. Of course not. He never did. Merlin forbid he ever address a feeling directly.
But something twisted every time he looked over and didn’t see Remus see him back.
And he knew it was selfish — wanting everything to snap perfectly back into place. Wanting Remus back smiling, James bantering, Peter whinging just loudly enough to be annoying. Wanting to feel right again. After Grimmauld Place, after everything.
He needed it to snap back so he could feel like himself again.
But Remus was quiet.
And Sirius didn’t know how to ask why without making it worse. Or — worse — without sounding like he cared too much.
So he let James’s nonsense fill the space instead.
They were talking about Daniel Vale’s broom skills (or lack thereof) — the Ravenclaw Keeper from last season— when it happened.
James was mid-gesture, one arm slicing dramatically through the air as he recounted the time Vale had fumbled a pass so badly it landed in the commentator’s booth.
The dynamic was unmistakable: James brash and sprawled, at full volume, all limbs and Quidditch fury; Sirius composed by comparison, draped rather than seated, radiating effortless superiority as he poked holes in James’s commentary like it was a sport of its own. He didn’t even look up when he needled him — just wiggled his eyebrows in a way he knew would get under James’s skin.
There was rhythm to it — a push and pull honed over years. James would ramp up, and Sirius would reel him back with a word, a look, a laugh. Comfortable. Predictable.
But then Sirius laughed a little too hard. Just enough to make Remus stir.
“Could you not?”
The words landed flat. Not mean, not biting — just dull. Tired. Remus didn’t even look up.
Sirius blinked. “…Sorry?”
“The laughing,” Remus said, quieter this time. “I’m just—trying to focus.”
It wasn’t rude, exactly. But it hung heavy and uncomfortable in the air.
Sirius tried to keep it light. “Didn’t realise I was so distracting.”
Remus’s eyes flicked down to his notes. His voice came quieter still... almost like he didn’t want to say it aloud.
“Some of us actually need to study. Not all of us had private tutors this summer.”
It wasn’t a joke either. Not one of those trauma-bonding moments he and Remus sometimes had. Sirius could tell by the tone — flat, almost distracted. Like the kind of thing you say when the truth’s been sitting in your mouth too long.
The silence that followed was instant. Like all the air had been sucked out of the room and replaced with something heavier. Something sharp-edged and personal, even if Remus hadn’t meant it that way.
Sirius didn’t move at first. Just blinked — once, slow — like the words had caught him across the face. His fingers curled reflexively around the arm of the chair, knuckles whitening.
Then — deliberately, like it took effort — he sat back slowly.
Sirius sat back slowly. “Right.”
Because they all knew better than to say it out loud — to mention Grimmauld Place like it was a real home, or the private tutors like they were some sort of privilege and not just another way of pushing the Black family agenda.
And Remus — of all people — knew that.
James stopped talking. Peter paused mid-gesture, eyes flicking nervously between them.
Sirius didn’t dare speak. Just sat with it — the sting, the surprise, the twist of something that wasn’t quite betrayal but close enough to bruise.
He’d been careful. Gentle even. Given him space.
So what the fuck was this?
James was already gathering his notes in one quick, slightly exaggerated sweep — like he wanted it to look effortless but still make a point. A few pages slipped sideways, his bag thunked softly against the floor. “We’ll move,” he said, nodding to Peter. “Come on.”
Peter didn’t argue. Bless him. Never one to linger near a live bomb.
Sirius didn’t follow right away. Just looked at Remus again. Still no glance. Still no anything.
So that’s how they were going to play this…
The tension in his chest built like smoke — not sharp, just heavy. Clinging. Like... Maybe he was being ridiculous. Maybe it was nothing. Just study stress. Just a bad day. Just a casual emotional gut punch on a Friday afternoon.
Still—
He stood. Not angry. Just tired.
He pulled on his jumper, the one that still smelled faintly of cigarettes and Emmeline’s perfume, and tucked a book under his arm. Anything to pretend he had a purpose.
James looked up. “You alright?”
Sirius nodded, maybe a little too fast. “Yeah. Think I’ll go find Emmeline. Give Remus his space”
That earned him a flicker — the smallest twitch in Remus’s jaw. He didn’t lift his head, but he said, barely audible, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Sirius hesitated. Just long enough to think then what the fuck did you mean ?
But he didn’t say it. Instead he forced a brittle smile.
“No worries. I get it, I’m a lot,” Sirius said, still smiling. “Don’t need to tell me twice”
He said it like a joke — quick, easy, nothing worth holding onto. But he didn’t wait for anyone to argue. He didn’t want to be soothed, or questioned, or told he was imagining it. Because, the truth was, it should’ve been better by now. It always was.
Full moon, hospital wing, silence, then return. That was the deal.
And if that wasn’t happening—
If something was still off—
Then Sirius didn’t know what that meant.
And that made him uncomfortable.
“Grumpy bastard,” he muttered — just to himself, unsure where else to put the ache.
He didn’t go far. Just far enough to let his feet wander vaguely in the direction of the Ravenclaw tower, hands deep in his pockets, pretending he wasn’t hoping someone else would walk in before him.
Because Ravenclaw didn’t do passwords — they did fucking riddles.
And tonight, he was too tired to be clever.
The chill had settled in the air properly now, cold seeping in beneath his collar, dragging goosebumps up his arms despite the jumper. He could still feel the weight of Remus’s voice in his chest — that insincere, quiet “I didn’t mean it like that” — lodged somewhere between a bruise and a question he didn’t want to answer.
He rolled his shoulders. Shook it off.
Almost.
The corridor curved, and the eagle knocker came into view — regal, ridiculous, and already turning its head toward him like it knew he didn’t belong there.
The knocker blinked its imperious bronze eyes and asked, “What is always in front of you, but can’t be seen?”
Sirius squinted at it. Annoyed. “…Tomorrow?”
Silence.
“A ghost?”
The eagle didn’t move.
“Merlin’s balls,” he muttered. “Whole lot of good the private tutors did.”
He was about to turn around when a Ravenclaw third-year wandered up behind him and answered with an eye-roll: “The future.”
The door swung open revealing the Ravenclaw common room in all its airy, scholarly glory: bathed in cool toned torchlight that shimmered off walls draped in blue and bronze silks. Sirius swept in like he belonged. And tried not to roll his eyes at the smug little bastard.
Emmeline spotted him before he reached her — smirk already forming. “Get lost on the way to the Astronomy Tower?”
“That obvious?” he said, sliding into the seat beside her like it hadn’t been a choice.
She didn’t move. Didn’t ask. Just nudged her parchment toward him and said, “Read this and tell me if I sound clever or completely unhinged.”
And Sirius — grinning now, easy as ever — leaned in to read. Like he hadn’t come here looking for somewhere to disappear.
“Both, obviously.”
He said it like a compliment. Like it was the best thing anyone could be — clever and unhinged.
“You realise if this essay’s a disaster, it’s your fault,” Emmeline said, still scribbling.
Sirius tilted his head, grinning. “Bit dramatic.”
“Right. And you’re being distracting.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, stretching like a cat, “you looked like you needed it.”
Even if, really… it was him that actually needed the distraction.
Notes:
In the next chapter: Regulus returns, quidditch tryouts, and a bit of cathartic whining.
Notes: is it just me or is Emmeline way too cool to be hanging out with this disaster of a boy?
Chapter 5: Sep, 1974 (pt 2) - Quidditch Tryouts
Summary:
James has a terrible tryout, Sirius is a good friend, and Remus is still having a tough time.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
*** 8th September 1974 ***
The Gryffindor common room was its usual chaos: shoes scattered about, parchment everywhere, someone’s toad hopping across the carpet. A far cry from the Ravenclaw one the night before— which had been all clean lines, midnight-blue carpet, everything in its place. No clutter. No carnage. Just fresh air and silence, like even the furniture knew how to behave.
Gryffindor was not that.
It was a mess. It was always a mess.
But at least it was his mess.
Sirius sat slumped in the corner chair — the old velvet one with a sagging cushion and a wand-burned arm — one leg dangling off the side, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the frayed fabric. Someone had scratched initials into the timber frame years ago — lightly, faint enough that you had to look closely to see them.
He didn’t.
Just kept staring straight ahead, like maybe the noise in his skull would quiet if he stayed still long enough.
Then the shouting started.
“Matt, no — absolutely not — it’s my turn!”
“Marlene, you’ve been playing Bowie on a loop for days—”
Marlene and her older brother were locked in a full-blown row over the record player by the fireplace. Matthew McKinnon — Gryffindor Quidditch captain, and probably the best school aged beater Sirius had ever seen — was waving a record sleeve in his sisters face. Neither of them seemed to care that half the room was watching. Marlene had gone red beneath her dyed blonde hair, the flush climbing fast up her neck — a sharp contrast to Matthew’s, which was closer to her natural colour: a soft, mousy brown she hadn’t worn since second year.
“It’s one album,” Matt said, waving the sleeve like a banner. “In for the Kill! Came out a few months ago. You’d know that if you ever listened to anything that didn’t sparkle.”
“I hate that name,” Mary muttered bitterly from across the room, her face barely visible beneath a dark set of curls.
“Perfect,” Matthew said, and dropped the needle.
Fuzzy guitars snarled through the speakers, tangled with sharp percussion and vocals that came in like they hadn’t decided if they were singing or screaming.
It hit hard.
Sirius blinked and sat forward slightly, the worn cushion beneath him groaning lightly in protest. He didn’t recognise the band — the sleeve just said Budgie in jagged, angry lettering — but it didn’t matter. The sound was all teeth and base and something messy.
It filled the room like smoke.
And it was loud enough to drown out everything else, which was a welcome change: the static in his head, the hollow pressure in his chest, the sting that still lingered from earlier from Remus’ outburst. All gone.
It hadn’t even been a proper fight — not really. Just one sharp comment. Dismissive. Aimed squarely at Sirius and delivered in that clipped, frustrated tone Remus sometimes got after the full moon.
He hadn’t even looked up afterward. Just gone back to studying like Sirius hadn’t flinched. Like it hadn’t landed.
And the worst part? He still didn’t know what he’d done to deserve it. Or why it bothered him so much.
If it hadn’t stung so cleanly — if he hadn’t felt it like a slap — maybe he would’ve asked if something was wrong. Because it wasn’t like Remus. Not really.
Remus could be sharp, sure — sharper than the rest of them, even. Could level a room with a glance. Could pitch a barbed joke like it was no one’s business. But this… this had been something else.
Pointed. Weirdly personal. And more importantly, delivered in a flat tone Sirius didn’t recognise.
He hadn’t known what to do with that — so he hadn’t done anything. Just let it fester. Told himself Remus was just being an arsehole, because that was easier. Easier to be angry than uncertain. Easier to shut the door fast, before guilt had a chance to sneak in.
Because if he opened it — if he let himself consider that something might actually be wrong, and he’d missed it, or worse, done something to upset his friend — well. That was too close to guilt. And Sirius didn’t do guilt. Not well. Not cleanly.
So instead, he sulked. Took up space in the common room like it was a performance — sat too long, slouched too hard. Like he wanted to be noticed. Like he wanted someone — Remus specifically — to see it and ask.
The fire was low now, more glow than roar, and the common room had thinned out to a handful of late-night stragglers. Sirius had moved to the floor without realising it, legs stretched out on the rug, a chessboard he’d been fiddling with abandoned beside him, a quill stuck behind one ear for no reason in particular. Peter was half-curled in the nearest armchair, flipping through a comic, wearing one of those too-big jumpers his mum always packed him — soft, shapeless, and the wrong shade of red. Remus sat on the opposite side of the room, as far away from the two of them as humanly possible, like if he moved any closer — or even dared to look at them — something might crack open. He kept his gaze pointedly down.
The record was still going, second or third song now, distorted vocals fuzzing into a high-pitched guitar wail.
They hadn’t said much in a while.
Sirius tilted his head toward the far corner. “He’s still doing it,” he muttered.
Peter looked up. “What?”
“Remus. Still pretending I don’t exist.”
Peter hesitated. “I dunno if he’s—”
Sirius cut in. “You heard him the other day. That dig about tutors? Come off it.”
He frowned faintly, still not fully committing. “It just sounded—”
“Like he was being a dick?” Sirius muttered. “Yeah.”
Pete looked over at Remus — hunched over his notes, hair falling in front of his eyes — then back at Sirius. “…Maybe he didn’t mean it.”
“Course he meant it.”
Peter didn’t answer. Just sat there, like he wasn’t sure if Sirius actually wanted him to agree, or just needed a witness.
Sirius let out a short, sharp laugh. “He’s not usually like that, though, right? Not with me.”
Pete gave a small shrug, slow. “Not really.”
“Not unless he’s pissed. Or hungry. Or both.”
He hesitated — then cracked a smile. “Hangry.”
“Exactly,” Sirius muttered, finally letting the edge soften.
The song shifted — slower now, but still sharp. A riff that dragged like claws across the floor.
After a beat, Peter said — more gently this time — “Still. Bit harsh.”
“Thank you.” Sirius threw up a hand. “I’m glad someone said it.”
Peter grinned despite himself. “You should’ve seen your face — you looked like you’d been slapped.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I would’ve just stayed home with my tutors if I’d known I’d come back to being ignored by my so-called friends.”
“Oh, poor you,” He said dramatically, patting his arm. “Can’t handle not being the center of attention for one second?”
Sirius gave him a shove with his foot.
Peter shoved back, laughing. “Especially not Remus’ attention”
Sirius huffed, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him. The laughter came easy, even if the memory didn’t. It helped — this. The quiet roasting. The shared eye-roll at Remus’s expense. He didn’t feel as sharp-edged when Peter was laughing beside him.
Still, he glanced across the room again. Remus hadn’t looked up once.
The record hissed faintly in the background. The kind of static that made you feel like something else was coming. He could feel it tingling on his skin.
“Anyway,” Pete said finally, nudging him, “you’re not gonna let him stew forever, are you?”
Sirius shrugged, then smiled faintly. “Hey! He’s the one who ought to apologise to me.”
“Merlin help us all,” Peter said, flopping back like a martyr. “This is the end of the marauders as we know it”
“Oh come off it” Sirius muttered.
Somewhere behind them, the guitar screamed.
Sirius smiled, and the night went on.
*** 15th September 1974 ***
They settled on the sidelines like they always did — sprawled on the sun-soaked hill above the pitch, arms flung over their knees, backs to the castle. It was the first properly good day in a week, all soft breeze and cloudless sky — a perfect day for tryouts.
To his credit, Remus had apologised the day before. Quietly. Earnestly. Not in front of everyone — just him and Sirius, talking things out over a cup of tea and a cigarette nicked from Emmeline on Sirius’s end. He hadn’t said much. Just that he was tired. That he hadn’t meant it. That he was sorry.
Sirius hadn’t asked for more. He never did. Honestly, he wasn’t sure he’d even know what to do with it if he got it.
So they were back to this — a return to normal, or something close enough to fake it.
James was midair already, zigzagging around the goal hoops in last year’s Quidditch uniform like he was trying to race his own shadow. Captain Matthew McKinnon was watching him from the ground, shaking his head, looking deeply unimpressed — but also a little proud beneath it all. Which was the look he usually wore around James.
Sirius dropped down in the grass with a lazy groan, and Peter followed suit, tugging Remus down beside him.
They hadn’t even made it through warm-ups when Mary Macdonald — a friend of Marlene and Lily’s — wandered over. Sirius hadn’t had much to do with her recently. Not by choice, necessarily — more by design. She and Marlene had had a falling out of sorts. One of those stupid girlish arguments that meant Mary had been spending most of her time cozying up to Evans instead.
And… well. Lily hated his and James’s guts. Didn't she? So it only made sense that Mary would keep her distance.
“Afternoon, lads,” she chirped, flopping gracefully into the grass beside Remus like she’d planned the entrance. “Room for one more?”
Sirius smirked — sharp and deliberate — knowing full well her being here would bother Lily if she only knew. That was half the fun, really. He’d lived to get under Evans’s skin since first year, and Mary, lately, had become a surprisingly effective way to do it. Remus, meanwhile, blinked like he hadn’t seen her coming at all.
“Be my guest,” Sirius said, gesturing expansively — already eyeing the way she angled toward Remus.
She was in her element, all bouncy dark curls, deep complexion and sharp grin, twirling a lock of hair around her fingers like it meant something. She leaned back on her hands — close enough that her shoulder brushed Remus’s. “You lot watching James try out?”
“It’s tradition,” said Peter. “You here to watch Marlene?”
She nodded lightly.
“Does that mean you two have finally kissed and made up?” Sirius asked, wiggling his eyebrows.
“We were never fighting” she says.
Right, Sirius thought, just like him and Remus.
“Well. Nice to know at least one of the gryffindor girls is here to support their dorm-mate” he added a bit too dramatically. A subtle jab at Lily disguised as small talk.
Mary laughed — and turned back to Remus, folding one leg underneath herself and shifting closer still. “You’re very quiet today, Lupin.”
Remus gave a vague shrug. “Don’t have much to say.”
She tilted her head, still twisting that lock of hair around one finger. “Big Quidditch fan then?”
“Not really.”
Short. Not rude — exactly — but enough to make his disinterest known.
Sirius snorted, slightly surprised, and Peter elbowed him. Then he leaned in and whispered, “D’you think she’s flirting with him?”
“Obviously” Sirius said as he raised an eyebrow.
Peter nodded sagely. “Any minute now she’ll start laughing at things that aren’t funny.”
As if on cue, Mary giggled — a little too brightly — and nudged Remus with her knee. “What do you reckon? James got this in the bag?”
Peter lowered his voice again. “Did she just nudge him?”
“She’s trying to touch his arm without it looking like she’s touching his arm,” Sirius murmured.
Peter let out a breathy gasp. “Godric’s ghost, she’s doing the lean.”
Mary leaned in. “Any idea what drill they’re running?”
She was close now. Definitely too close. Her fingers grazed Remus’s wrist under the pretense of reaching for a daisy in the grass.
“Not really,” Remus said, still not looking at her.
This time it landed hard — unmistakable in its chill.
And Sirius felt it — not just the brush-off, but the absence beneath it.
Remus hadn’t always been like this. He used to lean in — not to flirt, exactly, but just enough to make someone feel seen. He’d tilt his head, arch a brow, mutter something half-sarcastic that made you laugh despite yourself.
Now, he barely looked at anyone.
Mary blinked. Her smile faltered just a touch, but she recovered quickly, brushing a bit of grass off her brightly patterned skirt.
“Sorry,” she said, tone light but uncertain now. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the brooding.”
“I’m not brooding,” Remus muttered — quiet, but with a definite edge this time.
“You kind of are,” Peter offered, trying to defuse it with a laugh.
Remus didn’t answer. He just shifted his weight back from her, crossing his arms and squinting toward the pitch like he couldn’t hear any of them.
Sirius, watching all of it, said nothing.
Because that — that right there — wasn’t nothing. That was folding in. Again. That was pulling away. Again. That was the same tone he’d used earlier in the week, when he had snapped at Sirius about the tutor. And again when he had snapped at Peter over something trivial the next morning in Charms.
No one else had clocked it then, either.
Sirius flicked his eyes back to the pitch just in time to see James drop the Quaffle.
And everything started to unravel quickly after that.
Because it wasn’t just a drop. It was a full bobble — a flinch, a mis-grip, a curse shouted into the wind — and then the Quaffle was spiraling toward the ground.
Sirius blinked.
Peter shaded his eyes, squinting. “Did he mean to do that?”
“Obviously not,” Sirius muttered, frowning now. “That was—he doesn’t do that.”
Down on the pitch, Matthew blew his whistle.
Sirius’s eyes darted back to the sideline — to Remus, who was very suddenly very interested in what was happening on the pitch, despite not knowing the first thing about Quidditch. Or perhaps more aptly, just happy for an excuse to avert his attention.
Mary was still watching him, but she wasn't smiling anymore. Sirius didn't blame her, he knew what it was like to be on the other end of Remus' chill.
Peter made another joke — something about Remus playing hard to get — but Sirius didn’t laugh this time. He was too busy watching Remus. The way his mouth had drawn tight. The line of his jaw. The angle of his shoulders — rigid now, like he was bracing for something.
Sirius was mid though thought — Is this about Mary? Or something else? — when James fucked it up again.
This time it was a goal attempt: a clear shot, open air, no one in his way. Somehow he missed it. Just misjudged the throw completely. The ball hit the hoop post with a hollow clang and went spinning off into the grass.
Sirius stared. “Okay, what is happening?”
Even Peter had gone quiet. “Do you think he’s—nervous?”
“He doesn’t get nervous.”
But something was wrong. Not just with James. All of it — the mood, the air, the way Remus was squirming beside him.
Out on the pitch, Marlene had stopped what she was doing to fly to James’ side. She was talking to him now, hands waving about furiously, mouth moving fast. James looked like he was trying to argue back, but his movements were too wild, too emotional. The minute she turned away, he swore loudly and punched the air.
Then came the third fuck-up. A pass this time — to absolutely no one.
Sirius actually winced.
And then— James landed, hard. And stormed across the pitch.
Threw his broom.
It clattered against the stands. Sirius’s stomach twisted
Peter said, “Should we—?”
“No,” Sirius said quickly, throwing out his hand to stop Pete from jumping up. “Not yet.”
He knew that look. That storm in James’s face. The crackling fury trying to pass itself off as frustration. The way he was pacing now, hands in his hair, barely listening as Matthew McKinnon came over. Sirius understood anger like that better than Peter ever could.
He didn’t need them right now. He needed space.
Sirius sat back, arms looped around his knees, jaw tight. A breeze stirred the grass around them. Marlene was shouting at James from across the pitch. Matthew had gone after him. Mary looked momentarily horrified.
And Remus — Remus still hadn’t moved.
Still braced. Still quiet. Still pretending like this wasn’t happening — like if he just held his breath long enough, the world might carry on without asking him to be part of it.
Sirius looked back at James, then down at his own hands.
He didn’t know where to look anymore.
All of it was completely fucked.
He found him curled up in the window alcove off the Charms corridor a few hours later, exactly where he knew he would be. Halfway between sulking and spiralling — limbs folded, one leg drawn up, the other dangling over the ledge, toe just grazing the floor. From a distance, you might’ve thought he was stargazing.
Sirius knew better.
This wasn’t just any window. It was James’s window — the secret one he always ran to when his emotions got too big to hold. He’d shown Sirius in second year, after a blow-up with Regulus that left him shaking with something he didn’t have a name for yet. “Best mate privileges,” he’d said, like it was a vow, like he was offering him something sacred. As if it wasn’t just another alcove overlooking the courtyard.
Sirius climbed up without a word, landing opposite him with a quiet thud. Their legs bumped — on purpose — and Sirius didn’t move away. He knew James needed the grounding.
“I fucked it,” he said, too quickly. “I completely fucked it, and now I’m not going to make the team, and everyone saw, and it’s so—fucking—embarrassing.”
“Merlin, James,” Sirius said, eyebrows raised.
“I dropped the Quaffle—”
“You missed one pass.”
“No. I dropped the Quaffle, I missed the easiest goal of my life, and I threw a pass to no one. Then I chucked my broom like a six-year-old. Everyone saw. Even the first years were whispering.”
“Alright, drama queen,” Sirius said, kicking lightly at his ankle. “Let’s not act like you died out there.”
“I may as well have,” James groaned. “You saw McKinnon. He looked like he wanted to shove me off my broom.”
“He always looks like that.”
“No, this was worse. He gave me the ‘I’m disappointed in you’ look. You know the one.”
“You’re reading into things.”
“Sirius.”
“Okay, okay,” Sirius laughed, holding his hands up. “But honestly, it wasn’t that bad. You’re still the best Chaser in the school and everyone knows it. McKinnon knows it. One crap day doesn’t change that.”
“But it’s tryouts,” James said, voice tight, like the word itself hurt. “This is the one day it’s supposed to matter. And I blew it. I’ve never—never played that badly. And I don’t even know why.”
Sirius paused. James’s face had gone blotchy now, the way it always did right before he got emotional. His voice caught slightly on the word badly, and he sniffed — quick and quiet, like he thought Sirius might not notice.
Sirius did notice. And panicked.
He wasn’t great with crying. Especially not James crying. That was like watching the sun flicker — disorienting and impossible to look at directly. He shifted slightly, unsure what to do with his hands.
“You’re spiralling,” he offered instead.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” Sirius said, shaking his head. “And it’s very unattractive.”
James shot him a small glare. “Piss off.”
Sirius relaxed a little. Okay. Still salvageable.
“You know what you need?”
“No.”
“A laugh,” Sirius said. “And as luck would have it, I’ve got one. Courtesy of Mary Macdonald.”
James gave him a flat look. “This should be good.”
“She was hitting on Remus during your warm-up.”
“What?”
“Full performance. Eyelash batting. The works.”
James blinked. “Seriously?”
“Swear on my wand.”
“What did he do?”
“Nothing. Just sat there like she didn’t exist. Gave her maybe three words total and stared at the pitch like it was the only thing keeping him alive.”
James winced. “Oof.”
“She called him broody.”
“She didn’t.”
“She did. And he snapped ‘I’m not brooding’ — which, obviously, meant he absolutely was. Whole thing crashed and burned.”
James laughed despite himself. “Poor girl.”
“I almost felt bad. Almost.”
They laughed for a beat. It was warm, grounding. Then James quieted again, his shoulders slumping slightly.
“…Have you noticed anything else? With him?”
Sirius glanced over, still grinning — then stilled, seeing James wasn’t joking.
“Remus?”
“Yeah. Since we got back.”
“Yeah,” Sirius said, after a beat. “Fuck. Thank Merlin. I thought I was going mad.”
What he didn’t say was that he was so certain something was off, that he almost knocked on the side of Remus’s bed that night after the tutor comment.
Just once. Just to say, Oi. You alright?
But he didn’t.
Because what if he wasn’t?
Seeing Remus upset was almost even less bearable than watching James cry.
“He’s not snapping anymore, not really,” James said. “But he’s not there either. Just sort of… checked out.”
“I know,” Sirius said. “He’s still doing everything. Reading, going to class. But he’s not… in it. Not like he usually is.”
“And we’ve done nothing on the potion,” James added. “We haven’t even started looking for the dew.”
“You feel bad.”
“I feel like I’ve let him down,” James said, too quickly. “Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”
Sirius nodded slowly. “Alright then. Let’s look.”
“…Where?”
“Forbidden Forest?”
James looked at him flatly. “That’s a stupid idea.”
“Since when has that ever stopped us?”
James paused — then sighed. But he was smiling again. “Point.”
Sirius grinned. “There he is.”
And this time, the smile stayed.
*** 20th September 1974 ***
They must’ve held the Slytherin tryouts the weekend after — because it was all anyone could talk about over breakfast that morning.
Regulus.
How well he’d flown. How rare it was for a third year to fly like that. How nimble he was. How talented he was. How special he was.
Sirius didn’t mean to stare.
He really didn’t. But Regulus was making it impossible — holding court at the Slytherin table like he’d invented flying. Laughing, hair slicked back, posture perfect. Accepting praise with that quiet, curated humility that wasn’t actually humble at all — the kind that made people lean in, eager to be seen in his orbit.
It was all performance, obviously. But no one ever seemed to notice that part.
And it wasn’t just his usual fan club this time — not just Rosier and Selwyn flanking him like the three bloody stooges. It was the whole table. Older names, like Dolohov, Nott and Greengrass: the kind of boys who didn’t need to raise their voices to be listened to. Sharp-eyed. Still. Serpent-like. Their robes were cut cleaner than the rest — high collars, emerald linings, sleeves tailored to the wrist.
Sirius muttered something miserable under his breath that made Peter choke on his water.
Across the Hall, Regulus glanced up — like he felt the weight of being watched — and their eyes met. For a second, in the slant of morning light, they almost looked blue. The way they had when he was small. Before they’d darkened with the rest of him.
Sirius gave a brief nod. It wasn’t much, but it was genuine enough — meant to be an acknowledgement, or something close to it. Maybe even a little encouraging. Nice job, he thought. Sincerely, if stiffly.
Regulus blinked back like he’d just been insulted. Because of course he did. Smug little shit.
A few minutes later, he slid into the seat across from Sirius at the Gryffindor table like he’d been summoned — back straight, face neutral. He stood out like a sore thumb. All green and noble in a sea of red chaos.
“What’s your problem?”
Sirius looked at him over his fork. “What’re you on about?”
“You were staring.”
“I’m allowed to look at things, aren’t I? Didn’t realise that was a crime.”
“You don’t look. You glare.”
“You’re imagining things,” Sirius said, tearing into his roll. “It was a nod. A rare moment of weakness.”
Regulus raised an eyebrow. “A nod.”
“A congratulatory one.”
“It looked sarcastic.”
“I was trying to be nice.”
“You’re horrible at it.”
“And you’re being a turd.”
That earned a visible eye-roll. “You could’ve just said ‘well done.’ Like a normal person.”
Sirius shrugged. “Fine. Well done. You caught a tiny golden ball. Truly inspiring.”
Regulus tilted his head, the corner of his mouth pulling — sharp and familiar, cut from the same blade as Sirius’s own.
Regulus narrowed his eyes, “Well at least I had a better tryout than Potter, I hear.”
James looked up, mouth full of pancakes, eyebrows lifting like a retort was already halfway forming. His hair was a disaster — half-flattened on one side, sticking up wildly on the other. He looked every bit like someone who’d rolled straight out of bed and into breakfast, warm and unbothered, a mess of crumpled robes and easy confidence. A stark contrast to Regulus, who sat across from them like he’d been carved from stone— all sleek lines and careful composure, not a hair out of place. James didn’t even get the chance to speak before Sirius cut in.
“Right,” Sirius said, before James could open his mouth. His voice had gone cold. “Because that was necessary.”
Regulus faltered, just a little. “Touchy,” he muttered, though not as sure of himself now.
“Don’t drag my mates into it just because you can’t take a compliment,” Sirius said. Quietly, but with teeth.
“Sirius, my knight in shining armour!” James added in jokingly “I’m flattered.”
Regulus stood with a scoff. “Whatever. Forget it.”
“Gladly.”
Pointedly, he slid right into a seat beside Avery, who squeezed his shoulder like they’d rehearsed it — all easy familiarity and casual approval. Regulus smiled at that, like he knew it would bother Sirius. Which of course, it did.
Because Avery was supposed to be his friend. The traitorous bastard.
There was a beat of silence before James let out a low whistle. “Well. That was spicy.”
“He’s such a little arse,” Sirius muttered, more tired than angry now.
“Mm,” James said, already halfway through another bite. “You really do bring out the best in each other.”
Sirius huffed a laugh. Peter snorted. The tension thinned just enough to breathe through.
“For what it’s worth, that was me being nice” Sirius added, gesturing vaguely in Regulus’s direction.
“You’re joking right?,” James said, laughing despite himself.
Remus, who’d been quiet through the whole thing — too quiet — finally spoke as they stood to leave.
“You could have just told him you were proud, you know?”
Sirius looked at him. “Who asked you?”
Remus didn’t reply. Just gave him a look — unreadable, flat — and turned away.
Sirius clenched his jaw, heat rising under his collar, and thought: What the fuck does he know, anyway?
Notes:
In the next chapter: Finally... finally a chapter orbiting Remus & some answers
Chapter 6: Oct, 1974 (pt 1) - Remus
Summary:
Tensions explode after weeks of Remus withdrawing; the boys learn what he has been hiding, and it changes everything.
Notes:
TW:
Self-harm ideation (very minor)
Descriptions of injury
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
*** 1st October 1974 ***
As much as Sirius would never say it aloud — not to James, not even to himself, really — he was almost glad when the full moon finally rolled back around. And not for the usual reasons. Not because of the thrill of planning their Animagus transformation, or the quiet, guilty buzz of knowing something no one else did.
But because, for a handful of hours, at least, Remus wouldn’t be there.
And they could finally breathe again.
Because ever since James had brought it up — that offhand, “Have you noticed anything else? With him?” in the window alcove — things had only gotten worse.
Remus was… distant. Uncharacteristically irritable. Short-tempered in a way that was completely different from his usual sharpness; less casually clever, and more quietly cruel. He’d go silent at meals, snap over the littlest things, mutter through conversation like it was costing him something. Like just being there was a burden.
And Sirius didn’t know what to do with that. He wasn’t used to it. Not from him.
Because whatever was going on — whatever weight was sitting heavy on Remus’s shoulders — was suddenly everywhere. In the way he sat, the way he looked past them instead of at them, the way his voice didn’t quite land.
It wasn’t just a once-off anymore.
It made James jittery. Made Peter overcompensate in that loud, overly eager way he did. Sirius felt it in his own chest like a bruise. Like a knot he couldn’t quite get loose.
He’d tried, in the beginning, to bring him back to life: small things mostly. A stupid joke here. A nudge at dinner there. But nothing landed. Every attempt seemed to fall flat — like he was trying to warm a body that had already gone cold.
Which was strange, because Remus had always been warm. Not in any obvious way — not like James, whose affection was all grand gestures and constant touching, or Peter, who wore his heart on his sleeve. Remus’s care was quieter than that. It lived in the soft smiles he gave when no one else was looking, in the blocks of chocolate he always carried for James even though he hated the stuff himself, in the way he always waited to walk Sirius back to the dorm after detention — even if it meant missing curfew. He didn’t fuss or fawn. He just noticed things. And he acted.
He was steady. Soft-spoken, sure, but solid beneath it all — a stable sort of constant. He gave more than he took, most of the time, like he’d decided a long time ago that that was the fairest trade.
Lately, though, he wouldn’t even meet Sirius’s eye.
Which stung.
Because Sirius could take cold. He could do cold. He’d done it every summer since he was young — spent years in Grimmauld Place, only spoken to when it was convenient, taught to measure his worth in silence, posture, and how well he could hold his tongue at the dinner table. But not from Remus. Not from the one person who’d always seen things — really seen them — and never flinched.
That kind of cold didn’t feel like distance. It felt like betrayal.
It had started with the jab about the private tutors. Low and quiet, tossed out like it meant nothing — but Sirius had heard the weight in it. Remus didn’t say things like that by accident.
Then there were the others. The way he’d waited until after Regulus’s smug little show in the Great Hall to tell Sirius he should’ve just said he was proud — like he hadn’t been trying to do exactly that. Like everything Sirius couldn’t say out loud was some kind of personal failing. Or that time in the common room, when Sirius had cracked a joke to try and lighten the mood, and Remus, dry as anything, had muttered, “Not everything needs to be a performance.”
None of it was loud. None of it obvious. But it was sharp enough to draw blood all the same.
Remus wasn’t just being casually cold — he was weaponising it. Choosing what to say, or not say, with just enough precision to make Sirius wonder if they’d done something to upset him. Like they were being punished, and didn’t even know what for.
So they took the opening. Used the full moon as an excuse to talk — really talk — about what had been going on. And to finally follow through on that stupid plan Sirius had floated weeks ago: to look for the dew in the forbidden forrest.
They pulled their cloaks tighter and ducked out into the night; just the three of them, and the night sky above them smeared with stars.
“Moody little shit,” Sirius muttered, boots crunching against the frost-hardened path. “Nearly bit my head off for asking if he wanted toast.”
James huffed. “He snapped at me for asking the page number in Transfiguration earlier.”
Peter kicked a stone down the path ahead of them. “Didn’t touch his dinner last night.”
Sirius raised a brow. “Merlin.”
“Exactly,” Peter said. “He never skips a meal.”
“Maybe he’s been possessed by a ghost,” Sirius offered, mostly for the drama.
They all chuckled, even if the sound was tight.
Overhead, a branch creaked, and James and Peter quickly glanced up, half-expecting to see something horrific hovering above. But there was nothing. They weren’t even at the edge of the forest yet — just skirting the outer path, where the trees hadn’t fully closed in and the moon still reached the ground. Still safe. Still technically on school grounds. And already they were acting like something was going to crawl out of the dark and eat them. Babies, the lot of them.
James shook his head, slightly embarrassed but pressing on. “I don’t know what’s worse — him snapping, or when he goes quiet and just… sits there. Like we’re background noise.”
There was a pause. Just the wind and the sound of their footsteps.
Then Peter, quieter: “You think he’s alright?”
“No,” Sirius said, flatly. “But when has he ever been?”
James didn’t answer right away. Just shoved his hands deeper into his pockets.
“Can’t fix it if he won’t talk to us.”
Sirius watched the frost bloom under their shoes.
“Maybe this isn’t the sort of thing that can be fixed,” Sirius said hesitantly, his breath fogging in the cold.
They walked a little further. The silence stretched.
Then, finally —
“You’re right, it must be a ghost,” Peter offered.
James gave a thin, exhausted smile. “A very rude ghost.”
The Forbidden Forest loomed ahead, all twisted shadows and too-dark paths. The night had gone strangely still — no noise, no animal chatter, nothing but the sound of their own footsteps and the faint squelch of frost beneath them. He could feel the others hesitating beside him.
James stopped at the tree line, exhaling like he was bracing for a blow. “Right. Dew.”
Sirius pinched the bridge of his nose. “Dew that’s never been touched by man or sunlight. Obviously.”
Peter frowned. “How do we even know if it’s been touched?”
“We don’t,” James muttered.
“So we’re just… guessing?”
“Brilliant plan, this,” Sirius said, bone-dry, as if this hadn't been his plan to begin with. “No wonder it goes for a fortune on the black market.”
“You would know that,” Peter said, without looking up.
Sirius smirked, but didn’t answer.
Still, they pressed on. Mostly because they didn’t know what else to do.
The forest loomed quiet around them, branches creaking low overhead. The ground sucked faintly at their boots, thick with mud. They moved without speaking. Kept their eyes firmly down. Every now and then, one of them would crouch — inspect a patch of moss, a curl of wet bark, or something just off the beaten path. Each find was met with a shake of the head or a grunt of dismissal.
It was all too exposed. Or too dry. Or too obvious.
Too easy.
None of it felt right.
After about fifteen minutes of slow, silent failure, Peter started to twitch.
“This place gives me the creeps,” he muttered. “What if there’s centaurs?”
Sirius didn’t even look up. “There are centaurs.”
Peter froze mid-step. “Seriously?”
“Oh, definitely.”
“They mostly keep to the deeper woods,” James cut in, giving Sirius a look — amused, but with an edge. The kind that said Alright, give it a rest.
Sirius lifted his eyebrows innocently, but the smirk gave him away.
“Unless you trespass,” he added, too casually. “Or tread on anything sacred. Like, say, for instance… dew.” He shot James a sideways grin, all cheek and no remorse, fully aware he was pushing it.
“That’s not funny,” Peter muttered.
“It’s a little funny.”
“You’re a menace,” Peter said, without heat.
“And yet here you are. Voluntarily in the woods with me.” Sirius grinned wider, unbothered.
Peter made a strangled sound in response, yanked his hood up, and hunched his shoulders — like he was worried something might drop out of the trees and devour him on the spot. Which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely unreasonable. It was the Forbidden Forest, after all.
Sirius probably should’ve shared the sentiment. That creeping dread — the kind that came from knowing they had no business being somewhere this dangerous, alone. By all accounts, he should have been scared. Any normal person would be. But his instincts had been off lately. Blunted. Frayed. Ever since Grimmauld Place.
He didn’t flinch at shadows anymore. Didn’t want to. Some part of him — the same reckless part that had stolen the knife from Borgin and Burkes — almost liked the edge of it. The risk. The nearness of something sharp.
Better danger than silence. Better anything than stillness.
Right?
He turned his eyes to James, hoping to distract himself — but that didn’t help either.
James was crouched near a log, scanning the underbrush like he could will the dew into existence by sheer force of will. Too focused. Too quiet. Sirius could see the tension in his shoulders from feet away. The way he hadn’t cracked a joke all evening. The way he hadn't really looked at him since they left the castle.
It made something twist under Sirius’s ribs — tight and hot and familiar. He didn’t want to examine it. Didn’t want to feel it. So he didn’t.
He let himself drift. Fell out of pace on purpose, boots quieter now, slipping off the path into shadow. Just long enough to loop behind the others — to let the woods pull at his edges and sharpen him back into something familiar. Something easier.
Peter was still muttering something about lanterns, or maps, or how this was a terrible idea when Sirius crept up behind him. Quiet. Deliberate.
Without warning, he grabbed him — fingers clamping down hard on his shoulders — and barked, sharp and close:
“Careful where you step—”
Peter nearly jumped out of his skin.
He squealed, an honest-to-Merlin squeal, and flailed hard enough to send the glass vial he was holding flying. It smashed theatrically against the ground. Skidding along the path.
Sirius froze. “Peter!”
Peter whipped around, eyes wide. “You scared me!”
“That was our only vial— what’re we supposed to put the dew in now?”
Peter threw up his arms. “We have others!”
“Do we?” Sirius snapped, voice climbing. “Where? Because I sure as shit didn’t pack backups.”
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” James groaned and dropped onto a fallen log. “This is hopeless.”
He didn’t look at either of them. Just stared down at the mud bitterly. The tension in his jaw was obvious, and Sirius could tell — it wasn’t just about the vial. He was fed up. With the plan, with the night, with all of it.
Sirius turned, still mid-gesture. “We’ll come back tomorrow. After grumpy falls asleep.”
James shook his head. “And do what? We don’t even know what we’re looking for. How are we supposed to know if someone’s stepped there? Or if sunlight’s touched it? What does that even mean? It’s ridiculous.”
“It’s not meant to be easy,” Sirius said, trying to keep his tone even — trying not to join James’s spiral. “This isn’t going to happen overnight. We’ve got time.”
James looked up — and there was something hollow behind his eyes now. Not quite anger. But close enough.
“Do we?” he said.
And just like that, the conversation died.
He didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t need to.
Sirius looked down at a pile of wet leaves, crushed moss, and broken shards of glass, and began to notice the cold beginning to seep through the soles of his shoes for the first time that night.
The silence pressed in. Washed over him like a drought. And Sirius, for once, didn’t have anything clever to say.
Peter broke the silence instead. “Maybe he doesn’t like the idea of Mary hitting on him. ’Cause he can’t, you know. Be with someone. Not properly. Since he’s a —”
James straightened. “Mary’s not like that.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “How do you know?”
“I don’t,” James admitted.
Sirius sighed and rolled his eyes. “Alright, alright — can we not spiral into an existential crisis in the middle of the bloody Forest?”
Peter frowned. “I was just saying—”
“Well don’t.” It came out sharper than he meant. “You’re bringing the whole mood down.”
They all went quiet again after that.
Even the trees felt quieter.
Eventually, James stood. “Let’s go back.”
No one argued.
They turned without speaking, feet dragging slightly over the wet earth as they stepped around the broken glass — jagged shards glinting faintly in the dark, slowly disappearing into the mud. Like the night wanted to erase all trace they’d ever been there.
*** 4th October 1974 ***
It all came to a head over breakfast a few days later. When the quidditch results were announced — posted on crisp parchment just outside the Great Hall, the ink still curling faintly at the edges.
James had made the team. Of course . Starting Chaser. First pick. Like the meltdown at tryouts hadn’t even left a mark.
Normally, they’d all be celebrating. Sirius would’ve pulled out shots of Firewhisky from his secret stash, which they all would’ve tipped into their pumpkin juice — some of them more enthusiastically than others. James would be glowing, half-draped across the bench like the sun had come up just for him, and Peter would buzz — talking too fast, too loud, and entirely too much.
And Remus... well. Remus would do that thing where he pretended not to care — rolled his eyes, shrugged it off — but his eyes would soften and crinkle anyway, like they always did when he was proud.
But not today.
Today, James barely touched his eggs. Peter fidgeted with the salt shaker like it might splinter in his hands. Remus hunched over his toast with his sleeves down and his face shuttered. And Sirius — Sirius was trying not to come apart at the seams.
Because none of it felt right anymore. Not even this.
It wasn’t just the Remus thing — though, if he was being honest, that was the jagged edge everything else seemed to be catching on. There was something in the air lately, a kind of uneasiness. Like they were all walking around in shoes a size too small.
James had spent the better half of last night curled in Sirius’ bed, muttering about the potion again. About how the dew still didn’t make sense. About how they weren’t any closer than they’d been last year, and how time was ticking. Sirius could tell he was still mulling it over now — silently, quietly picking apart the morning like it was a problem to solve.
But he didn’t want to hear it. He just wanted one quiet meal. One easy moment. Where everything wasn’t so bloody complicated.
Peter cracked first, trying — as he always did — to bring things back into orbit. “Well, you’ve got the uniform now, Prongs,” he said brightly, jabbing his spoon at James. “So at least next time you throw your broom across the pitch you’ll look the part.”
It should’ve landed. It would’ve, last year.
Instead—
“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Remus snapped, sharp as a whip. “Could you not ?”
The table stilled.
Peter blinked. “What?”
Remus didn’t look up. “You don’t have to fill every silence. It’s exhausting.”
And Sirius — Sirius just snapped .
Because he had well and truly had enough.
“Merlin , Remus,” he barked, louder than he meant. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Remus’s eyes flicked up, slow and ice-cold. “Nothing.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Nothing . Because it’s all fine, yeah?” Sirius set his spoon down with a dull clink, heat prickling at the back of his neck. “You’ve been acting like a complete arse for weeks and none of us are allowed to say a single thing because it’s nothing .”
Remus flinched.
Which made Sirius flinch in return. Enough to knock his hair loose from behind his ear, falling in front of his face. For a second, he couldn’t see much of anything at all — just the blur of movement, the sting of his own voice hanging between them.
Sirius opened his mouth to soften it — to take some of it back — but the words were already out. And now, a few of the third-years down the bench were glancing their way. Curious. Concerned.
Remus looked… small. Like a kicked dog.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” Sirius muttered, quieter now. “I just—I’ve been wound up, alright? Since I got back from break, it’s been—” He gestured vaguely, as if that explained anything.
But Remus cut him off, voice low. “No. You’re right.”
The silence after that was deafening.
Remus stood — shaking slightly — and said, “Upstairs. With me. Now.”
He gone ghostly white again. Not just tired, but drained.
The scars on his hands stood out stark and harsh where his fingers curled, knuckles tense around the edge of the table — like he needed to hold onto something just to stay upright.
James hesitated. “But Transfiguration—”
“Bugger Transfiguration.”
And that was when Sirius really knew something was wrong.
Because Remus would never normally do anything to upset McGonagall. Not when she was one of the few people in this castle who actually knew — and was kind to him anyway.
The three of them exchanged a look, then stood and followed him.
No one argued. Not even Peter, who usually hated rule-breaking when it was this visible. He didn’t say a word — just followed, obediently — quiet as they slipped out of the Hall and up the stairs.
The dormitory door clicked shut behind them.
The sound was small. Final.
Sirius leaned on his bedpost, trying not to let the panic show. But he could feel it — in the tightness of his throat, the restless thrum in his chest, the way his fingers traced the knots of the wood, looking for something to anchor him.
The room didn’t help. Their room — which had always been loud and messy and safe — suddenly felt too still. The curtains hung wrong. The fireplace crackled too quietly. Even the sunlight through the window looked strained, filtered through glass that hadn’t been cleaned in months.
“Alright,” he said, too breezy, too light. “So, what, this is your villain origin story?”
James shot him a look. “Sirius.”
He lifted his hands. “What? I'm lightening the mood.”
But Remus didn’t laugh.
He just sighed — long and deep, like the air hurt on its way out — and sat on his bed, elbows on his knees, shoulders curved in like he was trying to hold himself together.
Then, finally, “Something happened over break.”
No one moved.
Remus’s eyes narrowed — amber and unreadable in the low light — gaze flicking across the room like he was waiting for someone else to speak first. But Sirius was watching him right back. Steady. Unblinking. Reminding him that whatever this was, only mattered if he was the one to say it.
“The full moons have been getting worse,” he went on, quiet but steady. “And—last time—I nearly got out.”
Peter made a small sound. James froze. Sirius just… blinked.
What?
His ears rang. Just a little. Like his body had registered something before his mind had caught up.
“I was in the basement,” Remus said. “The door’s got six locks and a sealing charm, and I still nearly got out. I don’t even remember half of it, just—waking up in blood, and my mum sobbing upstairs. I don’t know if I attacked the door or if she was just scared. But I heard her.”
Sirius’s throat tightened. That image — blood and crying and Remus alone in it — lodged somewhere behind his ribs and wouldn’t budge. He didn’t want to picture it, but his mind was already halfway there.
He paused.
“I could’ve got out.”
No one knew what to say.
Sirius could feel his heartbeat in his fingertips. The panic wasn’t loud — not yet — but it was there, coiled low in his chest. Like something waiting to snap.
James cleared his throat. “Okay, but that’s—that’s not your fault. You just need a stronger charm, or—”
“No.” Remus’s voice cracked then. “You don’t get it. It’s not about the locks. The wolf’s—changing. Getting worse. It’s stronger. More violent. And I can’t—I can’t go home for Christmas. Not if it means transforming there. I won’t. I can’t risk it.”
Sirius’s mouth opened — then closed again. His tongue felt too thick. There were things he should say, should ask. What do you mean stronger? What do you mean changing? But he couldn’t get the words out. Every instinct he had was trying to rush ahead, to solve it, fix it, anchor something — but his brain wasn’t catching up.
Then, as if that wasn’t enough, Remus pulled up his sleeve.
And the room went still.
Deathly still.
Because there was a gash along his forearm — thick, deep, still half-scabbed. A new one. A mess of torn skin and red-rimmed scar tissue.
It looked… inhuman.
And Sirius, suddenly, was very aware of how little he understood.
Sirius stared. “Fuck, Remus.”
He couldn’t stop looking. Couldn’t force himself to avert his gaze. Because that wasn’t just a scratch, or a bad transformation, or something Pomfrey could fix with a salve and a warning. That was real damage. Thick. Torn. Brutal.
Ugly.
It looked like something that hadn’t wanted to heal. Like something that might never.
He opened his mouth. Closed it again. His stomach twisted.
Remus shrugged, too casually. “So that’s why I’ve been a nightmare. In case anyone was wondering.”
James stepped forward immediately. “Okay, so we’ll stay. We’ll all stay here for Christmas, no question. You can transform at school.”
Peter nodded quickly. “Yeah. Obviously.”
All eyes turned to Sirius.
He was still staring at Remus’s arm. Blankly. Like if he blinked, it might vanish.
He didn’t answer.
Not right away.
Because somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was already whispering: You can’t.
You have to go home for Narcissa’s wedding.
You have to wear the robes. Sit at the table. Smile when they toast to purity. You have to walk into that cursed house and pretend you’re not disgusted by the walls.
He could see it all — the blasted white dress, the flowers, the blood-red wine. Lucius’s smug little smile. Walburga’s cold, spindly hand on his shoulder.
And all of it was right there with him now, in the dormitory, alongside the sight of Remus’s mangled arm.
James nudged him. “Right, Sirius?”
Sirius swallowed. The words felt jagged in his throat.
“I can’t.”
The silence was immediate.
And it was awful.
Like someone had sucked all the air out of the room — and left them to choke on what was left.
James frowned. “Why not?”
“I—I promised I’d go to the wedding. My mother’s been hounding me for months. Said if I skip it, don’t bother coming home.”
“Oh,” James said.
Sirius winced. “I was meant to go to yours first. Effie was going to Apparate me there and back, but… I can’t do side-along from school. The wards won’t let it. And it’s not like McGonagall’s my personal chauffeur.”
He looked at Remus, then. Directly. “But you’re not staying alone. That’s not happening.”
Remus went to protest — “It’s fine, I don’t mind—” — but Sirius cut him off, feeling something sharp and protective rise up in his chest. Finally, something he could control.
“No. I’ll go home. I’ll—survive. It’s two weeks. I’ve done worse.”
Everyone looked at him then. Really looked. Like they could see the truth anyway, whether he said it aloud or not.
“It’s fine,” Sirius said again, and forced a shrug. “You can call me on the mirror. It will be like I never left.”
James nodded, voice low, parroting it back. “We won’t even know you’re gone.”
“Exactly.”
But Remus looked like he’d swallowed glass.
He tugged his sleeve back down in one quick, graceless motion and raked both hands through his hair — curls slipping loose, fingers catching. Panicked.
Sirius held his gaze anyway.
Because it was decided now.
He’d promised himself a long time ago that if it ever came to choosing between home and his friends, well, there was no choice at all.
“I mean it, Remus,” he said, jumping in before anyone else could speak. “I’m going. Alright?”
For a moment, there was nothing. Just silence and the sound of blood in his ears.
Then Remus’s face softened — just slightly. Like he might be seeing Sirius properly for the first time all term.
They stood like that for a long second. A standoff in everything but name.
Then, finally—
“Okay.”
Sirius lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.
It was all beams and shadows in the candlelight — same as always — but his eyes traced every groove like it might suddenly shift. Like the ceiling might split open and swallow him whole, the way a black hole swallows a star.
The dormitory was eerily still. Just the low hum of wind rattling the windows, and the soft purr of Peter snoring lightly beside him. But it felt farther away than usual, like the air between them had thickened, or he was listening from underwater.
And Sirius — couldn’t sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw it.
That gash.
Red and raw, angling down Remus’s forearm like a fucking battle scar.
How long had it been there?
How long had he been walking around with that? Hiding it. Bleeding through his sleeve. Suffering. Alone.
And Sirius had done… what exactly? Brooded? Pouted? Moped around like the misunderstood prince of misery while Remus was ripping himself open in a basement? Like any of this was about him.
He hated how long it had taken him to notice. Hated that he hadn’t seen. That he hadn’t been paying attention. That he’d been too caught up in his own bloody whining about how things were taking longer to snap back after Grimmauld Place.
Remus was always the first to notice when something was off. Always.
James’s too-tight grin after a bad practice. Peter’s anxiety gnawing at the edges of his laughter. Sirius’s silences — all of it. Always the first to know. Alleyway the first to care.
And this? All three of them had missed this ?
What the fuck was wrong with them?
His stomach twisted. Shame crawled up his throat.
He turned onto his side. The sheets rustled — too loudly.
Turned again.
The pillow dragged at his neck, damp with sweat, clinging to his skin. His hair stuck to his forehead. The sheets wrapped and prickled around his legs. Everything was touching him — too close, too warm, too much.
He stared up at the ceiling blankly, pressing his knuckles to his teeth. The image of Remus’s arm wouldn’t go away.
But he’d seen worse — hadn’t he? Back home. In the gory books James had nicked from the library in third year. On the front page of the Prophet.
But this—
This was different.
This was Remus. Their best fucking friend.
He squeezed his eyes shut and bit down on his fist. Hard. Breathed over his knuckles, shallow and loud and wrong.
He wanted to do something —
anything —
scratch it out, scream it out, break something open and crawl inside where the quiet might live.
Instead, his other hand drifted toward the nightstand. It wasn’t even a conscious thought — more like a shameful reflex. The knife was still there, exactly where he’d left it.
Still heavy and warm in his hand. Still his.
He didn’t do anything with it. Didn’t flip it. Didn’t toss it. Just held it — loose, but firm.
He didn’t know why it helped. Only that it did.
Something about the weight. The bone against his skin, cold at first, then scorchingly hot, that made things quieter. Not in the room — the dorm was still pin-drop still — but in his head. Where the noise lived.
Until —
A bed creaked across the room.
Sirius stopped breathing. Stilled himself completely, like maybe if he lay quiet enough, the room might forget it had stirred.
It was Remus, of course. He’d known even before the gentle rustle of blankets. Before the sound of timid feet against stone. He moved like a ghost — all soft steps and hesitation — careful not to wake the others. Not like James, who barrelled through half-asleep, convinced that if he moved fast enough no one would notice. Or Peter, who never seemed to realise how loud he was — heavy footsteps and the occasional sniffle.
Remus moved like he lived: like being quiet was a kindness he owed to everyone else.
Fuck.
Sirius clamped his eyes shut tighter and listened.
The turn of the bathroom handle. Running water. The faintest cough, muffled through the door.
When the door opened again with that same feather-light touch, Sirius just lay there: knife still in hand, blanket pulled up to his chest, pretending to sleep.
Remus paused at the end of his bed. Sirius could feel it — the way the air shifted, like he was… hesitating.
A breath passed. Maybe two.
Then, quietly —
“Sirius,” Remus whispered. “You awake?”
No.
No, he wasn’t.
The quiet almost settled between them while Sirius decided whether or not to answer. He didn’t think he could bear to talk about it again — all the ways he’d failed him.
But… he already knew, didn’t he?
“Yeah, mate.”
The words came out hoarse and gnarled around the edges.
He dropped his fist back to his side and let go of the knife without ceremony. It stayed beneath the covers, pressed between his ribs and the mattress.
Then he shifted — just slightly — enough to make room at the foot of the bed.
Because Remus wouldn’t curl up beside him like James might — he knew that. He wasn’t built like that.
Instead, he parted the curtains and sat by Sirius’s feet. Careful not to touch him or crumple the sheets.
“I feel bad about the way that went down,” Remus said, pausing. “I didn’t mean for you to have to—”
Go home.
Of course Remus was worrying about him first. Always the martyr. Always putting everyone else first — like this was some grand sacrifice Sirius had made, what it actually was: the least he could fucking do.
After they’d let him suffer in silence for the better part of a month. Alone.
And now Remus had the audacity to feel bad?
Sirius let it sit there. Let it curdle.
He looked at him at last — just a silhouette in the candlelight, hunched over, all bony knees and elbows. The glow caught the curve of his spine and lit the faint mess of curls that never stayed flat.
“Don’t mention it,” Sirius said. Firm.
But really: don’t fucking mention it.
Remus stared at him, steady and genuine in that way that always made Sirius want to squirm.
“It’s brave of you,” Remus said softly.
Brave?
Brave.
What the hell was that supposed to mean?
He shouldn’t be the one being called brave. Not when Remus had been bleeding in a locked cellar. Not when he’d lied to them with a smile while hiding half-healed wounds under long sleeves. Not when he’d clearly given up on being understood — because why shouldn’t he? None of them had noticed.
His stomach twisted. Tight and embarrassed and hot in a way that had nothing to do with the room.
“Don’t,” he said — flat, but not loud.
Remus blinked. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t turn this into something it’s not.”
“I’m not, I’m just…” Remus faltered.
“Thankful?” Sirius cut in, sharper now.
“Worried.”
Sirius let out a breath, short and sharp. “Merlin.”
“You hate it there.”
“So?”
“You were supposed to spend Christmas with the Potters. And I went and—”
“Fucking hell, Remus.” Sirius sat up straighter. “Stop it.”
The words rang out harder than he meant them to.
But he didn’t take them back.
“Just… go to bed.”
Remus didn’t move. Just sat there. Still. Like he was choosing now — weeks too late — to finally be honest about something.
And it was making Sirius really fucking mad.
What was this supposed to be? Some quiet little moment of connection? Like it fixed anything?
“I mean it, Remus,” Sirius muttered. “You’re getting on my nerves.”
He didn’t even mean it. Not really. He just didn’t know what to do with the way his friend was looking at him.
“Just… go to bed and say thank you. I’m obviously not going to let you go back for another full moon at home until they’ve put up some proper charms. And neither are the other boys.”
Remus sighed lightly. “You could still go to the Potters. Like we planned.”
“You’re not spending Christmas on your own.” Not after you spent the better half of the term on your own already.
He kept the second half to himself.
Remus blinked. “But it’s okay for you to?”
“I’m not on my own,” Sirius said, shrugging. “I’ve got Reg. And my parents.”
That made Remus laugh — bitter, unintentional.
Sirius didn’t rise to it. Because this wasn’t about him.
“Look,” he said, quieter. “I would’ve had to go back for the wedding anyway.”
Remus ran a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I’m sorry, alright?” he muttered, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
That cracked something. The hopelessness in his voice.
Sirius let his shoulders drop, sinking back into the mattress. The tension slipped out all at once, like he didn’t have the strength to hold it up anymore.
“Just…” he sighed. “Let us do something nice for you, for once, without making a thing of it. Alright?”
He glanced up then — and Remus was looking at him. Really looking at him. Holding eye contact: steady and strange and too much.
And Sirius found himself staring back. Taking in the warm brown of his eyes, the softened lines of his face. Longer than he meant to. Longer than he should.
“Don’t make me regret being nice,” he added, grumbling more than anything.
It made Remus laugh — properly this time. Low and real.
He nudged Sirius’s foot with his elbow, just enough to say alright, fair.
He didn’t say anything else — just nodded, barely, and mumbled something under his breath.
“What was that?” Sirius said, suspicious.
Remus glanced sideways. “I said, it’s very out of character for you.”
That made Sirius laugh. A little too loud.
From the bed beside them, James stirred and shifted in his sleep, muttering something before rolling over.
They both froze for a second. Then looked at each other again — and sniggered. Giddy and stupid and childish.
Notes:
In the next chapter: The return of Emmeline Vance and Cassius Avery
Note: If you love this story, you might also like one from the same canon-compliant series/universe from Effie & Monty's perspective (of Sirius finding a home with them) House Fires
Chapter 7: Oct, 1974 (pt 2) - The In Between
Summary:
Sirius gets the boys detention, kisses Emmeline by the lake, and unexpectedly reconnects with Cassius after curfew.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
*** 5th October 1974 ***
He must have slept at least a little, because when he opened his eyes, the world had shifted — the dorm washed in pale, grey morning light. Not the usual red-gold glow of the castle waking up, but the kind of light that made the walls look cold, like the morning knew colour would look wrong on him today.
Too soft. Too kind.
And Sirius didn’t deserve kindness. Not after the way he’d acted last night. Or over the last few weeks, for that matter.
Would it have killed him to just hug Remus? To say something real? To do anything other than stand there like an idiot — like remorse counted for something if you didn’t actually use it.
Merlin.
He swung his legs over the edge of his bed so fast he nearly knocked knees with James — who was hunched at the side of his own bunk, staring at the floor. He looked like death: pale, rumpled, glasses askew, the shadows under his eyes barely hidden.
Not his usual morning energy.
Not by a long shot.
He looked like he’d slept about as much as Sirius. Maybe less.
They didn’t speak. Just stared at each other for a moment — too long, too tired — before nodding like it was any other morning.
It wasn’t, of course. But it was going to have to do.
The door squeaked open and Remus trailed in — quiet as anything, levitating four cups of tea like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he knew exactly what he was walking into, and had decided to ignore it.
He didn’t speak. Just crossed the room and set two mugs down with a flick of his wrist and no fuss — one for James, and one for him.
James murmured a thank you, already curling his hands around the mug like the warmth might glue him back together. Sirius didn’t say anything. Just stared at him through a curtain of dark hair, silent, because apparently he was too emotionally stunted to even manage gratitude without choking on it nowadays.
He placed a third cup beside Peter, who was still sprawled half-conscious across his bed, hair sticking up in odd directions. Remus didn’t really acknowledge him, just placed the cup down beside him — quietly, gently, adding to the rings already staining the wood — and then folded himself onto the end of the bed, cross-legged and calm, like some wise fucking sage. Composed in that maddening way only Remus could pull off — like he’d already made peace with everything, and was just waiting for the rest of them to catch up.
For a while they all just sat there, caught in that strange, thick sort of quiet that rarely settled between them. So unfamiliar in its shape that none of them really knew what to do with it.
Peter shifted under his blanket, brown eyes flicking between them like he’d missed something important. James kept his gaze down, turning his mug in his hands. His nails were half-painted crimson and gold — Marlene’s doing, no doubt. Sirius clocked it with a flicker of amusement but didn’t comment. James tapped his fingers against the ceramic, restless.
Sirius broke first, taking a loud sip — partly because his throat was dry, mostly because the silence itched.
It was brewed exactly the way he liked it. Not too hot. Not too cold. Not too sweet. Served in one of James’ ridiculous Quidditch mugs.
Some Goldilocks shit.
Because of course Remus knew exactly how each of them took their tea. Sirius wouldn’t have had the faintest idea.
Eventually, Lupin cleared his throat, quiet but intentional, landing heavy in the silence. He glanced around the room, making a point of looking each of them in the eye.
“Well. I don’t know what you’re all moping about,” he said theatrically, sipping his tea. “It’s not like you’re the ones tearing yourselves apart, too scared to go home.”
A pause.
“Sirius excluded, obviously.”
He nearly choked.
It hit Sirius square in the chest — so sharp and stupidly perfect that he actually forgot how to breathe for a second. Not because it hurt, but because it didn’t.
He huffed a laugh, too surprised to stop it. “Fuck me,” he muttered, lips twitching. “Bit harsh.”
But he didn’t mean it. Not at all.
And he should’ve stopped there.
“But at least I’m not the one flaying myself open about it,” he added, because… in for a Knut, in for a Galleon.
You could have heard a pin drop.
Until —
“Sirius, what the fuck?” James screeched, lurching forward like the words had personally offended him. His Chudley Cannons blanket slid to the floor.
Peter’s eyes went wide. He let out a strangled little noise — half gasp, half laugh — then clapped a hand over his mouth like that might make it go unnoticed.
And Remus — well .
Remus was laughing. Low and sniggering at first, then full-bodied — in that uncontrollable, breathless way that came when something was both completely inappropriate and completely true. His shoulders shook beneath it.
“I really did, didn’t I?”
Sirius grinned into his tea, steam curling into his face as he huffed out a laugh.
James shook his head like it pained him. “You two are the worst people I know. I swear to Merlin.” He slumped against the bedpost with a long-suffering groan.
But he was smiling too. Just a little.
And for the first time in weeks, it felt like maybe — maybe — they were them again.
*** 10th October 1974 ***
It was almost nice, being bored. After so many weeks of suppressing anxious energy.
Not proper nice, of course. Not firewhisky in the common room nice, or James running laps around the dormitory after a Quidditch win nice — all noise and heat and something triumphant. But after so many weeks of bickering, the shock of Remus’s scar, and that weird almost-apology in the bedroom, the dull drone of History of Magic almost came as a welcome change.
Safe. Predictable. Lifeless.
The classroom itself was laughably miserable: all dull grey stone and chalk dust. Sirius shifted in his seat slightly and grimaced. It was the kind of damp that clung to your robes and left everything in its wake smelling faintly of mildew and disappointment. So wretched that even the ghosts wouldn’t be caught dead hanging around here.
Except professor Binns of course, who was droning on something horrible from the front of the room. Subjugation. Or goblin currency, maybe. Hard to tell. His voice held the same cadence whether he was describing a tax system or a particularly gruesome beheading. Which, incidentally, were the only lessons James and Sirius had ever shown any interest in.
No such luck today unfortunately.
Binns had launched into his third tangent of the afternoon, which Sirius was convinced was a punishment for some ancient sin the class had all collectively committed.
He sat with his chin in one hand and his quill in the other, chewing on the end absentmindedly as he stared through Binn's ghostly frame. Across from him, James was playing with a bit of scrunched up parchment, tossing it around with his wand like a quaffle.
Neither of them were listening. None of them were actually. Not properly.
And that was sort of the point, wasn’t it?
It felt a little like relief — sitting here, doing nothing. Being useless together. Even if they couldn’t quite outrun all of it. Couldn’t fix Remus’s lycanthropy. Couldn’t change the fact he’d hurt himself. Couldn’t stop Sirius from being sent home for Christmas break.
He was trying extra hard not to dwell too much on the last one.
But they had escaped enough of it, hadn’t they? And that had count for something.
James sent the ball of parchment flying across the table at Sirius’s head, who knocked it out of the air with dramatic flair.
He threw his hands up in mock celebration, mimicking crowd sounds beneath his breath: hissing, clapping, and cheering.
Somewhere in front of them, Bertram Aubrey sighed very dramatically and rolled his eyes. He was every bit the picture of a perfect Ravenclaw student — with his carefully combed red hair, polished shoes, and posture so stiff it looked like he’d swallowed a ruler.
Sirius caught it — the smug little look that said you’re disrupting my education — and scowled, grey eyes narrowing.
He was always like this, Bertram. All haughty superiority and Prefect-in-training energy. The sort of person who used the phrase “According to my calculations” unironically, in that nasally, know-it-all tone of his.
He didn’t turn to face them when he spoke — didn’t need to.
“This isn’t a Quidditch pitch,” he clipped, all weird and squeaky, like he was speaking with his nose pinched.
Sirius pulled a face at the back of his head and jabbed James with his elbow. “And here I thought Ravenclaws were meant to be polite.”
James didn’t answer properly — he was too busy choking on his own laughter to wheeze out a response.
Bertram sniffed and returned to his notes, falling just short of turning up his nose.
Which was infuriating to the point that Sirius felt the need to do something about it. Put him in his place. He leaned forward and nudged one of the back chair legs with his foot. Not hard — but enough to make him jolt. His blue and black robes fluttered slightly at the movement.
Bertram flinched. “Are you twelve?”
Sirius grinned. “Emotionally?”
James nearly lost it again.
Bertram muttered something bitter under his breath and made a visible effort to ignore them.
Sirius waited a beat — the dust settle between them.
Then started to shift again, foot poised.
“Don’t,” came a voice from the other side of him. Quiet. Firm.
Remus hadn’t looked up, but his fingers brushed Sirius’s forearm — just lightly, something like a warning. His hands were so cold that the hairs on his arms stood on end.
Sirius quirked an eyebrow. “You’re no fun.”
“You’re acting like a common child.”
Sirius blinked, a grin already tugging at his mouth.
“You’re right,” he said, all mock sincerity. “I am acting like a child.”
Remus still wasn’t looking at him — too focused, or unimpressed maybe, to engage — and missed the glint of it entirely. “I’m always right.”
“Just not a common one,” Sirius clarified, twisting slightly in his seat.
And then — before anyone could stop him — he reached for his wand.
“A magical one.”
Remus turned. “Sirius—”
But it was too late.
Sirius vanished the back left leg of Bertram’s chair with the kind of casual ease of someone who had been born to it — and all the charm and cruelty usually associated with his family name.
For a second, nothing happened.
Until —
Bertram toppled like a felled tree. Quill flying. Notes scattering. The table shuddered as he hit the floor with a noise that landed somewhere between surprise and indignation.
Peter squeaked.
James wheezed.
Sirius slapped a hand over his mouth but made absolutely no effort to look remorseful. If anything, he looked delighted — lips twitching behind his fingers like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. Except of course he could, because it had panned out even better than expected.
Bertram flailed upright, face flushed, hair askew. “You absolute—”
“Genius? Why thank you, Bertram,” Sirius teased, cutting him off before he could get a word in edgeways.
Bertram looked like he might launch himself across the table, fists first — but before he could pull himself together enough to try , Binns drifted over with all the urgency of a light breeze.
“Enough,” he said, in that same monotone drone he always used — like even this bored him. “Detention. All four of you. Tomorrow.”
Sirius raised his eyebrows.
The other Marauders — save for James — all turned in unison. Peter's mouth fell open, horrified. While Remus looked vaguely betrayed, like he was considering the moral weight of saying technically, I told him not to . But decided against it.
James, on the other hand, didn’t flinch. Just leaned back in his chair and shrugged, like he’d been named guilty by association so many times it barely registered anymore.
“That’s fair,” he muttered, all cool indifference.
Until Binns added “Individually.”
And his face fell, “Sorry?”
“You will serve it individually,” Binns repeated, like it bored him. “So we can avoid any further destruction of school property.”
A long pause.
Then:
“Bugger,” Sirius muttered.
After class, Sirius tried to peel off from the others unnoticed, still feeling guilty about dragging them into his mess.
But James — sharp as ever — caught him before he even made it halfway to the door.
“Where are you going, Judas?” he asked offhandedly, tossing another wad of balled-up parchment between his hands like a Quaffle. All erratic motion and too much edge.
He was leaning precariously against the edge of a desk, bag slung over his shoulder, chewing on a stick of gum. He was always like this — restless and untamed. Always moving, always fidgeting, like if he stood still for even a second, he might spontaneously combust. If it wasn’t throwing things, it was pacing. Wand tapping. Knee bouncing. Like unchanneled chaos in Gryffindor robes.
Sirius, meanwhile, was already halfway to the door, three steps ahead of the rest of them. Head down, pace just shy of hurried — like if he kept walking, he wouldn’t have to explain himself.
“Nowhere,” he replied — too quickly. Then added, with a shrug he hoped passed for casual, “Might try bum a cigarette. Clear my head.”
Behind him, Peter shifted his weight awkwardly between his feet, like he wasn’t sure whether to follow Sirius or fall back in line with the others. Remus stood off to the side, arms crossed loosely over his chest, expression unreadable. He wasn’t watching Sirius, exactly — but his eyes lingered for a second too long to be entirely indifferent.
The truth was, he was hoping to share a smoke with someone very specific. But he didn’t want to give the boys any more ammunition than he already had, just by alluding to the shape of her.
James looked like he might press — eyebrows wiggling in that maddeningly suggestive way of his — but didn’t. Just laughed and lobbed the parchment at Peter’s head instead, who yelped and dropped his bag.
Sirius shook his head, tutted, then turned before anyone could say anything else. Hands in his pockets. Collar up. Notably not stopping to apologise to Bertram — or to the others, for landing them all in detention.
He slipped out through the side corridor, boots echoing softly on stone, and headed toward the lake — where Emmeline always seemed to hang out.
Not that he was counting on it.
Obviously.
He spotted her before she spotted him — a tangle of long limbs and cigarette smoke, sprawled out on the slope above the lake. One leg bent, the other kicked out in front of her. Her uniform was half undone in that way older students tried to pretend was effortless, but was actually carefully curated. A few strands of dark hair had slipped free from the knot at the back of her head, catching faintly in the breeze.
Sirius shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled over like it meant nothing.
“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, feigning casualness.
She glanced up from behind her fringe, a faint smirk tugging at her mouth. “Did you rehearse that on the way over?”
Sirius shot her a look — very funny — then let himself drop into the grass beside her with a muttered, “Alright. Rude.”
Without missing a beat, she offered him a cigarette; which he took without argument or fanfare — like this was just something they did on the daily.
The first drag burned all the way down — sharp and harsh, like it was punishing him for wanting it so badly. Smoke curled low in his chest before slipping out between his teeth.
They sat in silence for a moment — the lake stretching out in front of them, the castle was just far enough away to feel forgettable. Completely alone.
“I vanished a chair leg in class earlier,” Sirius said eventually, exhaling smoke toward the water. “How’s your morning been?”
“Nowhere near as exciting.” Emmeline tilted her head slightly. “And… Melin. Why?”
He glanced over. “Have you met Bertram Aubrey?”
“Oh. Him.” Her nose wrinkled — not quite in disgust, but nowhere near impressed. “He’s… fine.”
“Fine,” Sirius repeated, flatly. “That’s what you’re going with?”
“Well, he’s not awful,” she said, with the same enthusiasm someone might reserve for tepid soup.
“If ‘ not awfu l’ is the bar you lot are setting in Ravenclaw for personality,” Sirius said, eyebrow raised, “you might want to consider setting it higher.”
She laughed then — properly this time. Head tipped back, eyes crinkling at the corners. It rasped just a little at the edges.
“It’s so low you could trip on it.”
It tugged something loose in him.
He blinked and looked at her then — really looked: at the curve of her mouth, the softness of her features, the way the light caught in her lashes, even on a dreary, overcast day like this.
And suddenly it hit him — not just how beautiful she was, but how alone they really were.
He’d made sure of that, in truth. On the way over.
The hill was empty. The castle felt miles off.
So he leaned in — unable to think about anything else.
Didn’t rush it. Didn’t smirk. Just closed the space between them and kissed her — soft at first, like he was giving her time to change her mind. And when she didn’t, deeper: one hand at her waist, the other braced against the grass beside her, holding him steady, like the ground might suddenly shift beneath them.
For a moment, that was it. Just the taste of tobacco and the warmth of her lips against his. The way her breath caught slightly when he kissed her. The brush of her fingertips at his wrist like she wasn’t quite sure where to put them.
It was soft. And surprisingly certain.
He let it sit. Just for a moment. Like forgetting was possible. Like the last few weeks hadn’t happened at all.
When she pulled back — eyes bright, cheeks flushed over freckles — she looked at him for just a second too long, which made them both laugh. Awkward at first, like two kids who’d just done something reckless. Then a little harder, like that’s exactly what it was .
It was stupid. Ridiculous even. But soft in a way that made him want to lean in closer. Take in more of her.
He pressed his forehead lightly to hers, and stayed there in the moment, still smiling. Until she pulled away and lit another cigarette.
She shifted her weight slightly as she did — one boot scuffing through the grass, bumping lightly against his.
He took it when she passed it to him, and neither of them said a word.
They just sat there, smoke curling between them, letting the silence stretch long and easy.
It was nice. Not fireworks, or heart-in-your-throat stuff. But solid. Calming.
She flicked ash into the grass, then — without warning — laid back, arms folded behind her head, one leg kicked out and the other resting lazily against his.
He didn’t move. Didn’t shift away, didn’t lean in. Just sat there like it didn’t affect him. Like he wasn’t quietly cataloguing every point of contact, or how warm her skin felt through the fabric of his pants. It wasn’t much. Just a lick of heat along his thigh. But it filled him so completely he didn’t know what to do with it. A steady pulse anchoring him here, not elsewhere. Not stuck in his own head.
He got high off the feeling.
And maybe it was nothing. Just a mixture of body heat and gravity. But it felt like the first real thing he’d touched for weeks.
“So,” she said, staring up at the sky, “when I crush Potter into the pitch this year, you’ll still talk to me, right?”
Sirius huffed a laugh through his nose. “Play nice now.”
“Never.”
She smirked, eyes half-lidded in the sunlight.
He didn’t respond. Just watched the way her collar had slipped slightly as she’d shifted. The edge of her throat. The loose strands of hair tucked behind her ear.
She exhaled slow. “Gryffindor/Slytherin’s coming up soon, isn’t it?”
He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah. On my birthday. Don’t remind me.”
James had been talking about almost nothing else for days — just strategy and Quidditch plays. And with Matthew McKinnon storming around the common room, calling extra practices and treating it like a life-or-death situation, it was now all anyone in the tower could talk about. Quidditch, Quidditch, and Slytherin’s new seeker… Regulus bloody Black .
She turned her head to look at him, grin already forming. “Oh, what a lovely birthday present. Your real brother and your pretend one fighting over you in front of the whole school.”
Sirius rolled his eyes. “Oh, stop it.”
And then — before she could say anything else — he leaned in and kissed her again. Harder this time, more familiar, his legs pressing suggestively against hers, fingers finding their place running lightly along her jaw.
She laughed against his mouth but didn’t pull away. Not for a long moment.
The kiss deepened before softening again, and when he finally pulled back she was still smiling — a little smug, a little flushed.
“Touchy,” she murmured.
He just shrugged and reached for the cigarette she’d left smouldering in the grass.
“I just don’t care much for quidditch talk”
*** 15th October 1974 ***
Sirius didn’t know exactly when it happened, but at some point, he’d stopped seeing other people.
He’d stopped sneaking off with that one Hufflepuff who used to follow him and James around like a lost puppy — all wide-eyed and eager, always finding one reason or another to fall into their orbit. Stopped flirting with Mary Macdonald for laughs. Stopped trying to chat up the Gryffindor Quidditch groupies mid-practice, and instead dedicated his time to watching James and Marlene run rings around the seventh years.
And the weirdest part? He wasn’t even upset about it.
There’d been no moment. No talk. No rule-setting or awkward conversation about exclusivity. Just this slow, quiet narrowing — like the world had tilted slightly, and without really noticing, Sirius had started walking in a straight line for once.
He’d always thought monogamy sounded sort of awful, to be honest. Restrictive. Suffocating. Another kind of leash, dressed up as romance.
But then again, he’d only ever pictured it in the horrible pureblood way that no one, not even his parents, really adhered to — cold alliances, marriages like business contracts, all diamond rings and pure bloodlines. Tujurs Pur, and all that bullshit. People who posed stiffly for portraits together, smiled through gritted teeth in public, but secretly wanted to kill each other in private. His parents. Their friends. Every engagement party he’d ever been dragged to.
And Emmeline was decidedly not that.
She was a half-blood whose eldest brother worked for some dull-but-politically-dangerous ministry department that made a habit of raiding Borgin and Burkes — the kind that confiscated cursed heirlooms and kept tabs on “culturally significant” family vaults. The kind of job Sirius’s mother called blood-traitor work , with so much venom and barely-repressed rage he could practically feel it crawl down his spine.
Her mother was Muggleborn, her father from a long line of dry, tight-lipped Ministry loyalists who rubbed Orion Black the wrong way. They’d clashed at a Ministry function once. It hadn’t ended well.
So, no. Emmeline Vance was not the kind of girl Sirius was supposed to be spending time with.
And yet.
Here he was. And there she was.
And neither of their parents would be too happy about it.
Which, if anything, only made it more exciting. The fact that his mother would have a coronary if she even heard Emmeline’s name in a sentence beside his only sweetened the deal, didn’t it?
He found himself wanting to spend every spare moment with her. Smoking on the lawn. Wandering the edges of the lake. Kissing behind stone arches like they were flirting with the idea of being caught.
Which, understandably, was starting to get on the others boys’ nerves
Because they weren’t used to sharing him like that.
So, when he announced one night that he was dipping out for a quick cigarette, Peter moaned from his bed without even opening his eyes.
“And a snog,” he added flatly.
Sirius rolled his eyes. “Cool it, Pete.”
But even James was starting to lose his patience: lying on his bed like someone had taken away his favourite toy — arms crossed, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was trying to swallow something back. He didn’t say anything. Just made a low, pathetic noise in the back of his throat.
Sirius threw a crumpled sock at his head as he passed. “Don’t wait up, sweetheart.”
James flipped him off without turning.
From the bed beside him, Remus sniggered, but didn’t glance up from his book — just waved a lazy hand in the air like, yes yes, go off and break more hearts, but please leave me to study in peace.
The dormitory door clicked shut behind him.
His mind wandered as he walked the halls of the castle— not far, just in slow, looping spirals. Half-thoughts he didn’t feel like finishing. Things he should probably be worrying about, but wasn’t. Regulus. Going home for christmas. Remus. Whether Emmeline would actually be there, or if he was just her as an excuse to be restless somewhere prettier.
Not that it mattered.
And then — of course — Cassius bloody Avery rounded the corner ahead of him.
All sharp lines and blonde tousled hair, his Slytherin cloak thrown over one shoulder like it was artfully accidental. His walk smooth and steady, like he knew exactly who he was and where he was going.
Sirius smirked at him before he could help it.
Cass raised an eyebrow in response, seemingly unimpressed.
“You’re out late,” he said, voice smooth as butter. “what’re you up to — bit close to curfew, isn’t it?”
Sirius shrugged, smiling. “Nothing.”
Because he wasn’t about to tell Cassius he was out looking for a half-blood girl to snog, now was he? The kind of girl his parents would probably curse him for even looking at twice.
“Why, what are you up to?”
He held his gaze for a long moment. Then mirrored him. “Nothing.”
A pause stretched between them. Not uncomfortable exactly — just heavy in the way certain truths tended to be when both people chose not to share them.
Sirius raised an eyebrow, but didn’t push.
Cassius, in return, didn’t laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he might’ve considered it.
And then — Sirius didn’t know why he said it. Really, he didn’t.
Because the two of them always kept their distance at school. Pretended like they didn’t know each other from a bar of soap. Different circles. Different masks. That was the deal.
He should have just kept walking. Gone to find Emmeline like he’d planned.
But.
“Do you want to do nothing together?” Sirius asked, tone breezy, deliberately careless.
Cassius stared at him — long and hard — then cocked his head, curious.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got a bottle stashed in Greenhouse Three.”
Cassius’s smile was slow and unreadable. “Firewhisky?”
“Course.”
He considered it for almost a beat too long. Almost long enough for Sirius to consider withdrawing his offer.
Until: “Alright. I’ve got nothing to do anyway.”
Sirius smirked at the echo. “Cheeky.”
They didn’t say anything else as they started walking — boots clicking softly against the flagstones, breath misting the air between them like smoke.
They’d always been like this — slippery with specifics. It was a kind of trust, he supposed. Or at least trust adjacent.
Notes:
In the next chapter: The last half of October brings a blue moon, halloween and party planning!
Notes: Thoughts on the kiss? The detention? That ending? I’m unwell. Talk to me. PLEASE.
Chapter 8: Oct/Nov, 1974 - Blue Moon
Summary:
Marauders skip Halloween to support Remus & the boys plan Sirius's birthday party
Chapter Text
*** 31st October 1974 ***
Halloween at Hogwarts had a way of making the castle feel different — louder somehow, if that was even possible. All day, the corridors had been thick with excitement and the smell of roasted pumpkin drifting up from the kitchens. Even the lessons had been more exciting than usual — some of them themed. Flitwick had them levitating rubber bats instead of the usual feathers, and Slughorn had them reading up on the Draught of Living Death.
The whole school was practically humming with it.
And it hadn’t died down by the afternoon. Quite the opposite, in fact.
The common room was thick with anticipation — filled to the brim with students high on sugar, still riding the day’s chaos, spilling toward the portrait hole in loud, jostling clusters bound for the Great Hall. A Gryffindor third-year in a crooked tiara nearly lost her chocolate frog to the chaos; someone else was screaming out for their friend in the crowd. The air felt warm and restless, the floating candles overhead guttering in the draft. Normally, Sirius would’ve been right there with them.
But the full moon was tonight.
Which meant Remus would be heading out soon — long before any of the real fun started — and the rest of them would be stuck pretending they didn’t notice the empty space he left. Pretending they weren’t going to spend the better part of their night thinking about their best mate tearing himself apart in the Shrieking Shack while they stuffed their faces with sweets.
So they hung back in solidarity, lounging by the fireplace with Marlene and Zazzy while the room thinned out around them.
Marlene had wrestled control of the record player again. Only this time, she wasn’t spinning Bowie or ABBA like she usually did — she was blasting Queen at full volume: a record they usually saved for after a Quidditch win. Apparently, Halloween night came close enough to celebrating.
Sirius tapped his fingers against his leg in time with the beat, and when he glanced up, he caught Matthew McKinnon grinning at him from across the room. The prat mouthed something that looked an awful lot like you’re welcome at him. Like it was somehow his doing that Marlene’s music taste was this stellar. Smug bastard.
They tried to make it all look intentional, like they weren't just killing time for Remus’s sake — because Remus hated allowances. And if he clocked it, he’d be the first to tell them to knock it off, that he’d be fine on his own; to remind them Halloween was one of James’s favourite holidays — right up there with birthdays, Christmas, and anything with a party — and that he didn’t want to be the reason they missed it.
But Sirius wasn’t having it.
“Halloween’s overrated anyway,” he said from his sprawl on the rug by the fireplace, laying it on thick. Because obviously, the most reasonable thing to do in this scenario was to start tearing the holiday to pieces. “It’s just pumpkin juice and a few extra candles. Not exactly life-changing.”
He flicked an old Exploding Snap card into the flames to see what would happen — an explosion, naturally. Bright enough to wash the room green for a heartbeat. A couple of first-years squeaked from the far end of the room, and Sirius smirked into the firelight.
James, slouched sideways in an armchair, shot him an incredulous look. “Oh, come on — you love Halloween.”
“Do I?” Sirius drawled. “Because from where I’m sitting, it’s just an excuse for people to stuff their faces with sweets.”
He let it hang — one eyebrow raised. Come on, Potter, you’re smarter than that.
James hesitated, then smirked — catching on. A mischievous glint settled behind his hazel eyes. “Careful, those are fighting words,” he warned, mock-serious, though now with an edge of understanding.
“And don’t even get me started on that weird Muggle dress-up tradition,” Sirius went on, all false groans and eye-rolls. “Did you see that Muggle-born in the enormous dragon head? Couldn’t fit through the Charms door. And that Ravenclaw with the ‘sexy goblin’ thing? Inspired choice, really.”
He knew, with his last name, it risked landing differently — less like a joke, more like something his mother might actually say — so he leaned in and really sold it. Hands framing the scene, voice dripping with exaggerated awe. “It was hideous, believe me. Full face paint, pointy ears and — Merlin help us all — fishnet tights. Because nothing says ‘I’m a hot piece of arse’ like looking like you’ve just crawled out of a Gringotts vault.”
From the armchair nearest the fire, Marlene barked a laugh. “Don’t forget the Hufflepuff in the glittery skeleton suit.”
Mary, sprawled on the sofa with Lily, looked up then. Something hot burning behind her eyes. “Nice Marls. Gang up on the Muggle-borns, why don’t you,” she muttered — flat and bitter. Loud enough to be heard, not quite loud enough to demand a response.
Sirius clocked the sharp glance Marlene flicked her way, and Mary’s pointed refusal to meet it. Still fighting, then. Poor fuckers.
He smirked faintly at the thought — at least he and Remus had made up now.
Remus, for his part, stared down at his tea, the fire catching in his hair. Steam curled up into his face in thin ribbons. He didn’t look impressed, or particularly sold on their bit — though that might’ve just been the full moon. “You lot realise you sound like insufferable snobs, right?”
“Aren’t we always? That’s half my schtick,” Sirius said, grinning.
“Mm. Just checking.”
Before Sirius could come up with something suitably cutting in response, the portrait hole swung open and a third-year barrelled in — dressed head to toe in a cheap vampire getup, plastic fangs and all — clutching a bucket of Honeydukes sweets. “Halloween haul!” he announced. “Help yourselves.”
Sirius was about to dissect the costume when James murmured something beside him — spoiling it. He was on his feet before the kid had even finished speaking, eyes bright — because the only thing James Potter loved more than holidays was chocolate. And even more than chocolate was free chocolate.
Sirius rolled his eyes. “Hypocrite,” he called after him.
James flipped him off without looking back. Peter folded over with laughter. Remus shook his head into his mug, smiling — just slightly — which, given the day, was as good as it was going to get.
The laughter fizzled out sometime after that, the conversation thinning until only the record filled the space. The girls peeled off for dinner soon after— Marlene and Mary still not quite speaking. The fire popped in uneven bursts that made the shadows jump across the walls.
The hours always seemed to move differently on full moon nights.
Not fast — never fast — but with that slow, inevitable crawl of something you couldn’t avoid. Every minute closer to moonrise felt like the tightening of a rope, the castle’s earlier noise muffling under the weight of it.
Sirius could feel it in the way Remus’s shoulders sat a little higher, in the way he kept his tea close but rarely drank from it. In the way James kept trying, too hard, to be normal — firing off little asides every now and then like topping up a fire that was bound to burn out. Peter laughed at them, but it was a nervous sort of laugh, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Outside, the sky had begun to shift. The last streaks of daylight bled into blue-black. Sirius found himself glancing at the portrait hole more than once, half expecting to see Pomfrey standing there, ready to escort Remus away.
It was stupid — they still had time. But the waiting was worse than anything else. The pretending to care about anything other than the fact that in just a short while, their friend would be somewhere out there alone, and they’d be stuck here, unable to help.
When Remus finally pushed himself to his feet, quiet and resigned, it felt less like the start of the night and more like dread.
“Thanks for staying,” he said, voice low enough to sit under the music.
“Don’t mention it,” Sirius replied — because if he thought too hard about it, he might say something soppier. Something he would regret.
A small nod. Sleeves tugged down. Then Remus slipped out, the portrait swinging shut with a soft thud that seemed to knock the air out of the room.
The common room settled into a strange, hollow quiet after that— the kind that pressed at your ribs, heavy and unforgiving.
I t felt an awful lot like guilt.
Because, aside from putting his hand up to go home for Christmas, he hadn’t done much to actually make this easier on Remus. None of them had really.
Or so he’d thought.
James clapped his hands once and sprang to his feet after Remus left, with the kind of wild look in his eyes that usually meant trouble. “Alright, then.”
Sirius shot Peter each other a puzzled look — what’s going on?
“Upstairs,” James said, already heading for the boys’ dorm like they were supposed to just know what he was thinking and follow.
Not that it took Sirius long to catch on — he was on about the bloody dew again.
By the time they got to the room, James was already on his knees, yanking something heavy from beneath his bed: an entire leaning tower of books and rolled parchment, hidden under the Invisibility Cloak.
Sirius blinked. “What’s all this, then?”
“Found it in the Restricted Section,” James said, like it was obvious. “Been looking up the dew — but more importantly—” He grinned and unfurled a sheet so wide it nearly smacked Peter in the face. “—I found a map of the Forbidden Forest.”
Sirius stared at it blankly. “When? How?”
“You’d know if you hadn’t been spending all your time with your tongue down Emmeline’s throat.”
“Jealous, much?” Sirius shot back.
James ignored that, clearing a space on his bed to spread the map instead. “Look — we just need to plan it out better, right? If we go deep enough, it makes sense no one’s been there before. Untouched ground. Untouched dew.”
Sirius leaned over the parchment, taking it in. It wasn’t just a map of the forest — it was the entire grounds: the castle, the lake, all of it — sprawled so wide it spilled over the bed.
“Still a risk,” he muttered, eyes tracking the shaded edges.
Peter muttered something about centaurs or whatever other horrors might be lurking in the trees. James brushed it off, telling Peter he could stay behind if he wanted. The two of them were bickering again before Sirius even registered it.
Because he was still caught up on the map — on the fact that James had already marked several spots in red ink. None of them looked right for one reason or another. And staring at it made the stakes sink in; if they got this wrong, the entire Animagus plan would go up in smoke. They’d have to start again from scratch.
Before he could stop himself, Sirius said it aloud. “If we stuff this up — if someone’s touched it — we’ll have to start over.”
James scowled. “Well, I don’t see you helping.”
It was true. Sirius had been completely hopeless. No fucking help at all. At least James had been trying.
He nodded slowly, eyes still on the parchment. “We’ll look together.”
James’s expression shifted — softening slightly — and he tapped one of the circled points. “I think this is our best bet.”
It was a heavily shaded area, but a little too close to the castle for Sirius’s liking.
As they bent over the map, Sirius traced the dark ink lines — the tangled sprawl of the forest swallowing half the page. Ridiculous, really, all this planning for a bit of dew most people wouldn’t think twice about. But most people didn’t know what it was like to watch Remus limp through a week after the full moon, shoulders caved in, pretending it didn’t hurt. Did they?
It made Sirius feel really fucking stupid that they hadn’t cracked this yet. How hard could it be?
Remus would have figured it out by now, he was sure of it.
And If McGonagall could do it, surely they could too. Right?
They had more to lose than she ever did.
Because — fuck — this mattered. It mattered so much. More than Emmeline. More than the stupid fights and squabbling. More than anything.
They couldn’t give up on this. Not on Remus.
They’d just have to try harder.
Because this had to work. It just had to.
*** 1st November 1974 ***
Hogsmeade trips were usually electric — full of sugar, mayhem, and mischief — but today, it just made Sirius’s head hurt: a dull, insistent throb building behind his eyes.
This trip, especially, should have been exciting: it had fallen on a Friday, which meant all their afternoon classes were cancelled. Something about lining up with the Quidditch schedule. But it was hard to get excited when, between the four of them, they’d maybe managed a collective two hours’ sleep. James, Peter, and Sirius had been up all night “solving” the dew problem (read: arguing in circles and getting nowhere), and Remus — well. Sirius didn’t really want to picture how Remus had spent his night.
Though, despite his best efforts, it still came to him in flashes: skin tearing, Remus screaming, claw marks covering the walls.
It was enough to make him shudder.
Even if Remus had assured them he was fine. Even if, by all accounts, he looked it too— colour back in his face, sleeves unbloodied. But Sirius didn’t trust it. Not entirely. Not after the scar he’d hidden for months. Not after the way he’d smiled through the pain last time.
James tried anyway, as he always did, to lighten the mood — dragging them to Zonko’s, the sweets shop, and filling the air with nonsensical chatter about the upcoming Quidditch match on Sunday.
Sirius’s birthday.
But it was all falling a little flat, a little shorts
Eventually, the four of them wound up where they always did: the Three Broomsticks, huddled in the corner furthest from the door. The tavern smelled faintly of smoke and teenage funk, the tables a bit sticky — but it was familiar. And the bartender liked James enough to serve them firewhisky now and then. So, really, it was as close to comfortable as anywhere got.
Sirius nursed a hot butterbeer between his hands, trying to fight off the cold and the lack of sleep, steam curling against his palms.
They were talking about his birthday party a few days from now. Or rather, James was — mid-rant about party logistics and “real” Muggle drinks — when Peter dropped something that took them all by surprise.
“I invited Dorcas Meadows, by the way.”
The entire booth stilled for a moment.
“You what?” Sirius gawked.
James blinked. “As in Dorcas Meadows? Slytherin? Dorcas-with-the-eyeliner Meadows?”
Peter went a bit red. “Yes.” His fingers traced the rim of his mug like it was suddenly the most fascinating thing in the room, his eyes darting anywhere but at the three of them.
Sirius whistled low. “Bloody hell, Pete.”
“She’s cool,” Peter mumbled. “She’s nice.”
Too quick.
“She’s older,” James added, grinning like a jackal.
“She’s terrifying,” Sirius said. “I mean that with all the admiration in the world.”
Peter tried not to look too pleased with himself, but failed miserably — sinking back into his chair.
Remus shook his head, smiling faintly into his drink. “Merlin help us all.”
“But how?” James pressed. “How did this happen? Did you slip her a love potion or something? Is she concussed?”
Peter huffed. “We ran into each other at that stupid Tombs charity thing over the break. And then again in detention last week.”
“Oh my God,” Sirius said, eyes wide. “You bonded over scrubbing cauldrons?”
James sighed dramatically. “That’s tragically romantic.”
“You’re all horrible,” Peter muttered, hiding behind his mug.
They teased him a little more — just enough to make him squirm, but not enough to properly upset him. They’d learned their lesson from last time Peter had brought up a girl: Scarlett Holland, if he remembered correctly. After Peter confided in them, James had spotted her across the courtyard and yelled her name like a raving lunatic, while Sirius and Remus waved awkwardly. She’d gone red, and Peter had ignored them for the better part of a week. It had ended in tears.
They sat like that a while longer — staring at Peter like he’d grown a second head — until James, predictably, turned the conversation back to Quidditch.
He didn’t even try to steer the conversation back naturally. Just dove in, head first. “We’re going to crush Slytherin, by the way,” he said, trying for casual and failing miserably. “First game, first win, Sirius’s birthday weekend — it’s fate.”
“Yeah?” Sirius swirled the dregs of his drink. “What if your broom spontaneously combusts mid-air?”
James pointed at him. “That’s not funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be.”
Sirius grinned anyway. Or tried to. But the lack of sleep and the nerves about this stupid Quidditch game were starting to get to him.
Or more specifically — the Regulus of it all.
He hadn’t spoken to his brother since that day in the Great Hall. Had made a point not to actually.
Because Regulus had been flaunting his new position as Slytherin Seeker in that obnoxious way of his — swanning around the castle with his broom slung over his shoulder like a badge of honour, soaking up every scrap of attention the Slytherins could throw at him. Making sure to tell every single person in the castle all about it, except his own bloody brother.
So with Sirius’s birthday coming up, they were either going to keep ignoring each other and make the whole thing painfully awkward, or one of them would have to break the silence — equally awkward — and pretend it wasn’t strange that they’d be rooting for two very different Quidditch teams that day.
Regulus would be up in the air, squaring off against James — eyes sharp, brimming for a fight — and Sirius would be right there, draped in the wrong house colours and cloaked in family shame.
Like he was every year.
He ran a hand over the back of his neck and tried to go back to ignoring it.
It was fine . He’d survive it. He always did.
He just wished his brother's first quidditch match didn’t fall on his bloody birthday.
He might’ve worn a different scarf…
When he looked back up, Remus was watching him like he somehow knew.
Sirius raised an eyebrow. “What?”
Remus didn’t look away. “You’ve gone quiet.”
“Dangerous, that,” James muttered, taking a swig of his drink, “means he’s plotting”
Sirius flicked a peanut at him without breaking eye contact with Remus. “I’m fine.”
The corner of Remus’s mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not quite disbelief. “Right.”
Sirius forced a shrug, turning back to the dregs of his butterbeer. He could still feel Remus looking, steady and unblinking, like he was waiting for him to crack and spill everything across the table. Like some sorry sod.
He didn’t. Just asked James if he could get them all a round of firewhisky, “since the barmaid seems to like you so much” — like It might be enough to get the taste of Regulus out of his mouth.
But when James laughed and slid out of the booth, Sirius risked another glance across the table. Remus was still watching him, his thumb tracing slow circles against the side of his glass, eyes unreadable in the low light of the pub. Not prying. Not asking. Just… annoyingly observant.
Sirius held his eye for a beat, then huffed through his nose and looked away. Merlin’s sake, just drop it.
Chapter 9: Nov 3rd, 1974 (pt 1.) - Sirius's 15th Birthday
Summary:
Sirius’s birthday unravels into sibling tensions and Quidditch drama, pushing old grudges and loyalties to breaking point.
Notes:
TW:
Verbal abuse / toxic family dynamics
Minor injury / blood
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
*** 3rd November 1974 ***
Sirius woke on the morning of his birthday to dead weight on his ribcage, a bony elbow in his face, and James Potter singing happy birthday at the top of his lungs, shaking the bed.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake—”
“Happy birthday to you—” James threw one leg over him, straddling him, half-hug half-pinning him in place.
Sirius groaned, loud and pained. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Happy birthday to you—”
“You’re deranged. You’ve lost the plot.”
“Happy birthday dear—Sirius Orion Black, heir to the noble and most ancient house of—”
“I will hex you.”
“—Happy birthday to yooouuu!”
James flopped down on top of him like an overexcited Kneazle, all enthusiasm and delight, wiggling his ice cold toes against his leg. Sirius groaned into his pillow and flailed half-heartedly beneath him, trying to wriggle free.
Across the room, Peter made a long suffering noise and tossed a pillow in their general direction — clanging against the lamp on the nightstand. “Some of us are trying to sleep, you absolute pests!”
“It’s too early for this,” Remus muttered, perfectly dry, from behind his curtains, rubbing his eyes.
Sirius finally got a hand over James’s mouth—muffling his out of key birthday madness—only for James to lick his palm like a feral dog.
Sirius recoiled, pulling back his hand. “You fucking grot .”
James beamed. “I know.”
“Why are you on me?”
“Birthday tradition.”
“Get off me, Potter, now .”
James rolled to the side and bounced lightly on the mattress instead. “You’re lucky I let you sleep this long. I’ve been up for ages.”
Sirius cracked one eye. “You’re sick. You know that?”
“I thought you’d want to open your presents.”
“I don’t want them anymore. Burn them.”
“I’m telling Euphemia you said that.”
Sirius dragged the blanket over his head. “If I promise to get up, will you get off me?”
“Nope.”
“James.”
“Alright fine” The blanket vanished with a yank. “But only because we have things to do: presents, toasts, celebrating my best friend in the whole wide world.”
Sirius let out a third, proper groan and flopped onto his stomach like the sheer weight of the conversation had defeated him.
The room had that thin, blue edge of morning about it: cold and chill, the red hangings dull in half-light. A draught slithered through the cracked window latch and curled round their ankles. The sun wasn’t up yet—only the idea of it behind the curtains—and already Potter was being a thorn in his side.
And still, despite himself, a smile crept in. Because birthdays hadn’t always been like this for him.
He remembered his first one at Hogwarts all too well—sat awkwardly at the end of the gryffindor table pretending to eat breakfast while the older students talked about the upcoming hogsmede weekend.
He hadn’t spoken a word all morning.
And nobody had spoken a word to him either.
No owl from home. No card. No presents. He hadn’t told the boys, of course; because at least when no post came, he wouldn’t have to explain it to them.
He’d nearly gotten away with it too until Avery—of all people—had leaned across the table and wished him a Happy birthday. Just loud enough for James to hear.
Wait, it’s your birthday?
The way James’s whole face changed in that moment. The way he’d bolted mid-toast and reappeared ten minutes later with a lopsided cake he’d bribed the house elves to make, a candle he’d found in his trunk, and party hats from Merlin-knows-where. He’d made everyone sing. Loud. Off-key.
After that, James made a pact with him (though mostly with himself) that no one would ever forget his birthday again. And true to his word, every year after that, Sirius received cards from the Potters, more presents than he knew what to do with, and was thrown the world's most extravagant birthday party. Rivalled only by the ones James hosted in March, “birthday month,” for himself and the other Marauders.
And Sirius just… let him. Not because James Potter loved birthdays —although he did, with a burning passion — but because he was doing it for him. Or at least for the twelve-year-old version of who hadn’t expected anyone to care.
He’d cried that night. He remembered. Quietly, in the dark, once everyone else had gone to asleep.
It hadn’t been much—just enough to sting his eyes and blur the lines of the crimson tapestry above him. But it had felt different from all the other nights he’d cried at school that year—less about what he didn’t have, and more about what he did: the knowing that James had cared enough to notice.
“Oi,” James said now, nudging his calf with a foot. “Are you feeling the joy yet?”
“I’m feeling something. Might be nausea.”
“Perfect. It’ll be great practice for the party. I plan to get you absolutely wasted”
Peter groaned into his mattress. “I hope the giant squid eats you both.”
“Seconded,” Remus said, and Sirius could hear the smile.
Sirius rolled over at last, hair in his eyes, and squinted up at his best mate. “Thanks,” he said, voice still wrecked with sleep. But sincerely.
James’s grin softened, just a touch. “Don’t get sappy. We’ve got shit to do.”
Sirius smirked. “Godric help us all.”
They tumbled out of the tower in a tangle of limbs and teenage enthusiasm. James had an arm hooked across Sirius’s shoulders, while Peter tried to wedge himself between them as they raced down the stairs.
Remus hung back a little, rolling his eyes — never one for public displays of affection, or touching at all for that matter. But James, being James, couldn’t quite help himself; he reached out, ignoring Remus’s protests, to ruffle his hair.
“Keep your hands to yourself Potter,” Remus said, irritated, dodging James’s elbow.
“Birthday exemptions,” James said, deliberately pulling Sirius closer until their cheeks brushed. Sirius swatted him away, but grinned despite himself.
The Great Hall was all steam and pale morning light at this hour—porridge misting the air, a few professors bent over coffee in low conversation. They slid into their usual stretch of bench, knees knocking, shoulders crowding. James didn’t bother with toast; instead, he drew his wand and, with a practiced flick, summoned a plate of pancakes to himself.
“Gentlemen,” he said, dropping his voice in mock ceremony, “for my next trick: birthday cake.”
Another twitch of his wrist, and the pancakes rounded and smoothed, a neat layer of frosting spreading over them. Candles emerged from the top, their small flames guttering to life as if they’d always been there.
“Ta-da.” James looked entirely too satisfied for this early in the day.
“Show-off,” Remus muttered, though the curl at the corner of his mouth gave him away.
They all turned to Sirius, expectant, as though he’d volunteered for something faintly dangerous. He raised a brow, cut a slice, and took a bite.
It tasted faintly of wax and soap, with a texture suspiciously close to damp cardboard. He chewed, swallowed, and forced a smile.
“It’s… great,” he said, lying without hesitation.
Perhaps James’s skill in Transfiguration wasn’t quite what Sirius had believed. If this was any indication, their Animagus plan was in trouble.
James, undeterred, grinned like he’d just been awarded the Order of Merlin. “Good, right?”
He caught Sirius by the shoulders. “Figured you’d need some proper fuel if you’re going to cheer me on while I wipe the pitch with your little brother.”
“Fuel you say?,” Sirius deadpanned, frosting on his tongue. “Definately tastes like it.”
“Rude,” James said, snorting.
Sirius caught movement in his periphery—Marlene weaving through the slowly filling aisle, grinning wide and flashing every one of her ridiculously large teeth.
“Happy birthday, menace,” Marlene sang as she slid in behind them, already in her quidditch getup, dropping a kiss on the top of Sirius’s head like some forlorn lover. She smelled like hairspray and cheap perfume. He caught her hand as she sat, thumb stroking the ridge of her knuckles without thinking.
“Ready for today’s match?” she asked James, stealing his fork just to be cruel.
“You know I am,” James said, completely sincere, snatching it back from her.
They continued to bicker like siblings after that, until Zazzy wandered by to steal bacon and put them both in their place, and Pete launched into some stupid aside about how many pancakes each of them could fit into their mouths at once. But Sirius wasn’t listening. Not really.
Because Regulus had just walked in.
The Slytherin table shifted for him without so much as a second glance, as if he were some messiah. He looked up — already in full Quidditch gear, far less rumpled and muddied than Marlene’s — his expression knife-sharp. Their eyes snagged across the room.
They were grey today .
For a heartbeat, Sirius thought maybe— just maybe—
But Regulus looked away. Quick. Clean. Final. Like he hadn’t seen him at all. Although they both knew he had.
Right , Sirius thought, and cut his gaze back to the table, so that’s how it’s going to be.
He poked absently at the not-quite-right cake, dragging the edge of his fork through the frosting and nudging crumbs across the plate. The conversation lapped on around him, bright and easy, reaching him a second too late. Remus though had gone quiet beside him, wearing that particularly annoying brand of stillness that meant he was watching without making a show of it.
Thankfully, before he could speak, draw attention to it, or make things any more awkward than they already were, the morning post swept in — a winter of wings pouring through the high windows, feathers flashing, letters tumbling from the sky. The entire Hall lifted their faces in unison, instinctively.
Sirius, of course, didn’t bother, because he never got post. Not even on his birthday.
But a heavy red envelope landed in front of him with a solid thud anyway.
For a second, he didn’t quite understand what he was looking at.
Until he did. And then, all at once, the blood drained from his face, and his stomach knotted into something horrible.
They wouldn’t , he thought. Because this was a bit much, even for them—
But the seal uncurled with a mean little sigh, proving him wrong. The paper ballooned, split — and his mother’s voice flooded the hall, unmistakable in its venom, cold and cutting enough to make him flinch.
“SIRIUS ORION BLACK,” the howler shrieked, “did you STEAL a KNIFE from Borgin and Burkes?”
Forks froze mid-air. Heads turned to look at him in unnerving unison.
“Trust you to spend your birthday disgracing the family. Did you think I wouldn’t hear?”
His eyes flickered panickedly between the howler and his friends, who were all staring back at him with their mouths agape, horrified.
“The Burkes,” She went on, savouring it, “are FAMILY FRIENDS. You have EMBARRASSED us — AGAIN — with this thuggish, common behaviour. You will APOLOGISE for your actions, for disgracing this family, or you can wave goodbye to your inheritance. Do you HEAR me?”
He heard her. He heard nothing else. Heat rushed his ears; the rest of him went hollow. He could feel the stares like pricks of static across his skin. He wanted the floor to open and swallow him whole.
Then the bench jolted as James sprang up beside him.
He cleared his throat and, in a dead-on imitation of Walburga’s clipped tone, began to yell at the top of his lungs.
“HOW DARE you enjoy yourself in MY presence. How DARE you sprout a PERSONALITY. How DARE you partake in a single SCRAP of fun unless I have pre-approved it IN WRITING—”
Something stirred within him, and a startled sort of laugh slipped out— raw and involuntary.
Peter, bless him, scrambled up next and pitched in with his best society matron: “—and would you please comb your HAIR, you look like a COMMONER, and where is your TIE, I raised you better than this—”
A smile crept across his face, slowly at first.
Marlene barked, Zazzy actually wheezed, and the sound rolled like a wave — as the rest of the gryffindor table followed suit.
Everyone was laughing—
Except Regulus. Who was standing now, across the hall, rigid and pale and glaring daggers straight through them. He pushed back from the table hard enough to rattle cutlery and turned on his heel.
And Sirius knew, all at once and with ugly, crystal clear clarity, exactly why there’d been a Howler in the first place.
Reg had been the only one to see him palm the knife in the first place.
That little fucking snitch.
The thought lit him up from the inside — a fast, mean spark that wanted blood. All teeth and fists and something horrible.
As Regulus strode past the end of the Gryffindor table he flicked him a single, slicing look, and Sirius had to physically lock his jaw to keep himself from saying something he would come to regret. Who was he to glower at them for laughing — after he’d been the one to throw Sirius under the carriage in the first place?
He’d never been so angry in his life. It was his fucking birthday, and not only had his brother not even looked at him, but he’d—what—gone and told on him to their mother?
James slid back down onto the bench, breathless, and nudged him with a shoulder like nothing in the world could touch them. “Wouldn’t be your birthday without a bit of Black family drama eh?”
“Tradition,” Marlene said, wiping a few stray tears from her cheek and fixing her eyeliner.
Peter hiccoughed through a giggle.
Remus wasn’t laughing though.
He was just looking — steady and unblinking, the way he did when he was quietly taking stock of everything.
Sirius felt the look land and forced his mouth into something easy, light as he could make it, “Well. At least Mother sent something this year.”
It got the laugh it was designed to get.
And he swallowed the rest.
They filed into the grandstands draped in every shade of red and gold, as if they’d been dipped in it — scarves hanging proudly around their necks, buttons pinned crookedly to sweaters, Peter taking it one step further in a lion’s-head cap. The air had that thin, brittle bite of almost-winter, cold enough that they could see their breaths curling between them, but not cold enough to snow. Below, the pitch lay bright as a stage.
No one mentioned the Howler over breakfast — not the boys, not Zazzy, not any of the other Gryffindors they passed on the way over. It was as if the House had made a quiet agreement to follow the Marauders’ lead, keep the mood up, keep it moving, keep Sirius shielded.
He appreciated it, he really did — even if there was something faintly insulting about it.
And so, as Sirius came down the aisle, the whole stand seemed to swell around him. Hands shot out. Happy birthdays sung at him. Older students ruffled his hair like he was a mascot and not a person. He beamed for all of them — teeth, dimples, the works — letting each cheer catch and carry him to the next.
Under it, something sharp tugged at his ribs — part bitterness, part ache. Easy enough to smother if he smiled hard enough.
They claimed a row halfway up. Zazzy folded into the seat beside him, knees jiggling with anxious energy. Up close, the sharpness of her looked even more deliberate: a choppy pixie cut, hair darker than Sirius’s and stark, framed by careful cat-eye eyeliner. She’d really outdone herself this time — a patchwork of scarves, mismatched jumpers, and a skirt cobbled together from what looked like an old Gryffindor banner and a handful of ties, with red and gold streaks painted across her cheeks.
“Marlene’s got this,” she announced, like the match belonged to McKinnon alone. “She’s going to make these snakes wish they were never born.”
Sirius snorted — hard to argue with that kind of righteous fury. And after the morning he’d had, he was half-inclined to wish Regulus had never been born, too.
Peter nodded excitedly, lion hat bobbing. Remus eased down on Sirius’s other side without touching him, hands cupped around a paper cone of roasted nuts he didn’t seem interested in sharing. The four of them looked, for a moment, like the perfect picture of house pride— especially with Sirius drowning in an aggressively striped gryffindor knitted jumper and thick scarlet scarf. If the morning had succeeded at one thing, it was forcing him even further into the theatre of house division.
Across the stand, Mary sat with Lily — heads tilted close. Both of them had half-arsed their own Gryffindor colours, just a token scarf apiece,but they looked happy enough to be there. It landed wrong in Sirius’s chest, that little picture — the two of them choosing to sit so far from the rest of them. Not because it was new, but because of how it had happened.
Mary and Marlene had been inseparable since first year — ride-or-die in a way that meant summers spent together and communal lipgloss. Then Zazzy Wimple had arrived on the scene like a smoking gun. Not malicious. Just… perfectly pitched to Marlene’s frequency: quick, mean in that fun way, unbothered by anyone’s bullshit sort of way. Marlene adored it, naturally. Sirius did too, if he was honest — Zazzy’s snark was tuned perfectly to his own. But somewhere in the slipstream of all that, Mary had been left behind.
It hadn’t exploded so much as boiled over — quiet and steady — until suddenly the two girls were on opposite ends of the sofa and Lily had stepped into the gap.
“Eyes up, Black,” Zazzy said, nudging him with a knuckle. “It’s showtime.”
The Gryffindor team strode out of the tunnel in a rush of adrenaline — brooms shouldered, hair already windswept after their morning practice. The stand erupted. Red-and-gold streamers flew.
James led them as they kicked off the ground with the practiced arrogance of a boy who knew he was good, and had absolutely no intention of being humble about it. He barrelled past the center line, did a lazy spin just for the spectacle, and winked up at their section playfully. Sirius groaned and grinned in the same breath.
“Prat,” Remus said, but there was a softness tucked in the word.
Matthew McKinnon followed, all square shoulders and sharp jawline. A pair of fifth-years in front of them melted at the mere sight of him; Zazzy snorted and elbowed Sirius to point it out.
The noise climbed another rung. Stomping. Whistling. Red everywhere. For a moment, Sirius let it fill his ears until there wasn’t room for anything else. He whooped with everyone else, hands cupped around his mouth, and let his voice carry.
And the game hadn’t even started yet.
The noise dipped when the Slytherin team strode out — not quieter, exactly, just meaner. Tighter. Further away.
And there he was. His little rat of a brother, shoulder to shoulder with Cassius fucking Avery, who was lapping it up just like James had. Almost a mirror image: All blonde and effortless where James had been wild and untamable — precision instead of punch.
Then Regulus.
Every snake in the grass was pouring it on him — claps too crisp, laughter riding the edges. It didn’t fade like it should’ve. It lingered. Like the whole end of the stand was enjoying pressing a thumb into a bruise only he could feel.
Sirius could feel the vibration of their applause like his own temper in his bones, a hot, tight hum under the scarf at his throat—
A knock to his knee interrupted the thought. Remus . Eyes forward. Expression soft.
Sirius exhaled, forced a smile. Prick knew what he was doing. And thank God for it.
The whistle shrieked. Brooms lifted.
It was even from the offset — both teams perfectly matched to each other. Zazzy jittered beside him, leg bouncing so fast the bench trembled; she kept muttering, “C’mon Marls, c’mon Marls,” like a spell. It crawled over into Peter, who started fidgeting with his scarf fringe and then the sleeve of his jacket and then the fringe again.
Cassius was playing an absolutely filthy game — shouldering the Gryffindor Beaters, flying recklessly, making contact whenever and however he could. But it was James he was really zeroing in on. Each time James broke for the Quaffle, Cassius was there in his periphery, driving the Bludgers at him with unnerving aim. One caught James’s ankle hard enough to jar him sideways; another missed his shoulder by a hair and cracked against the goal hoop with enough force to make the stands flinch. It was impossible to tell if Cassius was gunning for the win, or for James specifically — which Sirius couldn’t help but take personally.
Because, in their own ways, they’d both tried to stake a claim on Sirius over the years, squabbling over it incessantly — Avery, his first real friend, and James, his brother in everything but blood.
Every time James muscled the Quaffle through the Slytherin hoops, Sirius roared himself raw. Suck on that , he thought, grinning like a maniac. He tried not to look directly at Cass or Regulus.
Which meant, of course, that he found him — Regulus — hovering high, a dark, neat speck on the horizon. Patient. Hunting. Sirius screwed up his nose and looked away.
Zazzy said something sharp and funny that pulled Sirius’s eyes from the pitch for a brief moment, and he barked a laugh, head turned—
—until a sudden, sharp sound cut through the air, dragging him back — the entire grandstand gasping in unison.
Sirius looked on in horror as James wrenched his broom hard to the right to avoid Cassius’s charging line. The swerve carried him straight into the path of another player — fucking Regulus — who seemed to have appeared out of thin air, suddenly close enough to touch. In the next heartbeat, they collided.
For a moment there was nothing.
Then Regulus came loose mid-air.
He was falling.
Toward the ground.
Fast.
James dove instantly, broom screaming, hands out, but Regulus was dropping too quickly — limbs slack, uniform snapping like a flag in the wind — the grass rushing up in a green blur that made Sirius’s stomach churn.
Time slowed down. The pitch widened. The world narrowed into a thin, bright edge he couldn’t bear to look at.
Reg landed with a violent, sickening thud that echoed through the stands and lodged under Sirius’s ribs.
Remus shot to his feet beside him,swearing loudly beneath his breath, fingers white on the railing. Peter not far behind him. Zazzy went still.
Silence dropped over the stadium like a curtain.
And then Sirius felt it: every eye in the school turning to look at him at once... for the second time that day.
He didn’t move. Couldn’t. His breath hitched somewhere deep and useless.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Peter was talking to him, he thought. Zazzy too.
But he couldn’t make out any of what they were saying — it was too muffled and distant.
His eyes glazed over.
Then Remus yanked him back to reality by shaking his shoulder, hard. His spindly fingers digging into the sleeve of his jacket.
“Sirius,” he said, fast, but steady, “let’s go.”
Everything snaps back into focus around him. The red hits first — Gryffindor banners, scarves, a smear of paint across Zazzy’s cheek. Red, red, red . He drags his eyes to the pitch and finds red there too.
Was Reg bleeding?
He let Remus yank him, moving on instinct as they shoved through bodies and down the steps. He couldn’t feel anything except the slight prickle of his skin and his own heartbeat pounding in his throat.
What the fuck what the fuck what the—
Was Reg okay?
What happened?
He took the last few stairs two at a time. Madam Pomfrey was already crouched over Regulus, wand flashing quick and sure, the Slytherins closing ranks around him. Avery included. Looking a little coy.
They parted for Sirius without a word. Instinct, or guilt. Take your pick.
Regulus tipped his face up at him — pale, spattered — a split in his eyebrow bleeding down his temple. For the first time all day, he locked eyes with Sirius.
Sirius took him in without meaning to, his gaze catching on every mark, every thread of tension. Pain sat mean at the corners of his mouth, pulling it tight, like he could hold the hurt in with his teeth. Biting down so hard muscle twitched in his jaw. But he didn’t cry.
Regulus never cried.
His left arm was clutched tight against his chest as Pomfrey fussed, voice breaking the air in clipped fragments he barely caught — “displaced… fractured… keep still.”
Sirius opened his mouth to say something, anything — Are you okay? What happened—
Until, through gritted teeth, Regulus cut the thought short , “Potter did that on purpose.”
It sliced clean through the thin thread of sympathy he’d been holding.
What the fuck?
James wouldn’t do that.
He was reckless, sure. But cruel? Never.
“Oh, shut up, Regulus,” Sirius snapped, too fast, the words hitting harder than he meant. “Don’t be thick.”
But his heart kept thundering against his chest, red pricking at the edges of his vision. He looked his brother over again — the blood, the clench of his jaw, the way his fingers trembled where they dug into his sleeve.
He wasn’t okay.
He might have looked it at first glance — or close enough to — but the furrow between his brows gave him away. Sirius knew the look he was wearing too well.
The mask.
Behind Pomfrey, Cassius was hovering. Eyebrows knotted, looking everywhere but back at him.
Sirius swallowed against the drum in his throat, fighting the urge to shove everyone back and make space that didn’t exist. He could feel eyes from the stands pinning him — heat along the side of his face, the school waiting to see what the Black boy would do.
Punch someone?
He forced his voice down, steadier. “You’re fine, Stop being a baby,” he told Regulus, like saying it might make it true. “You’re alright.”
“He bloody knocked me out of the air!”
“Oh, bullshit,” Sirius snapped before he could stop himself. “He swerved. You were in his blind spot.”
Regulus’s mouth twisted. “Right. Golden boy ‘swerved.’ Convenient.”
“Convenient is you milking it,” Sirius bit back, heat prickling under his collar. “You bounced. The pitch is charmed. Try less theatre.”
“Try less delusion,” Regulus fired, chin lifting. “He hates me.”
“Well he can join the club,” Sirius said, dry.
Regulus bared his teeth — not a smile — and Pomfrey’s wand flared. “Enough,” she ordered, not looking up. “Both of you.”
Sirius settled down, barely.
“Sirius—” James’ voice cut in, breathless as he skidded up beside him, Peter and Remus in tow. “I’m sorry—Regulus, I’m— I saw Avery cut in on my left, I pulled right and— I didn’t see you— I swear, I didn’t—”
“Save it,” Regulus ground out through his teeth, flinching as Pomfrey prodded his arm.
“I mean it,” James said, voice cracking into something close to pleading. “It was an accident. Are you alright? Reg, I’m— I’m sorry.”
“Don’t call me that,” Regulus snapped. “better yet, don’t bloody speak to me at all.”
“All of you, out,” Pomfrey said, finally stepping in — small and ferocious — shouldering James aside to get at her patient. “You can apologise when he’s not bleeding from his head. Mr Black, let me see that arm properly— and good heavens, hold still—”
The Slytherins closed around Regulus again, protective as a fist, pushing the Gryffindors out. As they moved, Sirius caught it: Regulus’s sudden, overly dramatic limp — too pronounced to be real.
Clown.
Fucking snitch.
And there it was again, sour and just as certain as before — the old suspicion snapping its jaws. If anyone had run to Walburga about Borgin & Burkes, or anything else, it would be this clown, hamming it up and daring him to make a scene.
“Sirius,” James said again, dragging his gaze back. “I promise I didn’t aim for him — Avery checked me from behind, I swear—”
For half a second, Sirius’s anger slipped. James was pale as anything, hazel eyes blown wide, panicked. Sirius knew that look. He knew the shape of James’s remorse down to the heartbeat.
He was about to turn and console him — grab him by the arm and tell him it would all be okay —
When James added, “It was Avery.” His jaw was tight. “He got in my way on purpose. It was his fault.”
And something in Sirius just… blew.
Because of course Regulus would blame James. And of course James would blame Cassius. Round and round the same stupid carousel they’d been riding since first year — Cass lighting a fire he couldn’t resist stoking, James bristling on instinct; Cass smirking harder for the sport of it. A tug-of-war with him as the rope.
And now James was poking the bear in the middle of a pitch full of snakes and vipers and blood in Regulus’s brow—
“Merlin, James,” Sirius barked, louder than he meant to, hands flying. “Can you stop making everything about Avery for one bloody second? Just— fuck off.”
The words punched the air between them. Peter flinched. James blinked like he’d been slapped.
Remus moved — steady hand reaching for Sirius’s shoulder, the same anchor he always offered — and Sirius shrugged him off on reflex. Hard. Too hard. Remus moved back a step, a flash of surprise flickering across his face.
“I need space,” Sirius said, breath coming short and hot. “I need—”
Air. Noise. Anything that wasn’t this.
He turned and started walking, pushing through green and red and the weight of a thousand eyes on him.
“Sirius!” James called, voice climbing. “Where are you going?”
“To find Emmeline,” he threw over his shoulder without slowing.
“What about your party?” James again, smaller now, frayed at the edges.
Sirius didn’t turn. “I’ll see you there, I guess.”
And he kept moving, jaw set, the stadium’s roar thinning to nothing but the hard, unshakable beat of his own pulse pounding in his skull.
Notes:
In the next chapter: Sirius's birthday party, loyalty tested even further, and a surprise guest!
Chapter 10: Nov 3rd, 1974 (pt 2.) - Party in the Greenhouse
Summary:
Sirius isn't having a very happy birthday.
Notes:
TW: injury (sports accident), family conflict, substance use/intoxication, drug use (potions as an allegory)
Chapter Text
*** 3rd November 1974 ***
He didn’t realise his hands were shaking until Emmeline’s fingers threaded through his: warm, steady, and grounding. Normally, he’d have waited until they were further from the Quidditch pitch, out of sight onlookers, before leaning in. But he was boiling, too angry to care who saw.
Her voice was low and calm, her thumb tracing slow circles into his palm — he barely registered it. In his head, Regulus was still falling: a small body twisting and writhing through empty air, James diving after him faster than he’d ever seen him move before, Cassius Avery hanging just above it all, watching. Then the shouting — all three of them crowding in, pointing fingers, each insisting the other was to blame. Regulus again, but this time slick with blood.
The image made him flinch.
“Sirius.”
“What?”
“I asked if you wanted a smoke.”
He nodded. When she passed him the packet, she cupped his hands as if to still them. But the tremor didn’t stop.
He let her steer them across the grounds without asking where they were going. Because quite frankly, he didn’t care. Anywhere was better than here.
Behind them, the pitch roared back to life — the crack of a Bludger, the commentator’s voice carrying over the wind, the crowd’s cheer cresting and breaking like waves. It was enough to make his stomach churn.
By the time they reached the Black Lake, smoke from his cigarette curled into the cold air. A small group of Ravenclaws sat huddled in a circle by the water. He didn’t any recognise them, outside of knowing the were Emmeline’s friends. She looked at home with them the same way he did with the marauders, and tugged him down beside her.
Each of them looked like tortured poets in their own right. One boy with wavy brown hair and a teachers pet sort of vibe about him — all rolled cuffs, sweater vests, and a vacant gaze that was impossible to read. A very tall girl with pale, almost translucent skin, hair so blonde it got lost in the light, lips painted a deep, unsettling red — consumption chic, if that was even a thing. And then Daniel Vale’s sister, who looked every bit as brooding and untouchable as her brother.
They all smiled at him knowingly, which made Sirius wonder just how much Emmeline had told them about their relationship.
The group shifted to make room without missing a beat in their conversation — something he appreciated. Their chatter was loud and relentless, a steady thrum he could hide behind, keeping his head from wandering back to—
Regulus falling again. Limbs bent out of shape, the air rushing past him, hair whipping in the wind.
The Howler from that morning. A red envelope splitting open, paper curling like it was alive, his mother’s voice tearing through the Hall.
The urge to scream or bite down on his hand came on sharp and violently. He fought it off, taking a long drag from his cigarette instead. He didn’t pull away when Emmeline’s fingers threaded back through his. Her hand twitched in small, quick movements, like she was trying to keep him anchored without saying it aloud.
So. She must have told them something about him, at least.
They didn’t have to hide here.
He smiled small, and despite himself at that.
The boy with the wavy hair introduced himself as Gaspard Shingleton. The pale girl was Emily Fairchild, and Violet Vale gave him a short, halfway sort of nod.
He tried to smile back, but wasn’t sure if it landed.
“You okay?” Emmeline asked.
The others just looked at him, wide eyed — expectant and awkward.
“Yeah, yeah — I’m fine, it’s just—”
“—your fake brother and your real brother got into a fight over you in front of the whole school?” Emmeline finished for him, throwing back to the joke from other day by the lake.
He barked a short, bitter laugh. “Yeah. Something like that.”
Gaspard laughed too, then reached into his coat. “Here,” he said, passing over a battered silver flask. “You look like you could use it.”
The smell alone made Sirius’s eyes water. But he downed it in one swing, the burn cutting through the smoke curling in his mouth — bitter, tart, with a hint of something medicinal lurking under it.
“Jäger,” Gaspard offered, without needing to be asked, catching the way Sirius’s nose crumpled as he swallowed. “Horrible stuff.”
Sirius’s whole body shook with it, an involuntary jolt as the warm liquor worked its way through him. The hand not holding Emmeline’s dug into the grass, pulling at the blades until the roots gave.
Merlin, he must look like an absolute psychopath — twitching like this, needing to be soothed like a bloody child. But —
Fuck’s sake.
Couldn’t he just have one birthday where things were easy? Where he didn’t get into a screaming match with his best friend in the middle of the quidditch pitch, where James didn’t try to guilt him over Cassius Avery, where his mother didn’t send him a humiliating howler in the middle of breakfast?
Was that too much to ask for?
The others drifted back into conversation until someone asked, “It’s your birthday today, isn’t it, Black?”
He nodded slowly, took another swig from the flask, and passed it back. “Yeah. It is. You lot should come to my party.”
Emily — the blonde with the lipstick — smiled at that. “It’s not a kids’ party, is it? We don’t usually hang around with kids from the year below.”
Sirius pulled a face, mock-offended. “What do you take me for?”
“Emmeline’s coming,” he added.
Emily tilted her head. “There’ll be booze?”
“Yes, obviously.”
“Potions?”
Sirius laughed, genuinely puzzled. “What kind of potions?”
Emily laughed harder. Emmeline too.
“Aww, Baby Black,” Emily teased.
The two girls locked eyes for a long beat, some wordless agreement passing between them, until Emily cracked a grin. “Alright, we’ll come. But wait here.”
She disappeared toward the castle and came back with a fistful of small glass vials, the liquid inside shifting between deep violet and shimmering silver as she moved. They clinked softly against one another in her hand. She’d changed, too — out of her heavy jumper and skirt into flared, high-waisted trousers and a fitted blouse, her lipstick reapplied to that perfect, unsettling red.
“Thank me later,” she said, pressing one into Sirius’s palm.
He eyed it suspiciously, but the others were already halfway through theirs, glass tilted to the sky.
“Alright,” he muttered, and downed it like a shot, nose wrinkling at the sharp, herbal burn.
He could feel it work immediately. At first, just a curl of warmth simmering in his stomach — the kind you’d barely notice if you weren’t looking. Then, it began to spread, slow but deliberate, unfurling through his chest and into his arms, winding around his ribs like something alive.
By the time it reached his fingertips, it had sharpened into a sort of fizzing hum that made the hairs on his arms stand on end. The grass beneath him felt softer. The air itself seemed to vibrate, as if the whole world had shifted a half-inch closer.
Heat climbed the back of his neck, swept up into his face, set his pulse pounding in his ears. Colours deepened. The sky looked impossibly clear, the lake impossibly dark. The chatter around him blurred into something warm and fluid, like music without words.
His pupils blew wide, and he realised he was grinning.
The world was bright.
Warm.
And he felt… fucking fantastic.
Merlin.
He laughed. Couldn’t help it. It came out too loud, too bright, like it didn’t quite belong to him.
“Bloody hell,” he said, looking down at his hands like they were new — turning them over in the light, watching the way his skin seemed sharper, more there. “What is this?”
Emily only smirked. Emmeline didn’t answer, just watched him with that slow, knowing look that meant she was feeling it too.
Merlin, he felt like he could run laps around the lake and still have breath left to laugh at the end.
For a moment, the Howler, Regulus falling — all of it — felt very far away. Almost funny in its distance.
Almost .
Emmeline turned to him then, like she was making sure he hadn’t floated clean out of himself. Her hands came up to either side of his face — freezing cold, a shock against the heat running wild under his skin.
“You good?” she asked, eyes searching his.
He felt suddenly, stupidly giddy, noticing everything at once — the warm brown of her eyes, the scatter of freckles across her cheeks, the way her lashes curled at the tips. “Yeah,” he said, grinning, “I’m fucking fantastic.”
“You sure?”
He was buzzing, every nerve lit. “Certain.”
“Okay.” A pause. The faint curl of a smile. “We should go, then. We’re already running late”
She didn’t drop her hands right away. Let them linger just long enough that he could feel the cold sinking into his skin, meeting the warmth from inside, sparking where they met. When she finally stood, he followed without thinking, still caught in the afterimage of her face — the freckles, the lashes, the curve of her mouth — burned bright in his mind as the rest of the world tilted and shimmered around it.
Sirius arrived late to his own party.
Not dramatically late. Just late enough for it to be noticed — for the candles in the greenhouse to already be flickering, the drinks flowing, and air thick and humid with chatter.
He stepped inside with Emmeline and the other Ravenclaws, smelling faintly of smoke and Jäger. The greenhouse shimmered in a low, golden light. Gryffindor banners were strung across the ceiling. Someone had looped fairy lights through the low hanging vines and charmed them to spin like disco balls. It was ridiculous. Charming. Very James.
“Birthday menace!” Marlene yelled as she barreled towards them, dragging him into a hug tight enough to wind him. Her older brother followed behind her and clapped him on the back; someone else from the quidditch team mussed his hair. Sirius grinned for all of them — broad, easy, letting it roll over him — until his eyes snagged on a point across the room.
James.
Leaning against the drinks table like he’d been taken root there, cheeks flushed, hair a disaster after the day's game. When he smiled, it landed square in Sirius’s chest, and just like that, the rest of the day — the pitch, the shouting, the bloody Howler — went out like a snuffed candle. Because it was James. And James was smiling.
And Sirius was high as a kite.
The grin on his face went loose and stupid. James pushed off the table, weaving through the crowd, and pressed a drink into his hand. “Prat,” he said, voice warm enough to undo him.
Sirius tipped his head, pretending to think it over. “Prat,” he echoed, and then he was leaning in, shoulder to shoulder, head tipping toward him like gravity had ideas.
“Look who finally showed,” James said, mock put-upon but not moving when Sirius slung an arm around him, drink sloshing precariously in his hand.
“Had to make an entrance.” Sirius’s words came slow, lazy, his nose brushing James’s temple like he couldn’t help it.
“Are you drunk already?”
Before Sirius could answer, Emmeline’s laugh curled up from beside him. “Not exactly.”
The edges of the room blurred, fairy lights bleeding into stars, music humming under his skin. Everything was warm — the air, the press of the crowd, James’s face sharp and bright in the middle of it. The curve of his mouth, the mess of his hair, the ridiculous crinkle at the corner of his eyes beneath his glasses.
Sirius reached out without thinking, brushing two fingers along his cheekbone, tracing the line of his jaw.
James froze for a beat, then laughed — surprised and bright — catching Sirius’s wrist loosely. He looked at him like he was trying to fit the pieces together.
“He’s high,” Emmeline offered eventually, grinning over her glass. The other ravenclaws had already dispersed somewhere in the crowd.
“Am not,” Sirius muttered, though the words went nowhere. James’s thumb was moving against his wrist, small and absent, and Sirius leaned closer like that might anchor him.
“You smell like smoke,” James said.
“Pourvu que ça me tue plus vite.” Sirius told him, dead serious. (roughly translated: I hope it kills me faster/Let’s hope it kills me faster)
“Posh prat. Five minutes with the Ravenclaws and you’re already speaking another language. What did you just call me?” James huffed a laugh, arm slipping around his waist when Sirius listed slightly. Somewhere across the room Peter caught his eye and mouthed something ridiculous. Remus watched from the edge, mouth curved in that quiet, knowing way of his.
Sirius didn’t pay it any notice. He was still looking at James like he’d just remembered how much he adored him, and James — for all the noise and heat around them — was still looking right back.
“Mon chéri” he teased. (roughly translated: My Dear/My Love)
James’s arm stayed firm around his waist, warm through the fabric. His eyes flicked over Sirius’s face — pupils, grin — and something in his expression shifted, just for a second.
“You’re buzzing,” he said, low.
Sirius smirked. “Might be.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Lake,” Sirius shrugged. “Made friends.”
James really looked at him for a second, as if trying to decide whether to push the point, then just laughed and tapped their cups together. “Happy birthday, you prat.”
Sirius grinned back, stupid and wide. “Thanks, you prat.”
James kept looking at him a beat too long, hand still steady at his side. Sirius didn’t mind.
James’s eyes flicked past him, toward the door. And all at once something in his face shifted — all that loose, lopsided warmth snapping out of him at once.
“Merlin, Sirius — you didn’t.”
Sirius blinked. “Didn’t what?” He laughed, not following, but turned anyway.
And, immediately, he understood. Because as he turned, there was Cassius Avery, Dorcas Meadows, and bloody Mulciber — walking in like the greenhouse had been built for them, not him. Like they’d just swept in from somewhere far more interesting and important, and everyone here should just be grateful they’d decided to give them the time of day. He was still half-sprawled over James — which was good, because otherwise he might’ve fallen over.
Because, fuck.
He might’ve.
He scrubbed a hand down his face, getting momentarily distracted by the way his own skin felt beneath his fingers before the memory landed.
Oh. Yeah. He did.
He’d invited Cassius the other night in the greenhouse. When he’d gone out looking for emmeline and stumbled into Cass instead. Firewhisky in his veins, half a bottle already finished between them.
Beneath him, James’s whole body shifted — not much, but enough for Sirius to feel it.
He was mad.
“I only invited Cass,” Sirius said quickly, as if it excused it. “Not Mulciber.”
James’s mouth twisted. “Because that’s so much better.”
“Pete invited Dorcas,” Sirius added, pointing a finger like that helped. “You’re not mad at him.”
“Dorcas isn’t—” James cut himself off, choosing instead some horrible name for Mulciber that Sirius didn’t entirely catch over the music, but got the gist of.
“Go get rid of them.”
James’s voice was low, close to his ear. He jerked his chin toward the door where Cassius, Dorcas, and Mulciber were still lingering.
Sirius felt his shoulders tighten. Get rid of them? They were his friends. Well—Cassius was. The rest were… collateral.
The world was still fuzzy at the corners, music curling in his head like smoke.
“I mean it, Sirius.”
“They’re not hurting anyone,” he said, standing his ground.
James huffed — a short, sharp exhale — and let go of him. The sudden absence made Sirius pitch forward a step, catching himself with his toes.
“Right,” James said, voice flat. “Well I hope you weren’t planning on snogging Emmeline tonight. Because that lot will definitely rat on you to your mother.”
Beside him, Emmeline went still. Sirius had almost forgotten she was there.
He blinked at James, the words sinking in. Because — yeah. Fuck .
But also… would they?
Bloody hell. Mulciber would. Mulciber would run straight to his mother with the details, probably served on a silver platter. Avery might too, if it amused him enough. And Dorcas… Merlin, he couldn’t get a read on Dorcas at all.
She wore a cool, almost guarded look on her face, not quite a smile. But she was pretty; he could see why Pete liked her — all bright blue eyes, dark skin, and long braids that caught in the light.
And then, because the universe was clearly having a laugh, Avery peeled himself away from the others and strolled over.
“Hell of a match, Potter,” he drawled, all teeth.
James’s answer was cold enough to frost glass. A quick, clipped “yeah, right” — Sirius barely caught it — before he turned on his heel and disappeared back into the crowd. Dorcas followed after him, making a beeline for Peter — who was perched on the edge of a potting bench chatting to Zazzy. His cheeks were pink from the heat and drink, hair sticking up in three different directions, a dopey, eager grin already starting to form when he saw her coming.
Avery smirked after him. “What’s his problem?” he asked to no one in particular, Mulciber snickering behind him. Then his eyes landed on Sirius. “And you? What’s up with you?”
Sirius looked up, pupils blown wide, and just laughed. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
He tipped back the rest of his drink in one swallow.
Emmeline gave a small, nervous laugh beside him, nudging him upright with her hip. “Stop,” she murmured.
“How’s it going, Vance?” Mulciber asked, chewing on it.
“Fine,” Emmeline said, the word clipped but not sharp. Her face tightened into something pinched and guarded.
He gave her an idle once-over. “Shame, that’s a sour look for such a pretty face.”
Sirius’s stomach turned — fucking ew . The muscles at the back of his neck went tight.
Her brow arched, the corner of her mouth ticking upward. “Careful — someone might think you’re chatting up a half-blood.”
Mulciber’s smile thinned. “Couldn’t have that now, could we?”
“No. We couldn’t.”
Sirius felt the urge to plant his drink in Mulciber’s face, but his fingers only curled harder around the glass.
Why the hell had Cass brought him along — like some slimy mess he’d tracked in on the bottom of his shoe?
Mulciber’s mouth twitched, like he couldn’t decide whether to be amused or annoyed. Before it could land either way, Cassius slid in beside them, all smooth edges and refined ease.
“Making the rounds, Vance?” he asked, voice lazy.
“Something like that,” she said, giving him a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Cass’s gaze drifted to Sirius. “And you,” he said. “Looking better than you did in the stands. More colour in your face.”
Sirius felt his jaw tighten. Brilliant . Defend him to James one minute, get needled for it the next. He didn’t know why he bothered.
“How’s Regulus?” The words were out before Sirius realised he’d said them.
Cassius didn’t blink. “Fine. Aside from his pride being a little wounded.”
Sirius stared, brain ticking in slow, drunken circles. Could Cass have done it on purpose — barrelled into James, knocked regulus flying? The thought came from nowhere, but it stuck.
He might’ve.
“You didn’t—” he started, and then it was a question. “Did you?”
Cass’s smirk was a small, sharp thing. “On your birthday? What do you take me for, Black?”
“Wouldn’t put it past you.”
Cass’s mouth twitched again, softer this time, and he added under his breath, just for Sirius, “You’ve had worse birthdays.” Quick enough that Emmeline might not have caught it.
It pulled a short laugh out of him before he could stop it — quick and instinctive.
Emmeline stepped in then, voice bright enough to cut through whatever that was. “Drinks table’s over there, boys.” She tipped her head toward the far corner, already edging Cass and Mulciber in that direction.
They went, eventually, swallowed by the noise.
She stayed at his side for a moment, looking at him carefully. “Maybe James was right,” she said. “Them being here might not be such a good idea.”
Sirius tilted his head. “Yeah,” he said, though it felt more like a placeholder than agreement.
Because, Avery would behave. Sirius knew he would. It was his bloody birthday after all.
“They’ll behave”
She hesitated, looking at him for a second too long. “Your call.”
And then Remus was just there, appearing like he always did to diffuse the tension, a fresh drink in his hand. He passed it over without comment, replacing the empty glass Sirius was holding.
“All right, Sirius?”
“Fabulous,” Sirius said, with a grin he was having to force a little now.
Remus knew how he took his drink, of course, just like he’d known how he took his tea— bitter, strong, no fluff. No sugar, no garnish, nothing to get in the way. Sirius took a sip and smiled for real this time.
Merlin, his eyes are beautiful , he thought suddenly, like it was a fact he was just noticing for the first time. Warm brown, almost amber, catching the glow from the strings of fairy lights overhead, framed by lashes most people would kill for.
“Where’ve you been?” Remus asked. His voice was low, steady.
Sirius tipped his head back against the glass wall and told him — the lake, with Emmeline, and some of her friends. He didn’t mention the vials.
Remus’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was filing it away. “Want to sit down?”
“No.” Sirius shook his head. “I want to dance. With Emmeline. With you.”
Remus huffed a laugh. “Don’t think that’s the best idea.”
Sirius stepped in closer, grin curling at the edge. “Come on. Live a little.”
“I’m living plenty,” Remus said, taking a slow sip of his own drink.
Sirius leaned forward, elbows braced on the bar behind him so their faces were close. “James would.”
That earned him a raised brow. “You shouldn’t have upset James, then.”
“Oh, I upset James?” Sirius said, tilting his head like the words didn’t fit together. “Think you’ve got that the wrong way round.”
Remus smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Not getting into it with you while you’re—” He gestured vaguely at Sirius’s face. “—like this.”
Sirius straightened, feigning offence. “Like what?”
“Buzzing,” Remus said simply.
Before Sirius could come back with something clever, a voice cut between them. “I’ll dance with you,” Zazzy announced, bright as a firework.
He glanced sideways at Emmeline. She only laughed and flicked her ringed fingers in a little go on then gesture, nodding him off and disappearing into the crowd to find her friends.
Sirius turned back, grinning. “At least someone loves me on my birthday,” he said, loud enough for Remus to hear, and a few people nearby to turn their heads.
Zazzy laughed and looped her arm through his, pulling him toward the middle of the floor. Elton John was belting about the bitch being back — and Merlin, if Sirius didn’t feel that in his bones. All brass and strut, the crowd a blur of red and gold beneath fairy lights spinning like tiny disco balls overhead. He let himself be swept along, bass thudding in his chest, the air damp against his skin.
For a moment, it felt good — easy. But the thought he’d thrown out as a joke kept snagging, catching in the back of his mind.
Because it was a bit like that, wasn’t it?
Everyone fighting on his birthday.
Nobody
loving
him
James was ticked. His mother had screamed at him in front of the whole school. Remus wouldn’t dance with him. And Emmeline — his sort-of-girlfriend — couldn’t be seen with him because he’d been dumb enough to invite Cassius Avery to his party while half-cut on firewhisky.
The weight of it all caught up at once, dragging in low and sharp. His stomach dipped.
He spun Zazzy under his arm, plastering on a grin when she came back around.
Well. This was a mess.
But at least the music was good.
Rather than slowing down, letting himself sit with his feelings or anything halfway real — the fading artificial high from the potions, or the mess of thoughts trying to surface beneath it — Sirius kept drinking. Leaned into it, in fact. Let his friends keep feeding him drinks like they were fuelling a fire.
By the time James announced he was heading up to bed, Remus falling in behind him, Sirius was loose-limbed and more than a little off-centre, like the floor had shifted in some small, permanent way. Swaying and rocking beneath him. James scoffed when he didn’t follow them up, but he didn’t rise to it. Easier to keep drinking than deal with that.
And if he was being honest — which he rarely was, even with himself — he sort of hoped James would be asleep by the time he got back. So he wouldn’t have to do the whole meaningful look thing, or the i’m disappointed in you thing. Or worse: talk about his feelings.
At least Peter wasn’t being a party pooper like the rest of them. He was still here — wedged on the floor between Marlene and Dorcas Meadows, lighting up at literally anything Dorcas to say — along with a couple of the older Quidditch boys, Emmeline, and, of course… Cassius Avery.
Which would’ve been a problem if Dorcas wasn’t an unnervingly effective buffer — running commentary, rapid-fire storytelling, charming the absolute shit out of everyone. Even Marlene looked practically besotted.
They’d pulled into a close, tight knit circle of chairs and bodies in the centre of the room; the kind that only formed after the crowd had thinned, the music had softened, and the party had died down.
Sirius and Emmeline were shoulder to shoulder, her hand brushing his leg now and then — just enough to be intentional, but not enough to be considered affectionate. Not in any way that meant anything. Not in front of people.
It was easy. Not quite warm, but cold either.
He let himself sink into it, let the noise blur at the edges, leaning slightly towards emmeline from his place on the floor.
Until one of the Quidditch boys piped up, voice loud enough to cut through the lazy sprawl. “Oi, Black — your mum’s got a real flair for the dramatic, doesn’t she? That howler this morning? Fucking hell.”
A couple of them snorted like it was clever. Peter winced. Marlene’s mouth tightened.
Sirius forced a smile, slow and slurred around the edges. “Mother of the year right?”
That got another round of chuckles — light, careless — and for a moment it seemed like the ripple might pass.
Until Cassius, lounging with one knee drawn up to his chest and the other leg thrown out in front of him, still chuckling along with the others, chimed in — voice loose, almost nostalgic. “God, remember the garden party at Wilkes’? When she hexed us over ruining our jackets—?”
He didn’t get to finish.
The air thinned. Tightened. Even Dorcas paused mid-sip, glass hovering by her bright pink lips.
Cass blinked, glancing around at the sudden stillness like he’d just walked into the wrong conversation. His mouth closed over whatever else he’d been about to say.
Sirius didn’t look at him. Just smiled — thin and sharp — and reached for the nearest bottle. “Must’ve dreamed that,” he said, too quick, too light.
Because this wasn’t a Slytherin party, it was a Gryffindor one. And Gryffindors didn’t talk like that. Didn’t laugh about that . Didn’t understand that being hexed by your mother wasn’t shocking or horrible or cruel — it was just… what happened, in certain circles.
He tipped the bottle back effortlessly, eyes fixed forward like nothing in the room had shifted. Like his whole body hadn’t just gone completely rigid beneath the weight of what Cass had said.
A beat. Then another.
Cass leaned back against the glass wall of the greenhouse, quieter now, gaze still pinned to him. The usual smirk had slipped. Replaced with something else entirely. Not pity, exactly — something much harder to name. Something slower. Like a piece of a puzzle had clicked into place and he was turning it over, weighing what to do with it. Understanding.
The knowledge hung between them — sharp and invisible.
The others didn’t know.
Sirius had never told them.
And now Cassius had.
Sirius tapped his fingers against the glass firewhisky bottle, thrumming a restless rhythm, then angled toward Dorcas, latching onto something she said. He smiled, nodded. Performed.
The conversation slid back into place after that, voices softening, the circle folding in on itself like nothing had happened.
But Sirius could still feel it — the shift in the air, the uncomfortable silence beneath the chatter, the enormity of what Cass had just revealed.
*** 4th November 1974 ***
They made it up the back to the Gryffindor tower with more noise than sense. Peter tripped over the lip of the rug; Sirius caught himself on the doorframe, grinning too wide at nothing. It felt strange on his face after the night he’d had, stretched thin, like it had earlier that morning in the Great Hall after the Howler.
Remus groaned from behind his curtains. James sat up blearily, hair stuck to the side of his face, the candlelight from his nightstand throwing uneven shadows across the ceiling.
“What the hell—”
“Evening,” Sirius said, dropping his boots in the middle of the floor.
“It’s one in the morning,” Remus muttered.
Peter laughed, then flopped face-first onto his bed. The bedsprings creaked. James blinked at them, unimpressed, and lay back down with a sigh that stirred the dust in the air. The room smelled faintly of booze and something sickly.
They were prickly, short-tempered. No one was playing along.
Sirius took it like a blow. Because… of course they were pissed.
Curtains swished closed. Mattresses creaked. And the room very quickly settled back into the kind of silence that wasn’t quite sleep — but was just as pointed.
And Sirius was left alone with his own thoughts.
The Howler.
His mother’s voice, curling like smoke around every word.
The way she’d enjoyed it.
Regulus ignoring him.
Cassius needling James.
James hitting Regulus.
Regulus falling. The snap of impact. The collective gasp from the stands.
Stop it. Fuck.
He sat up too fast, head spinning. The fizzy warmth from Emmeline’s vial had long since drained away. The edges were sharp again, scraping him raw, and the reel in his head wouldn’t stop. He just needed it all to shut up for a while — to knock himself out before it chewed him to pieces.
His thoughts went short, mean.
He hated himself.
James fucking hated him.
He couldn’t stand his own skin.
His shirt sat wrong, his collar too hot, toes freezing.
He shoved the blankets aside and went for his trunk, quiet but hurried. There was a Sleeping Draught somewhere, he knew — the strong kind, the kind from home. The kind that could put him to sleep even at Grimmauld Place… turn the volume down.
The latch clicked. Too loudly.
“What are you doing?” James croaked from his bed.
“Nothing.”
Silence.
It stretched, heavy and deliberate, until Sirius could feel it pooling in the dark between them. He didn’t dare look over, but he could picture it anyway — James lying there, eyes half-open, frowning at him. The longer it went on, the more Sirius was sure he’d already been picked apart and written off. Every creak of the bedsprings, every shift in the blankets sounded like judgment — like James had decided not to say aloud how disappointed he was, just to make him sit with it.
James fucking hates me, he thought. And why wouldn’t he? After Sirius had blown him off that afternoon. After the party he hadn’t thanked him for, the one he’d turned up to high. After choosing Avery over them. After telling him to fuck off after the game.
But James’s words came out soft: “Come here.”
It landed wrong — too gentle. He didn’t deserve gentle. Not from him. Not when he’d been so sure James hated him minutes ago. The shift was whiplash; it made something in his chest twist, half wanting to go and half bracing for the catch.
Sirius didn’t move. Didn’t look. Couldn’t bear to let himself believe he might be forgiven.
He bristled, shoulders stiff.
“Sirius.”
He clamped his eyes shut.
“Please.”
It sat there in the dark, warm and patient.
And it killed him.
Because no one had the right to speak to him like that — not after the way he’d acted tonight. James should’ve told him to piss off and meant it. And yet…
The longer he sat with it, the more it twisted — the weight of James’s voice pulling at the part of him that wanted nothing more than to go. To take it. To let himself have the comfort, even if he didn’t deserve it.
…Okay.
The word landed somewhere low in his chest, loosening something he hadn’t realised he’d been holding tight.
He dragged himself over, the cold flagstones biting at his feet. The potion was long gone now, but the booze still threw off his balance. He slid onto the mattress — or rather, collapsed into it. The old smell of broom polish and soap from James’s blankets wrapped around him, too familiar to resist.
Now he lay flat, eyes fixed on the ceiling beams, a lump wedged high in his throat. His hand curled into a fist, nails biting deep into his palm.
James’s fingers brushed through his hair, light as breath — but, instead of comforting him like it should’ve, it just left him feeling disgusting.
“You’re okay.”
His next breath caught wrong in his chest — sharp, sudden, almost enough to shake something loose. His jaw locked, but the next exhale slipped out uneven, shaky enough that James’s hand stilled for half a beat. Sirius forced it steady on the next breath, as if nothing had happened, clinging to the rhythm like it might keep him from breaking open.
“You’re okay.”
Heat pricked behind his eyes. His teeth ached from clenching.
“You’re okay.”
His lungs stuttered on the next inhale before he forced it even.
Too close.
Too bloody close.
The lump eased, fraction by fraction. His nails eased out of his palm.
James’s fingers were still in his hair when Sirius forced himself to pull in a final steady breath.
Then, he cleared his throat and said, “Thanks for the party.”
James huffed a quiet laugh, thumb brushing an absent line across his temple. “Did you have fun?”
“Yes.” A lie.
“Good.”
They let it drift for a while after that — the room gone soft and hazy, the only sound the rustle of blankets when James shifted. Sirius kept his eyes on the ceiling, letting the rhythm of James’s breathing pull him back down from the edge.
“…Did we win the match?” he asked suddenly, because it was easier than saying anything real.
James actually laughed at that — startled, loud. “Obviously not.”
Sirius turned his head just enough to catch the curve of his grin. “What happened?”
“They benched me after Regulus fell,” James said, with the kind of indignant disbelief only he could pull off. “Bloody ref.”
That got a real laugh out of Sirius.
“Backup Slytherin seeker caught the snitch, if you’d believe it,” James added, rolling his eyes.
“No.” Sirius grinned wider, shaking his head against the pillow. “Tragic.”
They both laughed then — tired, worn around the edges, but real.
It settled again, warmer now.
“Really,” Sirius said after a moment, softer this time. “Thank you. For the party.”
“Of course.” James’s hand stilled in his hair for half a heartbeat, then kept going. “I’d do anything for you, yeah?”
Sirius turned his head properly this time, hair catching against James’s fingers. The lump was back in his throat, but he swallowed it down.
“I know.”
He made sure his breathing stayed even until James’s hand settled back into his hair — and kept it that way long after he closed his eyes. Lying there, wrapped in the heat and weight of it, he let the truth curl low in his chest where James wouldn’t hear it.
I don’t fucking deserve you.
Didn’t deserve any of it — the party, the touch, the patience. Not after tonight. Not after everything. But James’s hand stayed, and Sirius stayed still, letting himself have it anyway.
Because he was a selfish. fucking. prick.
Chapter 11: Nov, 1974 (pt 1) - Damage Control
Summary:
Sirius navigates the fallout from his birthday: Avery’s slip, strained friendships, Marlene’s suspicions, and a tense reconciliation with Regulus.
Chapter Text
*** 4th November 1974 ***
The fire in the common room had burned down to a low, lazy glow overnight — nothing left but a bed of embers and the faint hiss of shifting logs. The air still held that cold-damp edge of dawn, the kind that made you want to stay curled under blankets forever.
Instead, Sirius and James were up at the crack of dawn, claiming the two armchairs nearest the hearth, pulled close enough that their knees bumped lightly as they chatted. They complained about their lack of sleep like it was some cosmic coincidence — like sharing a single bed had nothing to do with it, like Sirius hadn’t spent the better part of the night keeping them both awake, on edge and panicked.
Both of them looked wrecked: hair in varying states of disaster, shadows pooled under their eyes, the faint smell of last night still clinging to their clothes. Between them, they’d probably managed three hours’ sleep at best.
James nudged him with his foot. “You were on my hair.”
Sirius gave him a look over the rim of his tea mug. “You had your elbow in my face.”
“I was defending myself,” James said, already smirking.
“From what? My breathing?”
“You snore.”
“I do not.”
“You do. Like a hippogriff in heat.”
Sirius tipped his head back and laughed, the sound ringing low in the quiet. James leaned forward, catching the edge of it until they were both shaking with it, giggling like idiots who’d forgotten the hour and were intent on waking the castle for a second time that morning. Sirius caught his breath first, sipping his tea and watching James double over with laughter— quietly grateful that he wasn’t steering them back to anything heavier.
The laughter eventually ebbed, replaced by a softer hum as they drank in silence. It was the good kind — easy, companionable, familiar.
The dormitory door creaked open across the room, and Remus stepped out, hair flattened on one side, jumper hanging loose on his shoulders. He paused at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the railing. His expression was unreadable — the kind that could easily tip into either amusement or judgment depending on where you pushed it.
“What are you staring at?” Sirius asked.
Remus’s look deepened — the kind of pointed glance that said , are you being serious right now? without saying a word. All of them knew better than to say that particular phrase in his presence by now.
“I’m not going to say it if you’re not,” Remus replied. Talking, of course, about how he and James and had been ready to tear one another limb from limb the last time he’d seen them.
James glanced up, feigning ignorance with an exaggerated blink. “Say what?”
The grin was too big, too stupid, for it to be anything but deliberate. He knew exactly what Remus meant.
Remus looked between them like he couldn’t believe they were going to make him say it. He rolled his eyes. “Never mind.”
“Oh, no — come on. Out with it,” Sirius pressed.
“Weren’t you two fighting, like… two minutes ago?” Remus said eventually, deadpan. Giving in.
Sirius smiled into his tea without looking up. “Don’t know what you’re talking about, mate.”
“Must’ve dreamed it,” James added.
Remus shook his head and crossed the room, lowering himself onto the arm of James’s chair, folding himself into their space for what felt like the first time all term — one leg hooked over the armrest, elbow braced lazily on the back. The three of them fit together without thinking, all in their own little sprawl around the fire, shoulders brushing, knees knocking, warmth bleeding between them as naturally as breathing.
“You’re impossible,” Remus said.
“No, what’s impossible,” James cut in, “is Sirius not getting rid of Avery last night.”
Sirius laughed — traitor . “What’s impossible is you thinking I’d throw someone out in the middle of a party.”
Remus only shook his head again, settling deeper into his perch as if he was any better. “Glad nothing’s changed. Although, would’ve been nice if you two could have stayed mad long enough for me to get five minutes of silence over breakfast — especially since you woke the whole tower up at one in the morning.”
“No such luck,” Sirius said, grinning.
The fire popped, scattering a few sparks up the chimney. Somewhere above them, footsteps began to stir in the dormitory — the light rumble of Peter, along with the rest of the tower, waking up.
For nearly eight in the morning, the Gryffindor breakfast table was unnervingly quiet. Just the faint rustle of a few first-years hunched over a stack of Chocolate Frog cards, and the soft clatter of jam jars being set back on the table. The few older students who’d managed to stumble down after last night's party mostly kept their eyes down, rubbing slow circles at their temples like it might rub the hangover clean out of their skulls.
More eggs, bacon, and slices of toast were going cold on plates than usual, alongside any manner of hangover cure a group of unseasoned teenagers might dream up — pumpkin juice cut with black coffee, mugs of something green and frothy, pickle brine in shot glasses, even a few chunks of raw ginger being passed around like sweets.
At the marauders end of the table however, James and Sirius were still riding the high of ignoring their problems, laughing like lunatics, shoulders crashing, teetering on the edge of flinging food at each other but stopping short only because half of the table were already shooting them dirty looks out the corner of their eyes.
Not that it would usually have slowed them down, but neither of them were feeling 100% themselves either. Sirius looked exactly how he felt — sick, nursing a hangover, and running on entirely too little sleep. His hair was knotted along his collar, shirt slightly rumpled in a careless rather than intentional manner, and his eyes faintly bloodshot. His stomach was rolling just enough to make him regret the bowl of oatmeal in front of him, and there was a rawness at the edges — too much regret from yesterday still clinging to his skin.
He brushed it off the way he always did: by jumping headfirst into chaos before he had time to sit with it.
“I still can’t believe you wouldn’t dance with me, Remus,” he said, leaning forward to jab his fork at him.
“I don’t exist just to please you,” Remus replied flatly, tearing a piece of toast into quarters in his hand. He looked cleaner than the rest of them— showered, shaved, and halfway put together. Like he’d somehow come out of last night untouched.
Sirius wondered how much of it was thanks to his werewolf metabolism, and how much of it was sheer willpower alone.
“That’s not true,” James said from behind his mug, grinning. “You just hate fun.”
Remus snorted. “If your idea of fun is prancing round the floor with this half-cut poncy lunatic, then yes. I hate fun.”
Sirius smirked, breath pulling in for the next shot—
When he caught Peter’s face across the table.
Quiet. Watchful.
Their eyes locked for a brief moment. Peter’s expression was pulled tight, uneasy, but Sirius didn’t need to ask why that was. He already knew. Peter’s teeth chewed at his bottom lip, a small tell that gave him away completely.
No matter how much he wished it hadn’t happened — how much he wished Peter would just forget it — he couldn’t take back what Avery’s big fucking mouth had thrown out last night
Sirius frowned at him. Narrowing his eyes in a way that said, in no uncertain terms: This isn’t a big deal, so you’d better not make it one.
“What are you staring at?” he said.
“Nothing.”
He didn’t look away, kept his eyes fixed on Peter, willing him to fold. As horrible as it sounded, Sirius knew he could keep Peter quiet — under his thumb — if he just spooked him enough. Peter wanted too badly to be liked.
And he might’ve felt bad about that, maybe , if Peter wasn’t sitting there being a little weirdo about it. The last thing Sirius needed was Remus… or worse, James hearing about what Avery said and taking it the wrong way.
Like Sirius was some poor baby who needed somebody to swoop in and save him from his mummy — from going home for Christmas. No. That wasn’t happening. He could handle his own life just fine without James Potter getting doe-eyed over it.
So he leaned in, voice low. “Then stop being weird about it.”
A knock against his hand under the table — James, catching the tension in the way Sirius was needling Peter. He shot him a look that said Quit it , but Sirius didn’t let up. Just tilted his head slightly, and raised his eyebrows in one last push.
“Or at least try to be less obvious about it,” he said, quieter still, low enough that the others wouldn’t overhear.
Peter’s mouth twitched like he might say something, but Remus cut in as he bit into his toast. “He’s hungover, leave him alone.”
Sirius smiled across at him, mask slipping neatly back into place.
“It’s going to be a long Monday,” James said, grinning.
Peter glanced at Sirius again. “Yeah. Hungover. Or something like that.”
Sirius huffed a quiet laugh through his nose and leaned back. “Lightweight.”
Peter didn’t answer, but Sirius could still feel the stare before Peter finally turned back to his tea. He didn’t meet it this time, flicking his attention back to Remus. Good. Keep your mouth shut.
“Anyway,” Sirius said brightly, “you, Mr Buzzkill, are dancing next time whether you like it or not.”
“Not a chance,” Remus replied.
“Bet he caves,” James muttered.
Sirius grinned, letting the banter swell back up around them, and swallow Peter’s concern beneath it. They glanced at each other again and Sirius felt… reasonably sure he wouldn’t push it.
Marlene, on the other hand — Marlene, “who couldn’t keep her mouth shut to save her life”, Marlene, “James’s childhood best mate” — well, she might be a problem.
Sirius’s gaze drifted down the hall to the Slytherin table, where she was tucked in beside her brother, waving her hands around animatedly. Sirius’d always liked him — Marlene’s middle brother, Macbeth. Maybe not as much as he liked Matthew, but he was one of the rare Slytherins who didn’t make his skin crawl — charming, easy-going, level-headed enough to to survive that snake pit without becoming sharp and joyless. The kind of person he could respect.
Which was why it put a twist in his stomach to see him laughing along with Marlene and… Dorcas Meadows.
They probably weren’t talking about him. Almost definitely not. It was probably just a coincidence that the two of them had decided that today, of all days, would be the perfect time to strike up a friendship. It was just his ego talking — the part that assumed every glance, every laugh, had something to do with him. Still.
He was on his feet before he’d thought it through.
“Where are you going?” James called after him.
“Catch you in class,” Sirius said, already halfway across the Hall. Remus didn’t bother to ask — just looked at him in that way he did when he’d decided to wait for the story later.
Sirius slid into the empty spot beside Marlene like he’d been invited — all smooth and casual. The Slytherin girl on the other side of her recoiled at the mere sight of him, like he had some communicable disease.
And then there was his little brother, a few seats down, watching him with that flat, masked look of his — eyes cool, mouth pressed in a line that could have meant absolutely anything, or nothing at all. That was its own problem entirely. One for another time. He didn’t have the energy to deal with Regulus, his moods, or his treachery this morning.
Marlene grinned at him toothily. “Morning,” she said, looping him straight into the conversation.
Not about him, thankfully.
He slipped into the rhythm easily, tossing insults back and forth with Macbeth, who was grinning dopily from beneath a mop of messy brown hair. Dorcas kept quiet at first, but it didn’t take long to notice Marlene’s attention kept catching — leaning in when she spoke, smiling at things no one else blinked twice at. Sirius could’ve almost sighed with relief; because if Marlene was busy hanging off Dorcas’s every word, she wasn’t pulling apart Avery’s throwaway line from last night.
“How are you feeling today, birthday boy?” Dorcas asked after a while, smiling over her cup of black coffee.
“Peachy,” Sirius said.
She laughed. “You were completely shitfaced when I left last night.”
“Excuse you,” Macbeth said, cutting in, “Where was my invite?”
“You always have an open invitation McKinnon. Obviously.”
And it was true — not just because Macbeth McKinnon was the cool, unbothered kind of older student you wanted to be seen with at a party — once famously caught smoking pot in the dungeons and somehow walking away with nothing more than a warning — but because Sirius knew exactly what it was to survive in a snake den too.
Dorcas tilted her head, smirking. “Not that you needed any more Slytherins harshing your buzz last night.”
He laughed with them, light and quick, but the walls went straight back up. That tone — almost nothing, almost playful — still hit a nerve.
Dorcas was edging into dangerous territory. Playing with fire. And it had to be put out immediately.
“Speaking of,” he said, pivoting without pause, “hell of a win for you lot yesterday. Smashed Gryffindor on my birthday , no less.”
It landed. They laughed. The conversation tipped back into safer ground, hands waving, voices overlapping.
And Sirius sat back, letting the noise wash over him, thinking — thank, Merlin. Thank fucking Merlin. That one had landed.
The smell of toast and tea drifted up from the table, the chatter rolling on without him needing to stoke it.
He let it smoulder around him.
*** 8th November 1974 ***
He spent the rest of the week putting out fires from his birthday party.
First, trying to shove back into the box the secret Cass had let slip — by silencing Peter and Marlene before the situation could get away from him.
Then later with Emmeline too. Though, admittedly, she’d been a little harder to convince.
She’d cornered him in the library a few days later, while they were supposed to be studying, her eyes tracking him over the edge of a textbook. She’d asked for honesty. The real thing. And Sirius had initially tried deflecting, as he usually did, but she’d met him with a wall of her own until he gave her something.
Anything.
So he’d offered her a half-truth. Just enough to keep her happy, but not enough to let her all the way in. Not enough to paint a picture, or relive the actual, horrible truth of it all: that his mother had hexed him, over and over, in front of his friends until he was shaking and crying mess on the floor. For ruining a jacket she could have cleaned with a flick of her wand in just as much time as it had taken to completely strip him bare.
The thought made him flinch even now.
He’d smoothed it over with a quick, “Hope that bit of family history didn’t kill the vibe,” and spent the rest of the afternoon distracting her by kissing her neck between bookcases, among other things.
The bigger problem was Regulus.
Who — well . Sirius didn’t really know how to feel about at the moment.
He wasn’t sure what to do about him. Part of him still hoped his brother was alright after the fall — he really did — but the other part wanted to get both hands on his collar and shake him until his teeth rattled for telling their mother about knife from Borgin and Burkes.
He caught him between classes in the potions corridor, the air damp and sour with the smell of whatever Slughorn had just had them brewing. Regulus was crouched against the cool stone outside the classroom, thumbing lazily through his textbook, eyes flicking up every so often at something Evan Rosier was saying —who was lounged beside him, all loose blonde curls and smug fucking attitude, the pair of them looking like they were up to no good.
Sirius didn’t slow. “We need to talk.”
Regulus didn’t even look up from his plate. “No, we don’t.”
“We do.”
“I’m busy.”
“You’re not even reading that.”
Evan smirked. “Go away, Black. Leave the moral posturing to your little Gryffindor fan club.”
Regulus’s eyes flicked sideways to Evan — almost annoyed — before he let out the faintest sigh, the kind meant to be noticed. He closed the book with surgical precision, setting it down on the floor beside him like the entire interaction was already an inconvenience.
“Fine,” Regulus said, as though the word itself cost him something.
He pushed himself off the floor and started walking. Or rather, limping — still milking the injury from the match, or like the sheer indignity of being seen with his brother was enough to mortally wound him.
Sirius fell in behind him, the sound of their boots echoing against the stone. The rhythm gave him too much time to think — about the look on his brother’s face during the Howler, about the long drop to the pitch, about how much of the anger bubbling up inside of him was fair, and how much was just habit.
They turned into a side corridor, where the light was dim and cold, and Regulus stopped. Looked him dead in the eye. He leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. “What then?”
Sirius let out an annoyed huff. “Just wanted to see if you were alright after—”
“—Potter pushed me off my broom?”
His jaw tightened. “Reg, stop it.”
“Stop what?”
“That.”
“Calling it what it was?”
“Merlin — are you okay or not?”
“I’m fine.”
“Good.”
The word felt sour in his mouth.
“Is that all?” Regulus asked, tilting his head. His eyes were a cool grey this afternoon, but not flat — Sirius knew that look; like he was already two moves ahead in the argument.
Merlin .
“Why do you have to make everything so bloody hard?” he said eventually;
“I’m not the one who makes things hard between us.”
Heat flared in Sirius’s chest. He folded his arms, scowling like it was the most ridiculous accusation he’d ever heard. “I’m not the one who told our mother about the knife from Borgin and Burkes, you little snitch.”
Regulus’s mouth went thin. His shoulders rolled back slightly, like he was bracing for something. Sirius just stared him down, waiting for the excuses to start.
“I didn’t,” Regulus said at last.
“Right.”
“I mean it.” His voice dipped, but the steel stayed in it.
“Then who—”
The look Regulus gave him was pure You absolute idiot . And then it clicked — all at once. Mulciber’s brother. That smug wink across the counter. Cold washed through him like someone had dipped him in ice water.
“There it is,” Regulus said smugly, tilting his head in that slow, deliberate way that made Sirius want to knock it clean off.
“…Fuck.”
“Yeah, fuck indeed.”
Silence pressed in for a moment, the kind that made you too aware of the space between heartbeats.
“I really thought—” Sirius started.
“Like I’d ever do that to you?”
The sting of it was sharper than he wanted to admit. He didn’t answer.
“I told you something like this would happen,” Regulus went on, voice softer but with an edge that could still cut. “But no, you never listen.”
Sirius raked a hand through his hair, tugging it loose from his scalp.
Regulus slid down the wall to sit, knees drawn up, the tension in his shoulders loosening just enough to read as a truce. He didn’t say anything, but he stayed. After a moment, Sirius followed him down, settling at his side until the quiet between them felt shared, rather than uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry,” he said, the words awkward in his mouth.
“Yeah, well—” Regulus let it hang, eyes flickering off to the side.
They sat in silence until Regulus’s mouth curved into something that almost resembled a smile. “Maybe she’ll burn herself out before we get home.”
It startled a laugh out of both of them — low and reluctant. Because they both knew that was a bold faced lie.
Sirius glanced over at him then, and really looked at him: knees pulled in, a faint bruise still blooming along his jaw from where he’d hit the ground, the stubborn tilt of his mouth softened by the roundness in his face.
“You flew well, by the way,” Sirius said.
Regulus arched his brow without looking over.
“Before James knocked you—”
“It was Avery’s fault, actually.”
Sirius blinked. It knocked him off his stride — because he knew that, of course he did, but he hadn’t expected Regulus to just hand it over so cleanly, without the usual barbs.
“Yeah… I know.”
The space between them dipped into something quieter, almost easy — before Regulus ruined it, tossing the missing barb with a smile that said he was proud of himself for landing it. “Showing off for his favourite Gryffindor.”
Sirius groaned. “Regulus—”
“What? You’ve got half the school’s attention and Avery’s just one of your more obvious admirers. Always has been.”
“Oh, for—”
“Honestly, watching the two of them on the pitch was like a duel for your hand.”
“Merlin, shut up.”
“Fighting over you like a bunch of lovesick girls.”
“Oh, stop it. I’m not worth fighting over.” The words came out lighter than they felt, a flicker of something mean and familiar curling in his gut for a brief moment.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Regulus said — the corner of his mouth twitching in a way that gave him away.
He didn’t mean it.
“Oi—”
Sirius snorted despite himself, and let the sound fade into a softer kind of quiet, the tension between them dissipating. For a moment, neither spoke — just the faint drip of water somewhere down the corridor, the cold stone at their backs. Then they both glanced over at the same time, meeting each other’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” Sirius said, quieter now. “Really. I shouldn’t have assumed the worst.”
“No,” Regulus agreed. “You shouldn’t have.”
“Do you forgive me?”
Regulus’s mouth quirked. “Do I have a choice?”
“No.”
They laughed together — low, genuine — and for the first time in a long while, it felt like they might survive each other after all.
Notes:
Gentle reminder that if you love this fic, you might also like House Fires which exists in the same universe. Written from Effie & Monty's POV of Sirius running away from home. Just in case you want something cosier after being in this boofheads head for too long <3 Take care of yourselves!
Chapter 12: Nov, 1974 (pt 2) - Ravenclaw/Hufflepuff
Summary:
Sirius supports Emmeline at a Quidditch match, banters with his friends, and shares a tense, revealing conversation with Remus over a cigarette.
Notes:
I was going to hold off on posting this one since I already updated this weekend but, that seemed cruel!
TW: Implied suicide ideation (take care of yourselves)
Chapter Text
*** 23rd November 1974 ***
Sirius sprawled himself in front of the full-length mirror in their dorm room, knees knocking against the frame, painting blue and bronze stripes across his cheekbones.
Ravenclaw colours. They were playing Hufflepuff this afternoon — Emmeline’s first match of the season. Which, apparently, was all the excuse he needed to transform into their most enthusiastic supporter: dressed in a ridiculous midnight-blue scarf nicked from her wardrobe and a neat little eagle pin he’d found laying around in the courtyard.
The boy in the mirror was not the same one who had left Grimmauld Place. His cheeks were rounder, his skin warmer, no longer drained of colour. The grey lingered only in his eyes—which were charcoal under the dim dorm light, a small reminder of home he tried not to dwell on too long. The dark hollows beneath them had faded too, as though the castle itself had slowly coloured him back to life. For once, he didn’t look haunted. He looked — and felt — almost whole.
Behind him, the floorboards creaked grudgingly.
“Show off,” Remus said, dry as anything.
Sirius flicked his eyes to meet his in the mirror. Remus leaned in the doorway, drowning in a brown knit jumper so oversized it might once have belonged to a giant. Sirius wasn’t sure he’d ever really seen the shape of him — always hidden beneath a hoodie, a cardigan, a flannel. like he was afraid of what might happen if anyone ever looked too closely.
“Showing off for who?” Sirius asked, smirking faintly at his own reflection, his pretty pureblood features warping into something sharper, almost feral— three perfectly straight war stripes cut across his cheeks.
“Your girlfriend,” Remus said, too casual to be anything but deliberate.
“Oh shut up. She’s not my girlfriend,” Sirius shot back, voice sharp enough to cut the air in two. His gut twisted and his face contorted— intrusive and immediate: She couldn’t be. His parents would have her head.
Merlin.
Remus’s mouth curved. “So you’ll just play dress-up for anyone then?”
“No. I just hate Hufflepuffs,” Sirius shot back without missing a beat, scrunching his nose.
Remus hummed a low, noncommittal. “Hm.”
Sirius leaned closer to the mirror, holding the brush steady as he swept the last bronze line across his cheek — only to slip, just slightly, thrown off by Remus’s ridiculous comment. It came out crooked, bleeding into the blue paint. But somehow, it didn’t matter. If anything, it made him look intentionally disheveled. Hot, actually. If he were being honest.
And he knew it, of course. But he still needed someone else to say it.
“Oi, Potter,” he called, spinning on the floor to face James, who was sprawled dramatically across his mattress, forearm draped over his eyes. “How do I look?”
James didn’t move. Just groaned into his elbow, a muffled a half-response.
Sirius smirked at him, amused. “Go on, admit it — the blue looks good on me. Really brings out my cleverness.”
A halfhearted huff slipped out from behind James’s hand.
Sirius frowned. “You’re sulking.”
No answer. Just another groan.
Drama queen.
He pushed himself up, crossed the room in three long strides, and jabbed his fingers into James’s ribs.
James squealed — like a piglet— twisting away, nearly rolling off the bed.
“What’s your problem, hm?” Sirius demanded, leaning over him with a grin, hair tickling James’s face as he dug his fingers in again.
“Bugger off!” James yelped, writhing across the mattress.
“Not until you tell me what up with you.”
The back-and-forth continued for a little longer, Sirius laughing harder with each dig, James shrieking beside him, until Peter stepped in — stubby arms wedging between them, prying Sirius away before it escalated into a full-blown wrestling match.
“Honestly,” Peter muttered, bracing an arm across Sirius’s chest, “you’re insufferable.”
Sirius only grinned, unbothered — maybe even a touch proud of the chaos he’d stirred.
By the time they spilled out of the dormitory, the scuffle had bled into their usual jostling and shoves, voices echoing down the spiral stairs. Sirius had James in a headlock until Peter pried him loose, only for Sirius to shove Peter down the next few steps. Remus, caught in the middle, sighed and shoved them all forward.
Marlene was waiting for them in the common room with her arms folded, dressed in her Gryffindor jersey; whether out of pure stubbornness or house house pride, he wasn’t sure. She caught Sirius’s eye immediately and stabbed a finger in his direction.
“Traitor.”
Sirius barked a laugh.
“Ravenclaw colours? Really?” She reached out and tugged playfully at his scarf. “I hope you enjoy sleeping in the stands tonight, because Gryffindors don’t forgive treason.”
“Please,” Sirius said, smirking. “I know treason runs in my bloodline — but I bleed red and gold”
“You’d better.” She leaned around him suddenly, jabbing a finger over his shoulder. “And you—”
James blinked, mid-slouch. “What did I do?”
Marlene grinned wickedly. “Effie wrote me.”
James groaned so loudly half the common room turned to look. “Oh not you too. She didn’t.”
“Oh, she did.”
Sirius laughed, sharp and delighted. Because Of course. That explained the sulking. Euphemia must be upset with him.
Classic Effie — sidestepping James when she didn’t like the answer he gave and working on Marlene instead. She was sly that way, sharp, and she’d always had a soft spot for Marlene. Any excuse to write was enough. After her mum died especially, Effie made sure to keep in touch: birthdays, Christmas, biscuits through the post. Just like she did with Sirius. She was good like that, James’s mum — making people feel seen. Important.
Marlene pounced the moment they stepped out of the portrait hole, her voice chasing them down the stairwell. “So what’s this about you lot staying at school for Christmas? Since when don't you go home for the holidays?”
Sirius nearly missed a step. Caught himself on the bannister, heart thudding.
Oh.
That made sense.
Of course Effie would be upset about Christmas.
Christmas at the Potters had become a tradition. He’d spent every winter holiday there since second year, and after Boxing Day the other boys would often join them too. And what were they supposed to tell her now — that they couldn’t make it because Remus was a bloody werewolf? Obviously not.
The thought twisted in his chest. From the way Remus’s shoulders stiffened beside him, he could tell it made him uncomfortable too.
“Great,” Marlene huffed. “Just leave me all alone then. What am I supposed to do without you lot?”
James rolled his eyes. “You’ve got four other siblings, Marls. You’re hardly alone.”
“Oh, they’re no fun. And ever since Margaret moved back home it’s been even worse — she’s full of dumb opinions about boys and the war and now I’ve got to share a room again. It’s hell.”
Sirius laughed — not unkindly, but it wasn’t lost on him that she had absolutely no idea what a hellish house actually looked like. If she only knew.
Remus tried to change the subject, awkwardly clearing his throat and pointing out the weather, which was a little on the cold side, even for November. Marlene caught it instantly. “Don’t deflect, Lupin. I see you.”
Peter, bless him, tried to cut in with some joke about Hufflepuff’s new Seeker, but she pushed again.
Until James snapped, voice sharp enough to cut through. “Marlene, drop it, alright?”
She blinked at him, then turned her full attention on Sirius. “So what, you’ve just decided you’re going home for Christmas then Black? Since bloody when have you willingly gone back there? You’re all up to something.”
Heat crept up the back of his neck. She wasn’t wrong.
“Enough,” James said again, sterner this time. “Stop it.”
But the words still sat between them, heavy, needling.
Thankfully, they’d reached the stands by then, and the swell of noise rising from the pitch below swallowed it all.
They climbed the stands together, Marlene leading the charge, off on some other tangent now.
Halfway up, Sirius clocked Mary Macdonald sitting alone, knees drawn up, gaze fixed on the pitch. He caught Marlene eyeing her, saw the fractional hitch in her step — then the imperceptible lift of her chin as she decided, fine, yes, they would sit with her.
They slid into the row in a tangle of knees and robes. James dropped beside Sirius and pulled a face like, this could get weird. Sirius answered with the smallest shrug.
Marlene leaned over Mary, voice going warm. She said something soft — private-soft — and Mary’s mouth tipped into a slight smile.
Sirius watched, wary. They didn’t fold into each other like last year, but they weren’t cold either.
Girl friendships confused him.
“Where’s Evans then?” James asked casually.
Sirius snorted. “Asking after your wife?”
James scowled and shouldered him. “Pack it in.”
“Lily and Severus didn’t want to come,” Mary said, still looking at the pitch.
Sirius pulled a face. “Good. Snivellus stinks up the stands anyway.”
Mary huffed a laugh. “Grow up.”
“Unlikely,” Sirius replied.
Mary hid a smile, Marlene rolled her eyes, and James muttered something under his breath, but the bickering was swallowed by the swell of noise below; banners snapped. Players rose from the tunnel in a wash of colour.
“Right, shh,” Sirius told all of them, already cupping his hands to whistle sharp and piercing as Emmeline streaked out; long, dark hair billowing softly behind her as she flew.
He was on his feet before he knew it, braced against the barrier, eyes tracking her as she banked high and then poured herself into the first dive.
Behind him, Remus’s voice: “Not your girlfriend, though.”
“Shut it, Lupin,” Sirius fired back without looking.
Mary laughed softly, turning her attention to Remus. She asked him something — Sirius didn’t catch what — but he saw the way colour crept up Remus’s neck. How his voice stumbled like it did that day at tryouts. Sirius smirked, privately vindicated. Serves you right, jerk.
James joined him at the barrier, shoulder to shoulder, hips bumping as they leaned out over the rail. Whatever mood he had been in had burned off; his hand hooked briefly in the back of Sirius’s scarf to steady him when he leaned too far.
Down on the pitch, Emmeline owned the air. She was all clean lines and easy confidence, hands loose, cocky smile, turning the broom like it was an extension of her body. She feinted left, snapped right, threaded a gap like a needle that wasn’t there until she willed it to be, hair flaring behind her like a banner.
“Bloody hell,” Sirius breathed, grinning helplessly. “Look at her — the control — did you see that? She’s… gorgeous. Merlin, she’s killing it out there.”
James didn’t answer. He just smiled, eyes still on the sky, like he knew something Sirius didn’t: he had it bad.
Ravenclaw won the game comfortably. They had been in the lead for most of the match, so when their Seeker caught the Snitch late in the game, it only cemented the inevitable: a massive win that sent blue banners snapping overhead and their section of the stands into raucous cheers.
The victory rush didn’t last long. Because, by the time the players circled the pitch, the crowd had already begun to thin out — nobody wanted to brave the cold any longer than they had to.
At some point during the match the sun had slipped behind a wall of clouds, and the temperature had plummeted fast — at least ten degrees.
It was fucking freezing.
The kind of cold that made your eyes water and your fingers stop working — the kind that stole sound from the air and made everything feel sharper than it should. Like the wind had teeth. Even the light from the castle, flickering in the distance, looked brittle behind a sheet of mist.
The others were already rushing back toward the dormitory, jostling for prime position in front of the fire — heads down, scarves wound tight, boots skidding over the slick path as they half-fought, half-laughed their way back to the castle.
Sirius hung back at the bottom of the stairs, already fishing for his cigarettes.
“I’ll catch up,” he said, flicking his lighter. “One more for the road.”
James rolled his eyes. “It’s going to kill you, you know.”
Sirius lit it with a flick and a sharp inhale, smoke curling fast through his fingers like it was clambouring to escape. “That’s the dream.”
He didn’t really expect anyone to laugh. It wasn’t for them.
He fully expected Remus to go with the others — give him that quiet little nod and disappear up the steps. But he didn’t.
Instead, he paused beside him, glancing up at the castle like it might offer an excuse to stay.
“That’s two today, isn’t it?”
Sirius didn’t look at him. “Who’s counting?”
“You weren’t smoking last term.”
“It’s just a bit of fun.”
“In sub-zero weather?”
“Especially in sub-zero weather.”
He held the pack out without thinking. Remus hesitated — then took one, turning it over like he wasn’t quite sure what he was looking at. Sirius figured he’d just hold it. Make a face. Say something quiet and scathing and true.
But he lit it with the tip of his wand instead.
“Blimey, didn’t think I’d see the day.”
Remus coughed on the inhale, grimaced, smoke curling out from between his lips. “It’s vile.”
Sirius’s grin tilted. “And yet here you are.” He wondered what had spurred this on.
Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long to find out.
“That Howler—” he started.
Sirius tensed. “What about it?”
He cursed Effie under his breath. Because all of this was her fault — for planting it in Remus’s head, making him think about this bullshit again.
“I don’t want you going home for me.”
“Oh, Merlin. This again?” Sirius barked a laugh, trying to lighten the mood.
“Yes. This again.”
Sirius pushed off the railing, boots scraping against the stone floor, closing the space until their coats brushed. “We’ve had this conversation already. I’m going.”
They stood shoulder to shoulder for a moment, letting it sit heavy between them. Down on the path a group of second-years went clattering by. Remus’s eyes tracked them, then returned to the horizon.
“You hate that place.” He offered eventually.
“I can survive it.”
“You shouldn’t have to because of me.”
“It’s not because of you,” Sirius’s hand cut the air, smoke trailing behind it. “—no, actually, it is. But not the way you mean. You make it sound like I’m doing you some massive favour. I’m not. I’m doing the bare minimum here.”
Remus’s jaw worked. “You act like it doesn’t bother you, when clearly—”
Sirius cut him off.
“How about, don’t try to psychoanalyse me on the steps, Remus.” The words caught sharper than he meant.
Remus tilted his head, lips twitching — not a smirk, not a glare. Something in between. Sirius leaned closer, unwilling to let him win the space.
Because he knew Remus saw him. Understood him in ways the other boys didn’t. Most of the time Sirius liked that — it was nice, being seen.
But not today.
“What about you?” Sirius pressed. “You’re the one who hid your arm for a month. What’s going on there?”
A tiny flash of honesty crossed Remus’s face then — a grimace, an admission that things were worse than he let on — and it eased something tight in his chest. Because he saw Remus too, that was the thing. The weight wasn’t his alone to bear.
Remus shrugged, staring down at his brown lace up boots.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got.”
Sirius’s laugh scraped hollow. “Brilliant. So what’s your plan? Ignore your loving parents forever? Never go back home? You can’t spend every full moon in this castle.”
Remus dropped the cigarette, ground it out beneath his heel. His voice was quiet. “They’d be better off without me anyway.”
The words landed sharp and heavy. Sirius felt them twist in his gut— not quite horrified, but a bone-deep, unsettling sting. He knew Remus meant his parents. But the ease of it — the way he dismissed them, as if their care counted for nothing, as if he was unloved — sat deeply wrong with him. Sirius would’ve given anything to have parents who worried, who wanted him safe. Remus had that, and he acted like it was disposable. It made Sirius ache, made him bristle.
And then there was the other part of it, the part he didn’t want to touch: the words he chose. It hurt too fucking much to look at — to think where feelings like that might lead, if Remus ever started listening to them.
It was too close, too familiar, like hearing his own worst thoughts echoed back at him.
He stepped in, coat brushing up against his, voice low and certain. “No, they wouldn’t.”
Remus’s eyes flicked up, startled by the force in it.
“How would you know?”
“Because we don’t feel that way.” Sirius held his gaze, anchored the words there, steady as he could. “And your parents love you too. You daft idiot.”
And they did love him. Sirius didn’t know the Lupins well, but he’d seen enough to be sure. His dad might’ve started drinking since the attack, but at King’s Cross he always hovered close, hand firm on Remus’s shoulder like he couldn’t bear to let go. His mum might’ve dragged them from place to place out of fear, but she was always at the barrier, even if it scared her as an muggle, eyes scanning the crowd until she found him. Messy. Imperfect. But still love. Sirius could recognise it, even if Remus pretended not to.
He didn’t look away, couldn’t. He needed Remus to believe him.
They stayed like that, caught, neither blinking, neither breaking. The air between them pulled taut — both of them cracked open, both of them seen. And strange as it was, Sirius felt a sliver of relief in it. If Remus could admit something was truly wrong, out loud, then maybe neither of them was entirely alone with it anymore.
Remus’s mouth twitched, then stilled. “…I’ll write to them,” he murmured at last.
Sirius let out a breath, shaky, half-laugh. “Good.”
They both looked away then. The wind cut across the steps; Sirius shoved his hands into his pockets, grounding himself in the bite of cold stone beneath his combat boots.
After a moment, Remus asked, voice low, “What would happen if you didn’t go home for Christmas?”
Sirius slipped straight into Walburga’s clipped, venomous tones, mocking with raised hands. “I’ll cut you off from your inheritance!”
But Remus wasn’t having a bar of it. His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing as he watched Sirius perform for him.
“Would that be such a horrible thing— leaving it all behind?”
Sirius stared at the ground, lips pressed tight, letting the silence gnaw for a beat too long.
“No, but—” He stopped.
Regulus’s face rose sharp in his mind, how young and impressionable he was. How frightened. How stupidly eager to please. His throat closed. He swallowed it back.
He couldn’t leave his brother there. Not for good.
“Come on.” He shouldered the door open. “Let’s go inside. It’s cold out”
Remus lingered a second longer, eyes searching his, like he was weighing whether to say something. Sirius felt the look land, sharp and steady, as if Remus might peel him open if he held it long enough. For a moment Sirius braced for it — the question, the challenge, the inevitable truth of it laid bare.
But it didn’t come.
Remus only let out a slow breath, fogging like smoke in the air, shoulders softening as he dropped his gaze back to the steps. His hand brushed the railing once, like he was grounding himself, before he muttered, almost grudging, “If you say so.” The words carried a weight though, a quiet reminder that he wasn’t convinced.
Sirius swallowed against it and pushed the door open.
Their boots thudded heavy on the stone, side by side, until the castle’s warmth closed around them both.
Thank Merlin. He didn’t think he had the words to explain it anyway.
Chapter 13: Dec, 1974 (pt 1) - Last Taste Of Freedom
Summary:
Sirius gets his last taste of freedom before going home for the christmas holidays & the boys swap christmas presents.
Notes:
TW:> Implied/referenced child abuse
Chapter Text
*** 7th December 1974 ***
After the match, Emmeline had asked if she could join them on the next Hogsmeade weekend. Sirius — in a moment of weakness and post-Quidditch euphoria — had stupidly said yes.
It was a spectacularly bad idea. And he knew it.
Threefold, really.
First: Hogsmeade weekends were sacred. An unspoken Marauder tradition — wandering half-frozen through the streets, three Butterbeers deep, doing nothing of consequence. Maybe linking up with the Gryffindor girls near the end, maybe not. That was the rhythm.
Second: he hadn’t introduced her to them properly yet. Sure, they knew who she was — she’d been at his birthday, he’d talked about her incessantly, they’d all seen the way he cheered for her from the stands. But this was different. Sitting together. Letting her into their orbit.
And third… well. That was the complicated part, wasn’t it?
They couldn’t be seen together too much. Couldn’t draw attention. He didn’t need the stares, the whispers, the howlers that would come if anyone put the pieces together. But he’d still been high on her win, dizzy from broom-closet snogging, from the way she’d hauled him in by the collar like he wasn’t the one who usually started things — and now here they were. Cramped at a too-small table in the Three Broomsticks, cheeks pink from the cold.
Marlene had dragged her entourage along: Zazzy Wimple and Mary Macdonald, who she seemed to be back on speaking terms with. Mary’s eyes kept flicking sideways toward Remus, like it might be an accident.
They all knew it wasn’t.
Remus, predictably, had pulled out a book to look busy: George Orwell’s 1984, worn and curled at the corners. Peter was midway through a story that included the phrase “and then Sirius convinced me it was pumpkin juice, when really it was straight firewhisky” when Sirius kicked him under the table, shaking his head.
He wondered how much of the afternoon he could get through without one of them making a fool of him in front of Emmeline.
Who he hadn’t really stopped watching. Not once.
She and James were already off on some tangent about Quidditch — which figured. She was sharp, could hold her own on the pitch, and had very strong broom-design opinions that rivalled James’s. Of course that was going to dominate the afternoon’s conversation.
Sirius brushed her hand under the table. Just lightly. Just once. He smiled.
Her mouth tipped into that sly half-smile — the one that sent his stomach somersaulting. His own grin tugged wider in response, dimples catching, teeth flashing. Something conspiratorial and subtly flirtatious sparking between them.
Then the door creaked open, and Sirius didn’t need to look. James’s face gave it away immediately — grin sparking like a lit fuse, dangerous and delighted. Sirius swore he saw his whole brain cycle through a dozen insults at once.
Severus Snape.
And, of course, Lily bloody Evans.
They slipped in together, shoulder to shoulder, pausing just long enough to scan for somewhere suitably isolated. Snape looked as he always did: hunched, greasy, clutching his books like they were his favourite and only possessions. Robes tatty, hair hanging limp, radiating the same damp, sour energy that made Sirius want to vomit on sight.
And Lily — well. She wore that same pompous look she always did: chin tipped, lips pursed, like she’d been personally burdened with judging the entire castle. Green eyes sharp as she scanned the room for a table far from the rest of them. Because heaven forbid she be seen around the Marauders.
Sirius found her exhausting. All righteous and long-suffering, forever hurling herself between them and her precious Snivellus like it was her goddamn calling.
“Don’t,” Marlene said flatly, before he or James could move. “Please. I had to hear about it for weeks last time.”
James started, “I wasn’t—” before Mary cut in.
“Don’t lie. Just… don’t. They’re friends. Don’t make it a thing.”
James held his hands up, sat back. “Fine.”
Emmeline’s brow furrowed. She glanced around the table, over a spattering of discarded glasses, before asking, “Okay. So what’s the deal there?”
The table fell quiet. A ripple of shared history rolling over them.
Sirius scratched at his jaw, fingers rasping against the faint peach fuzz there. “Started first year. On the train. He was a dick.”
James jumped in. “Got his knickers in a twist about wanting Slytherin. Tried to tell Lily she was too good for Gryffindor.”
“Which she isn’t,” Marlene muttered.
That wasn’t the whole story, of course, but Emmeline didn’t need the full song and dance. This was close enough — enough to explain it, anyway.
“It’s been downhill ever since,” James finished with a shrug, well loved Quidditch jumper slipping off his shoulder.
Emmeline nodded slowly. “And Lily?”
Sirius snorted. “She’s friends with him. So she’s not friends with us. That’s the gist.”
“That,” Emmeline said flatly, “is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Sirius gave a dry laugh. “Yeah, well. Welcome to Gryffindor.”
She just stared, eyebrows arched, waiting for him to admit he was joking. When he didn’t, she glanced around the table, disbelief sharp in her eyes.
The others shifted under her gaze — James and Peter shrinking, Remus vanishing deeper into his book, even Marlene, who was usually full of loud opinions, pressing her lips tight.
“You’re all mental,” Emmeline said finally — half a laugh, half a verdict. She pushed her chair back, careful not to scrape it. “I’m going for a smoke. Come with me?”
Sirius went, of course. Flashing his friends a sheepish smile as he peeled away, like I might be in trouble here.
Outside, she lit a cigarette for them both without asking. Smoke and silence curled between them as he took a drag, the wind stinging his cheeks. She leaned into the stone wall, arms folded, boot scuffing at the snow.
Then, casual as anything, she said: “It is really dumb, you know?”
He exhaled slow. “Gee, thanks.”
“Not you. Just… the whole thing. House rivalries, lifelong vendettas, the we can’t sit with her because she’s friends with him logic. Very first year.”
Sirius raised a brow. “Are you saying we’re immature?”
“I’m saying you’re committed to the cause,” she said, grinning. “Deeply. Blindly. Stupidly.”
He passed her the cigarette. “You say that like being a stubborn idiot isn’t my most attractive trait.”
She took a drag. “It’s definitely not top five.”
That pulled a chuckle from him. Part of him wondered what would’ve made the list if he asked — but even he wasn’t vain enough to say it aloud.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, watching smoke vanish into the cold. From inside came the crash of a butterbeer glass and James’s voice rising predictably above the ruckus.
Of course.
Sirius nudged her boot with his. “Still want to be seen with me after meeting that sorry lot?”
“You think that’s the worst thing about you?” she shot back, brow raised.
He laughed. Soft. Surprised.
They didn’t go back in right away. Just lingered in the cold, watching their breath bloom white like fiendfire, saying nothing.
And maybe it was dumb — the feuds, the grudges, the thing that had started years ago on the train.
But dumb didn’t always mean wrong.
And honestly? She’d never met Severus Snape. So what did she really know?
*** 17th December 1974 ***
The term was winding down — last essays handed in, snow piling up on the pitch, tinsel sneaking its way onto every bloody banister — and Sirius was still putting off packing for Christmas. Mostly because the others wouldn’t stop looking at him all mournful and doe-eyed, like he was heading for execution instead of just going home for a few weeks. But also because of how pathetic it felt to fold himself back into that place on purpose.
So he’d waited until the dorm was finally empty — which was rare in a room full of boys.
It was quiet without them. Just the pop of the fire in the grate, the wind scratching at the high windows, and the soft crackle of Remus’s record player as Sirius fussed with the needle. A stubborn little thing. Some Muggle contraption Remus had rounded up with more personality than half of Slytherin combined.
Sirius bloody adored it.
He was hunting for something loud enough to drown out the quiet — and his thoughts. His trunk sat open at the foot of the bed, a few clothes and schoolbooks jammed in haphazardly. The bare minimum to get him by.
From the mess he plucked out his Black Sabbath record, turning it carefully between his palms. James had picked it up years ago at a Muggle flea market, and it was still one of the best gifts Sirius had ever got. He’d never dare take it home — Walburga would sooner smash it over his head than let it cross the threshold. Better safe here.
He dropped the needle. It caught with a hiss, then roared — guitar like thunder, bass rattling in his chest. The sort of noise that made you want to tear the place down, overthrow the Ministry, and set the whole world ablaze at once.
The door creaked behind him.
Peter hovered in the frame, hesitant, before padding across the rug and perching on the floor by Sirius’s bed. He pulled his knees tight to his chest, gaze flicking from the trunk to Sirius’s hands.
Sirius looked up, smirk already hald-cocked. “If you’re going to undress me with your eyes, at least buy me a drink first.”
Peter huffed a laugh but didn’t bite back like usual. Just leaned forward, eyes fixed on Sirius’s hands as he set the sleeve aside. Ozzy’s voice ripped through the speakers — Generals gathered in their masses…
The words dragged the air heavy before Peter finally spoke. “Emmeline seems nice.”
“Yeah?” Sirius kept his tone light.
“Yeah. She’s… good value.”
The record spun on, static buzzing in the air. But Sirius barely heard it. Peter was still watching him. Steady. Sharp. Like he was working up to something.
And that was the problem. Sirius knew that look. He knew what was coming. Christmas. Avery. The Howler. Grimmauld Place. Any one of the million bloody things Peter had been stockpiling.
Fuck’s sake. He was tired of it. Tired of explaining himself.
He stared Peter down, daring him to spit it out. Or not. His chest buzzed with the anticipation of a blow. Silence stretched taut between them—
Then Peter looked away. Shrugged. And when he spoke, it was soft, almost awkward: “How do you do it?”
Sirius blinked. Braced. “Do what?”
“Get girls to like you.” The laugh that followed was thin, embarrassed. His cheeks flamed as he ducked his head.
Sirius blinked again, body still braced like Peter might suddenly pivot and say something real. Something about him. But no. Just girls. Just Dorcas.
Merlin, he was an idiot. Always gearing up for disaster. Always convinced it was about him.
“Easy. I’m ravishingly handsome, hilarious, practically irresistible.” He leaned back on his elbows, gesturing at himself like a prize stud.
Peter groaned and shoved his shoulder harder than usual. “Git.”
Sirius caught the flush at his ears. Against his better instincts, he softened. “This about Dorcas?”
A tiny shrug. “Her. And every other girl who looks at me and sees a little kid.”
Sirius looked at him properly then — round face, shorter than the rest, still boyish where they were growing older. Dorcas, sharp and mature, would see it too. He bit it back.
“How do you know?”
“What d’you mean?”
“Have you even asked her out?”
Peter’s blush deepened. “No.”
“Then you don’t know.” Sirius’s grin edged sharp again, already spinning a plan. “Easy fix. Next Hogsmeade weekend, we ‘happen’ to run into her. I’ll do the talking, get her laughing, shove you forward — boom, you’re in.”
But Peter shook his head. “Forget it.”
Sirius leaned closer, undeterred, more sincere than he usually allowed himself to be. “Fine, no promenade. But really, it’s not complicated. Find something she cares about, get her talking, listen like you mean it. You just need an opening.”
“Come on, Pete—” Sirius nudged his knee.
“I said forget it.” Sharper than expected.
That shut him up. Sirius leaned back, hands running carelessly through his hair, catching on the ends. He’d pushed too far. He always did.
Fuck, he’d made it worse, hadn’t he?
Like everything else he touched.
“…Alright. Fine.” He exhaled, forcing his tone down. “But for what it’s worth, you’ve got plenty of redeeming qualities.”
The words sat heavy. Too soft. Too real. Sirius scowled at himself.
Peter’s voice came back, uncertain. “I’m not exactly heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black material, am I? You’ve just… got a way with people. I don’t.”
Sirius barked a laugh, quick and too loud. Mask back in place. “You’re setting your standards too high.”
Peter half-smiled, halfway through retorting — “Cool it—”
—when the dormitory door swung open.
Thank Merlin. It was getting too bloody chummy for his liking.
James and Remus rolled in fresh off Care of Magical Creatures — boots scuffed, cloaks still damp from the snow Professor Kettleburn must’ve had them out in. Laughing, as they always were.
Sirius felt the conversation with Peter snap shut like a trap, the sound of the record spinning filling the space.
“Belter!” James crowed, strumming an invisible guitar as he flopped beside Sirius. He thumped his chest proudly. “Still the best gift you’ve ever got, admit it.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, smirk tugging. “Please. You only like it because Matthew McKinnon said it was cool. You’re practically his groupie.”
“Lies,” James declared, flopping down beside him. “I just knew all this broody, devil-worshipping racket would be right up your alley.”
Sirius barked a laugh. “Those are fighting words, Potter.”
The room filled with their back-and-forth, careless noise that had been scarce lately. Peter chuckled from the rug. Remus leaned against the bedpost, smiling faintly.
Until—
“Speaking of.” Remus hesitated, shifting. “I… actually have a Christmas present for you.”
Sirius groaned. “Don’t start.”
James snorted. “Adorable. Lupin’s gone soft.”
“I do too, actually,” Peter piped quickly, cheeks pink.
“Do we have to do this now?” Sirius dragged a hand over his face.
Remus gave him a pointed look. “You won’t be here for Christmas. So, yeah. We do.”
Heat crawled up Sirius’s neck. His own half-hearted gifts burned in the bottom of his trunk: Honeydukes chocolate for everyone, a tacky little star pendant for Remus, since he didn’t like the stuff. Just for a laugh. Cheap. Shameful. He didn’t have the Galleons for anything extravagant, not when he had to make sure there’d be enough left over for Effie and Monty’s gifts too. He’d hoped to leave them on their pillows without fanfare. But obviously that wasn't going to happen.
The thought of handing them over in person twisted something ugly in his gut. Too soft. Too real.
Peter pulled out three clumsy Gryffindor-wrapped parcels. James had his tied up in a neat little ribbon like a bloody House-Elf had wrapped it. Sirius wanted to disappear.
Begrudgingly, he dragged his own out of hiding, wrapped in the same brown paper as last year.
Remus hadn't bothered with paper at all. He reached into his satchel and held out a ratty book — spine cracked, cover worn soft.
Treasure Island.
Sirius blinked.
Remus’s mouth ticked up. “Since you won’t have the real Marauders at Christmas… I thought maybe these ones could keep you company.”
The words hit like a hex. Knocked the air right out of him. Sirius stared, throat working uselessly.
It was too fucking much.
Around him, the other boys were busy exchanging gifts with each other. H He shoved the stupid pendant deeper into his pocket, pulse pounding, suddenly absurdly aware of how childish and insufficient it was. He couldn’t look at Remus properly.
James’s voice cut in, mercifully. “Oi, you’re not opening mine yet. Wait ‘til Christmas.”
“Why?” Sirius frowned.
“You’ll see,” James grinned like the Cheshire Cat.
“That’s… deeply concerning.”
“It should be,” James said cheerfully.
He risked a glance back at Remus then, who was watching him right back, steady and unreadable. For a heartbeat Sirius felt stripped bare beneath it, pulse still hammering, caught between wanting to hold the look and wanting to run from it.
He shifted on his feet, heat still prickling under his collar.
“Right. Well.” He dug into his pocket, hauling out the small, sad bundle of Honeydukes bags and the lone pendant. He passed them over with a wince. “Sorry. I didn’t— look, I didn’t have time, alright? And it’s just—”
“Oi, stop being a git,” James cut him off, pulling him into a hug before he could wriggle away “it’s perfect, just what I wanted.”
It lingered. Too long to be just a laugh. James’s hand found a place in the crook of his neck, sliding nearly beneath his hair, warm and steady in a way that made his chest ache. Sirius felt the weight of it in his ribs, pressing down, bruising, when James muttered softly into his shoulder: “I’ll miss you, yeah?”
Sirius swallowed hard. His heart thudded like it wanted out. He didn’t answer right away. Because fuck, what was there to say? Except—
“Yeah. I’m going to miss you too.” And he hated how much he meant it.
James let go at last, arms falling back to his side.
Remus was still turning the pendant over in his hand — a small, coin-shaped silver thing with a star etched into its face. His gaze lingered on Sirius a moment longer than was comfortable, until the corner of his mouth cracked into a smile.
“Self-centred much?” he teased lightly, holding it up between two fingers.
The laughter that followed broke the tension like a charm. Sirius exhaled, didn’t realise until then how long he’d been holding his breath.
“I was going to get my initials carved in too,” he said, smirking, “but thought that might be overkill.”
They all doubled over at that.
*** 20th December 1974 ***
Thankfully, Sirius wasn’t alone when the train finally pulled out of the station — even if he was leaving the boys behind. He had Marlene to keep him company. She chattered fast and loud enough for the both of them, filling every gap, her head tipping against his shoulder, brassy hair stark against the black of his trench coat.
She wore flared denim jeans and a leather jacket that might’ve belonged to one of her older brothers once. A scatter of cloth bracelets braided up her arm.
There’d been no more hugging or carrying on when he’d said goodbye to the others. Just a few claps on the back, a couple of hair-tousles, and one last chorus of "don’t do anything we wouldn’t do" as they parted ways. But Sirius could feel the guilt still gnawing at them. They were hamming it up for Remus’s sake, pretending it was just another holiday — pretending he wasn’t being sent back to Grimmauld Place alone. Pretending this wasn’t the first Christmas since they were eleven that they’d be apart.
James had shouted across the crowd, demanding Sirius promise to call on the mirror every night. Sirius had just rolled his eyes and nodded like it was nothing.
Even though they both knew it wasn’t.
“You lot are tragic, really,” Marlene said now, stretching her legs until her heel tapped against his boot. “Can’t spend two bloody weeks apart without making a big song and dance about it.”
Sirius shoved her shin with his boot, grinning sideways. “Please. You were the one having a cry when Effie wrote.”
She gasped, smacking his arm with the back of her hand.
"Shut your mouth.” She slouched lower in the seat, arms crossed — though her smile gave her away. “I’m actually glad to have her to myself for once. Won’t have to share with James.”
“He really is insufferable, isn’t he?” Sirius tipped his head, smirk sharp. “Such a mummy’s boy.”
“The worst.”
She leaned back into him with mock-dramatic weight until his shoulder sagged. The laughter between them petered out, leaving silence to press in at the edges.
Outside, the countryside blurred past the window — rolling white fields, bare black branches laced with frost. It might’ve been beautiful, if it wasn’t carrying him straight back to Grimmauld Place.
Back to his mother.
She was probably still seething about the knife. The thought soured the view.
Marlene shifted upright, rummaging in her pocket before triumphantly shoving a sweet beneath his nose. “Here.”
Sirius recoiled. “Merlin, how long’s that been in there?”
“Excuse you.” She clutched her chest theatrically. “You’re not too good for my sweets.”
He ate it anyway, pulling a face like it might be poisoned. She shoved his shoulder, laughing as he grinned around the taste.
“Are you nervous or something?” she asked after a moment, eyes sweeping him.
He barked a laugh, flinging a hand to his chest. “Me? Nervous? Don’t be ridiculous.” He sprawled back with arms wide, pure theatre.
Her brow arched. “Then why’s your knee rattling a hole in the floor?”
Fuck. So it was.
He stilled it immediately, flashing her a cocky smile. “Maybe I just like keeping you on your toes, McKinnon.”
She tilted her head, unconvinced. Lips parted like she wanted to press further — and then she did.
“Is it… horrible? Back there?”
It was the most directly anyone had ever asked him about home. It took him off guard. He frowned, shifting under his coat.
“It’s just home, isn’t it?” he said finally, like that explained everything.
Marlene shrugged, her knee brushing his. “That’s not what Avery made it sound like.”
The words landed hard. Sirius turned, caught somewhere between shock and anger. He’d thought she’d forgotten that by now. Or at least had the tact not to bring it up. His jaw worked, bristling, forcing himself not to snap.
He made a low sound in his throat, dismissive. “Look, it’s just pureblood politics, alright? Not everyone’s lucky enough to have parents like Effie and Monty — married out of love and all that.”
Marlene’s face shifted at that. Not teasing. Not sarcastic. Something else.
“What?” he asked, grin still lingering. “What’s that look?”
“You know that’s not true, right?”
“…What isn’t?”
“The Potters. They didn’t marry for love.”
He blinked. “What are you on about?”
She shrugged. “My dad always said the Potters were proof that some pureblood arrangements actually work out. You didn’t know?”
Something dropped cold and heavy inside him, his smile falling with it. Like the floor had given way.
He turned to the window, trying to will the ache away, but the frost-silvered fields blurred into nothing. The Potters had always been the fairytale he clung to. The exception to the rule. Proof that love was real. That it could last. That maybe it was still waiting for him somewhere beyond the walls of Grimmauld Place.
But now—
“Well,” he said finally. “Shit. That’s news to me.”
He tried to put the walls back up, but Marlene wasn’t fooled. She let the silence hang, fiddling mindlessly with the bracelets on her arm. When she spoke again, her voice was gentler.
“Look, I only meant—if it was like that, if it was bad… you’d tell us. Yeah?”
He huffed a laugh, sharp and thin, deflecting. “Avery’s got a big fucking mouth, that’s all.”
She nudged his ribs with her elbow, grinning despite herself. “Still don’t know why you talk to him.”
“Don’t know why you bother with half the people you hang around with, either. Jerk.” Sirius arched an eyebrow. “When’d you and Mary make up, anyway?”
Marlene blinked. “We were never fighting.”
“That’s funny.” His grin curled slow. “She said the same thing.”
“So you’ve been bitching about me behind my back?”
“Not like that.” He leaned in. “She was hitting on Remus, and it… sort of came up.”
Marlene barked a laugh, collapsing against his shoulder. “She’s got it bad for him, doesn’t she?”
“Couldn’t be less obvious.” Sirius let his gaze linger on her, the sound of her laugh rattling in his chest before he forced himself to look away.
Her smile softened. “Truth is, I wasn’t fighting with Mary. She was just—” she hesitated, teeth catching her lip before she let the words go. “Jealous, I think. Of Zazzy.”
Sirius scoffed. “Can’t half blame her. Zazzy’s difficult at the best of times.”
“And yet you hang off her every word,” Marlene said, tilting her head. “What gives, Black?”
“Can’t trust my judgment in character. Remember? I’m Avery’s number one fan.” He spread his hands wide, mock-innocent.
That earned him a loud, unladylike snort before she shoved his shoulder again. “You’re impossible.”
Time slipped by in fits and starts after that, their voices rising and dipping until eventually Marlene rifled in her bag and dragged out a battered copy of Witch Weekly, waving it in his face like buried treasure.
She sprawled it across their knees, insisting he play along. He groaned but didn’t stop her. The next half hour vanished in laughter and complaints as she coaxed him through a ridiculous personality quiz — one promising to reveal which Quidditch heartthrob he was destined to marry.
Turns out, he was best suited to a Chudley Cannons chaser named Raymond Beard.
Absurd. Insufferable. But the laughter between them filled the carriage until, for a while at least, the pull of London and Grimmauld Place felt a little further away.
Still, in the quiet between questions, Sirius’s mind slipped back to what she’d said. About the Potters. About the arrangement.
He couldn’t separate it now from the image he already had of them: Effie hugging him on the platform, Monty smiling from across the kitchen table, the two of them kissing by the fire when they thought no one was watching. It all felt thinner. Meant less.
Because love, apparently, had never been the point.
Even in the good families.
Even in the safe ones.
And wasn’t that a bloody cheerful thought to carry home?
He hadn’t managed to shake that strange, nagging weight by the time the train screeched into the station. It sat there still — a raw crack in his chest, quiet but unrelenting — no matter how many silly quizzes Marlene had tried to plaster over it.
Steam curled past the windows. Doors clattered open. The familiar surge of trunks, parents, and laughter crashed around him.
“Alright,” he said, half-turned toward Marlene. “This is where I make my escape before it turns into some weird, public goodbye.”
Marlene arched a brow. “You mean normal human interaction?”
“Exactly.” He dipped down and bumped her shoulder with his own. “Have an acceptable break.”
“You too,” she shot back. “Don’t marry any Chasers without me.”
His grin flashed sharp but snagged before it reached his eyes. “No promises.”
She dismissed him with a lazy flick of her magazine, already sinking back into her seat, and he stepped off the train alone.
For a moment, it was fine. The air was crisp, bright enough to sting his lungs. The platform swarmed — students folding into their parent's arms, voices carrying, laughter breaking over the hiss of steam. A trunk hit the ground with a crack. Someone shouted. Ordinary chaos.
He pushed through it, gaze flicking, searching for the inevitable.
And then he saw her.
Walburga Black. Hair pinned in a severe updo, robes cut like armour, mouth pressed into the same hard line it had always been. Not a flicker of softness. Not for him.
Regulus stood just behind her, spine straight, chin set like he’d been practicing it the whole journey. The look on his brother’s face told Sirius everything he needed to know.
And just like that, it hit — the shift. Something horrible clamping tight around his ribs, squeezing until his lungs stuttered. The train’s heat still clung to his skin, but beneath it, the cold struck sudden and bone-deep.
He smirked anyway. The charming kind. The safe kind. A mask he could wear if he pretended hard enough. He crossed the platform with so much confidence it almost looked convincing.
Walburga didn’t so much as twitch in return. She didn’t need to. Her hand shot out, nails biting into his arm, too tight, like she thought he might bolt.
“Wipe that smirk off your face,” she said, low and precise. Sharp as glass.
Still furious about the knife, then. Of course she was.
His free hand slipped instinctively into his pocket, tracing the shape of it. Still there.
And then the station split apart. The noise, the steam, the ordinary chaos — all swallowed in an instant as she Apparated them away.
Silence. Cold. The bruise of her grip seared deep into his arm.
And the warmth of Hogwarts vanished in a blink.
Chapter 14: Dec, 1974 (pt 2) - Home
Summary:
Sirius goes home for christmas.
Notes:
TW: Child abuse, Self harm (minor)
Chapter Text
*** 20th December 1974 ***
Grimmauld Place spat them out into the open foyer.
Sirius stumbled under the force of it, Walburga’s hand still clamped around his wrist — cool, bony, unyielding. Behind them, his trunk crashed and skidded along the stone floor, like even it was glad to be rid of him.
The cold hit first. Not crisp or clean, but sour, clinging, grey. The kind of cold that wormed straight through his coat and curled into his bones, heavy as a shroud. His shoulders tightened instinctively, muscles clenching as if they recognised the chill.
When he looked up, the house was waiting. And so was Kreacher.
Merlin, he hated that elf.
All wrinkles and bone, glaring with eyes too bright for the ruin of his face. His lips peeled back over yellow-brown teeth in what passed for a smile — more insult than anything. He bowed at them as they entered, but his gaze never left Sirius.
The slimy little bastard.
And then, as if to twist the knife deeper, Kreacher spoke past him, voice grating like nails on slate.
“Master Regulus’s trunk,” he wheezed, stooping to collect it with surprising strength and leaving the other where it had fallen. “Kreacher will see it carried safely, Mistress.”
“Thank you, Kreacher,” Regulus said softly, smiling dopily at the ugly thing.
“Thank you, Kreacher,” Walburga echoed. Her tone was uncharacteristically soft, approving, her hand at last sliding from Sirius’s wrist. Then she turned to him. The shift was instant, like glass frosting over. Every sharp line in her face hardened, every ounce of warmth gone.
“Where is it?” she spat.
Not hello. Not you look well.
Straight to the kill.
Sirius turned slowly. “Lovely to see you too, Mother.”
Her eyes narrowed, already boiling with rage. “Sirius. Now.”
He knew better than to play dumb. The knife was in the lining of his coat, tucked between chocolate wrappers from the train and the Ravenclaw pin he’d worn to the Quidditch match. His fingers found it easily — cold, bone-handled, heavier than it looked.
He drew it out, laid it flat in his palm, and held it up like a peace offering, smiling as he did.
She snatched it, but not before seizing his wrist again — harder this time, sharp enough to bruise. Pain shot up his arm in a hot, immediate flare, his stomach jolting like he’d been caught mid-fall.
He felt like a child again. Small beneath her shadow, her hand a vice around him. His pulse hammered beneath her fingers, frantic and betraying every ounce of fight he still had left in him.
He kept his face steady. Met her eyes. Prayed it didn’t show.
“Do you even know what this is?” she hissed.
He shrugged, feigning boredom. “Bit of fun?”
Her grip clamped tighter, the knife glinting faintly in her hand.
“Would you like to find out?”
The question was rhetorical. But something still spiked hot in his chest — not fear exactly, but fury. A blinding, bitter heat. The instinct to fight back, to shove her off, to scream at her to stop fucking touching him like that.
But he said nothing. Did nothing. Just smiled. Cold and dry and cruel enough to feel like armour.
She stared back, unflinching, like she might actually cut him. Like she wanted him to dare her. Give her a reason.
And when he didn’t, that was when she snapped.
Her voice pitched higher, sharp and venomous. She ranted and raved — about disrespect, about shame, about how he was a disappointment to the family name — her fury unraveling in furls before his eyes.
It poured out of her unchecked, all bile and venom, years of expectation and loathing boiling over in a few breaths. She slipped in and out of French the angrier she got, voice high, shrill, relentless.
Sirius stared ahead, barely listening. Not because it didn’t matter. Because it did. Because if he listened too closely, he’d start to tremble. Or scream. Or worse, talk back.
He clenched his jaw so hard it ached. Stared past her — at the damask wallpaper, at the rows of ornate frames filled with sneering ancestors. Anywhere but her eyes.
He wanted to yell. To throw something. To make her shut up for once in her goddamned life.
But he didn’t. Because he couldn’t.
Then, through the shouting—
“Walburga.” Orion’s voice carried from the top of the stairs. Distant. Measured. Cold.
“Enough.”
He stood there in his grey dress robes, perfectly pressed, looking down over his nose at the whole display.
It wasn’t lost on Sirius how bloody alike they looked in that moment, both wearing the same stony mask. But for different reasons.
Orion was tired.
He didn’t intervene because he disagreed. He never disagreed. He stepped in because she was being loud . Because her voice had risen. Because the walls were thin and the windows open, and someone might hear.
Because it disturbed his peace.
And all at once, like a switch had been flipped, she stopped. The silence that followed felt too loud.
She let go of his wrist.
For a moment, they just stared at each other — her breath stilted and hard, Sirius smiling slow and deliberate, like he’d won something small and stupid by making her shut her mouth.
Then she slapped him.
It came out of nowhere. Not premeditated or planned. Just—crack. One sharp, open-handed strike across his face.
Instinctive.
His head jerked sideways. His breath caught. For a moment, all the anger burned white.
The sting bloomed fast, hot across his cheek, skin prickling raw. But it wasn’t the pain that made his chest hitch. It was the humiliation.
He couldn’t see. Couldn’t move.
Because if he did—
If he said one word—
He’d do something he couldn’t take back.
So he didn’t.
He swallowed it. Every shard of rage, every curse, every word he wanted to scream at the top of his lungs. Stuffed it deep down where it always went. Where it always had gone.
And when he finally looked back at her — slowly, stiffly — it wasn’t fear on his face.
It was restraint.
Barely held. Bright at the edges. But his .
She didn’t meet it. Just said, low and clipped, “Go to your room.”
Fucking gladly , he thought. But he kept it to himself, nodding instead.
He bent to pick up his trunk from the floor — calmly, deliberately, pointedly. Like it was his choice to leave. Like he wasn’t being sent, but was instead allowing it.
The trunk shrieked across the floor as he dragged it toward the stairs.
Regulus stayed in the hall, watching. Silent.
Fucking horrified.
He’d almost forgotten his brother was there.
And Sirius had to stop himself from looking back, else he might crack. The shape of his mother’s hand seared onto his cheek like a brand. He knew Regulus saw it too.
He pushed past his father as he cleared the stairs.
He shut the door behind him lightly, careful not to make a sound. The latch clicked into place, and he quickly drew his wand to seal himself in. The faint hum of the silencing spell washed over the room — almost soothing in its familiarity. Almost.
For a second he just stood there, chest heaving, the burn of her hand still stamped across his face. Then his body folded forward, clutching at himself like he might split apart, and he let it out.
“Fuck!”
The scream tore through him, ragged and cathartic, bouncing back off the stone walls. He spun, fist already curling, and drove it hard into the cold wall by the door.
Pain shot up his knuckles.
He hissed through his teeth, clutching his hand tight, and spat another curse into the empty room.
“Fuck—”
The word cracked, halfway between fury and something dangerously close to breaking.
A tear pricked at the corner of his eye, but he blinked it back furiously, trembling.
He slid down the wall before he realised it, his back scraping the stone. His fist throbbed, sharp and hot and angry, every beat another reminder of how fucking spineless he was.
Fuck her. Fuck this place. Fuck the bloody knife. Fuck Mulciber’s brother for ratting on him. Fuck Kreacher. Fuck Orion too, for being too much of a coward to do anything but shush her. And fuck me for just standing there. For letting her—
The thought snagged. Twisted.
He pressed his palms hard into his eyes, trying to grind it all out, but it kept circling, sharper each time. Fuck this house. Fuck this family. Fuck every last one of them.
His chest rattled with it — fury and shame and loathing all knotted together. For a moment he thought it might rip him open.
But it didn’t.
Slowly, carefully, he shoved it back where it belonged. Deep down into the hollow he’d been carving for years. He braced his jaw. Straightened his spine.
Breathed.
When he finally pulled his hands away, his face was smooth again. Blank. The mask firmly back in place.
He let out a shaky breath and sat in silence, the room pressing close around him, until the mirror stirred against the floorboards.
Fuck’s sake.
Of course. James would call now.
Sirius counted his breaths, forced them steady. The worst of it was behind him anyway. He could manage. This was fine. He was fine.
But when he lifted the mirror, his own reflection caught him off guard — the angry red handprint still stamped across his cheek. He hissed.
“Fuck.”
He closed the curtains, stepping into the shadows before answering. That was better. If they couldn’t see him properly, it almost didn’t count.
“Alright, Potter?” he said, smile in place.
“Why’s it so bloody dark in there?” James laughed.
Sirius laughed right back.
“Because this bloody house would be unbearable without a little mood lighting,” he drawled.
James rolled his eyes. A moment later Peter’s face appeared, then Remus’s behind him, all three of them jostling for space.
“What’s with the crypt-keeper act?” Peter snorted.
“Adds to my mystery,” Sirius said. “Part of my charm.”
They groaned. James shoved Peter’s head out of the way, Remus muttered something dry, and soon they were bickering about the logistics of smuggling butterbeer from the teachers’ lounge.
Sirius laughed when he was supposed to, firing back lazy quips, but his knuckles still throbbed and his cheek burned beneath the smile. He kept his face tilted, hidden in shadow, careful not to let the light catch him front on.
Really, it wasn’t so bad. A slap wasn’t the end of the world. He’d had worse. And if this was the price of keeping Remus safe at school, of letting James and Peter stay, then fine. He could survive it. He always had.
He grinned at them again — all armour, all theatre.
Remus leaned into the frame, hair curling across his forehead, joking about how they couldn’t survive on stolen butterbeer and Christmas pudding alone. Smiling wide, bright.
Another reminder of why he was doing this.
Sirius grinned back, dimples deep, eyes bright in the dark. The longer they talked, the more warmth seeped through the glass — James’s bellowing laugh, Peter’s stupid faces, Remus’s dry little jabs. Almost enough to make him forget the sting on his cheek. Almost enough to pretend he was still up in the tower with them, sprawled on James’s bed, not trapped in this house all alone.
The rage simmered down, more bruise than burn now.
Almost enough to forget. Almost .
Then — a knock. Light, tentative. Too soft to be anyone but Regulus.
And all at once it bubbled back to the surface. His smile faltered for a blink.
“Alright, lads,” he cut in over James’s latest nonsense. “As much as I adore your company, I’m being summoned by the Little Prince. Catch you tomorrow.”
They groaned in protest — James loudest, of course — but Sirius was already tilting the mirror down, severing the connection before they could press. The glass went dark, his reflection staring back: cheek branded, eyes fever-bright, smile gone.
The knock came again, softer this time. Sirius raked a hand through his hair, swore under his breath, and pulled the door open.
Regulus hovered in the doorway, like he hadn’t decided if he should be there at all.
“I thought you might want some company,” he said hesitantly. “After—”
Sirius bristled. “What?”
Regulus’s gaze dropped to Sirius’s hand — swollen, split across the knuckles. His face fell, voice softening. “You hurt yourself.”
Sirius fucking hated it. That look. That tone. The pity. Like he was something fragile. Heat prickled under his skin, sharp and hot, so he buried it the only way he knew how: with teeth.
“Brilliant observation, Sherlock.” He shoved the hand behind his back, jaw set.
“I could fix it.” Regulus shifted, his eyes still on the space where Sirius’s hand had been. Too soft.
“Bugger off,” Sirius snapped. “I don’t need you playing nursemaid.”
Regulus huffed, exasperated. “Stop being stubborn for once, would you?”
For a moment Sirius glared, ready to bite back — but something in his brother’s face stalled him. The crease in his brow, the way his voice had gone quiet. Concern, whether Sirius wanted it or not.
Merlin.
With a reluctant sigh, Sirius thrust his hand forward. “Fine. Make yourself useful then.”
Regulus muttered the charm under his breath, wand tip brushing warm over bruised skin, patching it back together. The swelling eased, the sting dulled.
Sirius hated how easily the spell came to him. Like a reflex.
He shouldn’t have had to use it — shouldn’t have been allowed to use magic outside Hogwarts at all, technically. But the rules had always been different for purebloods, hadn’t they?
“You should stop baiting them, you know,” Regulus said quietly. “It doesn’t… it doesn’t help.”
That pulled a bark of laughter from Sirius — bitter, incredulous.
“Baiting them? How the hell was any of that my fault?”
Regulus rolled his eyes, wand flicking once more for good measure.
“Right, of course. The world just happens to you. You’re an innocent little lamb. Truly, Mother’s wrong — you’re a saint.”
Sirius barked out another laugh. Quick, harsh. But real enough to lighten the mood.
Regulus smirked faintly, lowering his wand. For a moment, the silence between them wasn’t jagged. Just tired. Familiar.
Then Sirius pulled his hand back, flexing it once for good measure. Perfect, of course. Always was. Because it was Regulus’s spell. And Regulus was brilliant.
“Thanks,” he muttered, clipped, already turning away.
“Try not to punch any more walls, maybe,” Regulus said, finally stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.
Sirius snorted, dropping back onto the bed with a dramatic flop.
“You’re asking a bit much.”
Regulus rolled his eyes, but lingered, shoulders easing once he was inside. For a moment it almost felt like they were children again — sneaking into each other’s rooms, whispering until the early hours of the morning. Sirius even let himself sprawl, stretch, relax for just a moment. Though he still left enough space beside him for his brother.
The rhythm returned, familiar in its own fucked-up sort of way: Sirius joking she should’ve hit him harder if she’d really wanted to shut him up, Regulus sighing in mock exasperation. But it felt fragile now, where once it hadn’t.
Still, it was close enough. Enough to keep the peace. Even if both their masks were firmly back in place.
*** 21st December 1974 ***
When he woke, the room was still shrouded in silence. The spell hung heavy in the air like smoke — dense, eerie, drowning out even the subtle creak of the house or the low groan of the pipes. Nothing but the sound of his own breath and the hammer of his heartbeat filtered through. He hated it.
The snow outside painted the windowpane white, glass beaded with frost. The latch was pulled tight, no draft seeping through. The curtains hung heavy, the furniture dark and old. Everything suffocatingly still.
His hand drifted up before he thought better of it, brushing the spot on his cheek where his mother had struck him the night before. It wouldn’t leave a mark. Probably gone already. But it still festered, just not in the way bruises did.
He sat up. The bed groaned under him, jarring in the muffled room.
They wouldn’t come for him. His family. Not for breakfast, not for lunch, not for anything. He could rot in here and no one would notice. He could die in here and nobody would care.
Except the Marauders.
The mirror stirred beneath his pillow, James’s face crowding the glass before Sirius could even sit upright. Then Peter. Then Remus, all three of them jostling to squeeze into the frame, voices sharp and alive. They chattered about how empty the castle felt over Christmas, how much they already missed him, all the plans they had for when he got back.
Sirius didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. Their noise filled the room, crowded out the silence, fired through his veins like straight dopamine.
For a while, warmth crept back in. Even the air seemed lighter with them in it — less stale, less dead. Almost alive.
It didn’t last. The quiet folded back in as soon as they said their goodbyes. Thick. Stifling. All consuming.
He didn’t like sitting with his own thoughts at the best of times. Especially not at Grimmauld Place. Not without Remus’s record player, not without anything soft to numb the edges. Left alone, he sank too quickly.
His thoughts, as they always did here, drifted back to the ways this house had wronged him. Every curse, every order, every time he’d been unwillingly forced back into line.
He thought of what he’d do about it if he were really as brave as he pretended. Set fire to the curtains. Hex the portraits. Walk out and never look back.
But he wasn’t. Not really. He still barked on command, still bent when they told him to, still played by their rules. Pathetically, disgustingly obedient.
It made him sick.
So he dug for a distraction, rifling desperately through his trunk for the pack of cigarettes Emmeline had left him. That was all. Nothing sentimental. Nothing meaningful.
Not the photo he’d hidden in the lining.
Not Remus’s book.
That would be pathetic.
But his hands betrayed him, closing instead around something else — James’s Christmas gift. Wrapped neatly in red paper, folded crisply at the edges, finished with a silk bow.
He wasn’t supposed to open it yet. Not until the twenty-fifth. But James wouldn’t care. Would he?
Sirius sat back on his heels, just touching it. Fingers brushing the edges like it might disappear if he wasn’t careful. He should wait. He knew he should wait.
But—fuck it.
When had James ever waited for anything? He was the idiot who’d jumped off the roof into his broom just to prove he’d charmed it to catch him. The one who’d convinced Sirius to race the Hogwarts Express until the train nearly took their heads off. They’d nicked Monty’s wine one Easter and drunk themselves sick in the Potters’ garden. Reckless, stupid things — but always on their own terms.
Of course James wouldn’t care.
Sirius tore it open.
Inside: a Gryffindor banner, half the size of the wall, brazenly red, the crest stark against the roaring lion. It must have been expensive — he could tell by the weight of the fabric, by the way the embroidery looked hand-stitched.
It made his stupid Honeydukes chocolates look like child’s play.
He didn’t say it aloud, didn’t dare name the feeling rising sharp in his chest, but he knew. His throat burned with it, the way it did before you broke. He swallowed hard. Bit it back.
Fucking James.
He understood now why James hadn’t wanted him to open it at school. Because this wasn’t meant for Hogwarts. It was meant for here.
He unfurled it, smiling despite himself, flapping it open for a better look — and out spilled a handful of magazines, glossy covers smacking against the floor. Half-naked Muggle girls in leather vests and not much else.
Sirius howled with laughter, so loud it startled him in the silence. His grin split wide, big enough he didn’t know what to do with it.
James fucking Potter. You brilliant bastard.
He bent to scoop the magazines up, flipping one over in his hands and lingering on it a beat longer than he should. Then he shrugged. Fuck it.
He jumped onto the bed and started hanging the banner over the ghastly green wallpaper with newfound careless determination.
If no one gave enough of a fuck to check on him this morning, that was on them.
He’d do whatever the hell he liked.
And he’d make sure it stuck.
Chapter 15: Dec, 1974 (pt 3) - The Wedding
Summary:
Sirius attends his cousins wedding and learns something new & horrible about about his family.
Notes:
tw: implied child abuse, animal cruelty
Chapter Text
*** 22nd December 1974 ***
He was brave — sure. But not suicidal.
So the door to his room stayed shut for the next few days. He spent most of his waking hours stretched out at the foot of the bed, pillow stuffed beneath his neck, eyes fixed on the Gryffindor banner he’d charmed to the wall.
Hours bled into each other like that — his gaze snagging on the same red threads until they melted together, following the outline of the lion’s mane, the sharp line of its jaw, again and again and again. Almost obsessively.
Three days of near-silence. He surfaced only to eat, piss, or sneak out the back for a smoke break — of which there had been plenty.
If Kreacher had told his mother about the magazines he’d pinned to his walls, or the enormous Gryffindor flag bleeding red across her perfect green wallpaper, or how often he was sneaking off — well, Walburga hadn’t said anything. And he was happy to keep it that way.
The night before Narcissa’s wedding, he crept back in sometime after midnight. The smell of smoke clung heavy to his clothes, his fingers numb from the cold. In the rush of packing he’d left his gloves behind, and he wasn’t about to grovel to his mother for another pair.
He didn’t expect anyone to be awake when he came in.
But as he stepped into the hall, the low lamp in the parlour was lit, casting an ominous shadow across the floor — and there was Orion, standing by the piano.
Just standing there.
One hand resting on the closed lid, like he’d been waiting for him. He was half-hidden in the dim lamplight, but Sirius could see enough to tell that his father was frowning at him.
They stared at each other for a long, stretched beat. Long enough for Sirius’s mind to start whirring.
Was it the smoking?
Was he about to get yelled at?
But Orion only said, almost mildly, “You don’t play anymore.”
It took him aback. Sirius blinked. That was it?
He lingered in the doorway, wary, like it might still be a trick question. Of course he didn’t fucking play anymore. That would mean sitting out here, in this room, in this house. With her. With him.
So he said flatly, “No.”
Another pause.
“You were good,” Orion murmured, still staring at the keys. Like they might hold the answer to everything — why his son was the way he was, where they’d gone wrong, why Sirius had failed him.
“Really good.”
Sirius let out a shallow breath, almost a laugh. “Better than Regulus.”
Because Sirius couldn’t be serious about anything in his life. Especially not this.
There was a beat. Then Orion — still calm, still distant — said, “Yes.”
It knocked him half a step off balance. His fingers loosened on the doorframe; that threw him.
Not the truth of it — that part he’d always known. But the ease of the admission. Like it didn’t matter. Like it had never mattered.
And yet — it had once. He remembered.
Orion used to watch him practice as a child. It was the only time Sirius ever really saw him — standing in the doorway, hands behind his back, nodding lightly as Sirius showed off for him. By eight years old he was already playing simple scales and little minuets — more than most kids his age could manage. Not exactly a prodigy, but better than average, hungry for any miniscule flicker of approval from his father.
The memory faded. Sirius shifted slightly where he stood, arms crossing over his chest. “So?”
“You should take it back up.”
“I don’t want to.”
Silence again. Thicker this time.
The lamp crackled faintly. Sirius could hear the wind against the windowpanes. He risked a look at his father and saw his own eyes staring back at him — grey, flat, familiar — and he averted his gaze quickly.
Then, at last, Orion said, “Whatever this is — the room, the friends, the arguments — it can’t keep going.”
The words landed softly. Too softly. Sirius didn’t think he’d ever heard his father talk like that. Not that Orion talked much at all — not beyond snapping orders. This wasn’t that. It was measured: low and even, the kind of careful tone people used in empty churches and lawyers’ offices. No edge to it, no volume.
Sirius’s mouth curled. “You think this is all part of some childish game, do you?”
Another long pause.
Then Orion looked at him properly — and it wasn’t disdain in his face. Not anger either.
He just looked… tired.
“No,” he said. “I think it’s dangerous.”
Sirius straightened, wariness creeping up his spine.
“I don’t think you grasp the full gravity of it,” Orion added.
Sirius tried to read him. But there was nothing in Orion’s expression to hold onto. No warning, no malice. It was unfamiliar in its softness. Like he’d put his temper away and was trying a different mask on, and Sirius didn’t know what to make of it.
“Of course I do,” Sirius said.
Orion shook his head. “No. You don’t. You keep pushing like this, you’ll get yourself — or all of us —.”
He didn’t finish the sentence. But Sirius could fill in the blanks.
He let it hang. Sirius didn’t need it spelled out. Hurt , if they were lucky. Killed , if they weren’t.
It sounded dramatic. Too dramatic. But Orion wasn’t one for drama. Not like his mother. He looked deadly serious. Almost — afraid .
And Sirius didn’t know what to do with that. Didn’t know what to do with any of it.
Then Orion held out a hand, palm open.
“The Muggle sticks.”
Sirius hesitated; they were his only bloody joy in the house, and he knew it. Even so, he fished the half-empty pack from his coat, pulled the lighter free, and set both in Orion’s open palm. He recognised a command when he heard one.
His father clicked his fingers, and the cigarettes vanished in a flash of green flame — wandless, neat, final.
Sirius tried not to grimace, like his only lifeline hadn’t just gone up in smoke before his eyes. But he felt it everywhere — in the twitch in his jaw, the ache in his chest, the restless thrum in his fingers suddenly with nothing to hold onto. His whole body bristled with the loss.
Then Orion drew his attention back. “There are cigars in my office. If you’d like to join me.”
And that was that.
He squeezed Sirius’s shoulder lightly as he passed, the way a father who actually cared for his son might. For the first time Sirius noticed he smelled of smoke too — different, sweeter — before vanishing into the dark.
Sirius stayed where he was: coat half off, smoke still on his breath, stunned and trying to dissect what the fuck had just happened, eyes fixed on the space his father had just filled.
Because… what the actual fuck was that?
Of course he wouldn’t be following.
*** 23rd December 1974 ***
On the morning of Narcissa’s wedding, Sirius waited alone in the parlour, half-perched on the edge of the piano bench. Not playing. Just… hovering. Letting the silence stretch. His thoughts kept catching on the strange conversation he’d had with his father the night before — the words still sitting heavy, like maybe he’d missed some deeper meaning.
Because Orion wasn’t usually so candid. Sirius could count on one hand the number of times they’d ever had anything close to an honest conversation.
Sirius picked at the skin around his thumbnail. Hard enough to sting.
The rest of him looked nothing like the boy gnawing his nails. He was already dressed for the wedding: robes pressed crisp, collar stiff, shoes polished within an inch of their life. Clean lines, tidy hair, not a stain in sight. He scrubbed up well — he always did — enough to look the part of a Black heir, even if it felt more like a costume than ever.
He was still chewing on his fingers when Regulus appeared in the doorway. Sirius turned, blinked — then nearly snorted.
His brother’s robes were… tragic. Jacket too short, cuffs halfway up his forearms, trousers hovering above his ankles. It looked like he’d borrowed them off a child.
Like he’d grown up overnight.
“Sweet Salazar, did you sprout six inches this week?”
Regulus frowned. “It’s the same set I wore to the engagement.”
He didn’t smile. Just glanced down at himself like he already knew.
Sirius sighed and stood. “She’s going to lose it.”
“She always loses it,” Regulus muttered. But he didn’t sound casual about it.
Sirius paused at that. Watched him for a beat. There was no humour in it. Just quiet bracing — like Regulus had already accepted whatever storm might come, shoulders drawn in tight, fingers worrying at the hem of his too-short jacket.
“Yeah, well,” Sirius said — taking in the jacket, the cuffs, the way Regulus was standing small in it — “I’m sure I’ve got something better.”
They headed upstairs. Sirius’s boots thudded against the steps, the old bannister groaning with each shift of weight. Regulus trailed behind, his footsteps lighter, more hesitant. He followed, but stopped short of crossing the threshold into Sirius’s room — lingering just outside, like the thin camaraderie from the other night had soured in the light of day
Sirius didn’t say anything about it. Just rifled through his trunk until he found something passable and tossed it to him: a smart navy set of dress robes, less formal and better tailored than the ones he was wearing. He was glad he’d decided to pack them in the end — he’d nearly left them behind with his record collection. The thought made his chest hitch for a beat. Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple — all still tucked away safely in the tower.
“Should fit,” he said.
Regulus caught them, looked down at the robes— and didn’t move. Something twisted in his face, quick and sharp, and Sirius pretended not to notice.
“Go on.” He pressed, trying to push past it.
Regulus hesitated, still staring at the fabric. He knew. Of course he knew. It wasn’t uncertainty about the robes, but about their bloody mother.
“She’ll say something,” Sirius said flatly, filling in the blank.
Regulus flinched, like he’d been caught thinking it.
Sirius’s jaw clenched. His fists curled before he even realised. Because… of course she’d say something. She always had something to bloody say — about their clothes, about their posture, about who they were allowed to be in this house and how small you had to make yourself to fit inside it.
“She’ll be too busy screaming at me to notice.” He offered halfheartedly.
But still Regulus said nothing.
Sirius stepped forward, yanked the robes gently from his hands, and stripped off his own, shoving them hard against his brother’s chest. Reg stumbled back a step at the force — too slight to catch himself right away.
“Here. Wear mine. They’ll pass the inspection.”
Regulus hesitated.
But Sirius didn’t give him time to argue back. “Go on. Before I change my mind.”
Regulus took them, fingers tightening, knuckles whitening as the fabric bunched in his grip. He looked like he might speak, or cry maybe.
Sirius turned away before he had to acknowledge it, already heading back into the room. “Wait outside. Don’t need you watching me strip, you little freak.”
Regulus managed a small laugh at that, still staring down at the dress robes in his hands.
He shut the door behind him and stood still for a second, breath catching, anger bubbling up in his chest. He wasn’t mad at Regulus, of course. Never had been. But it was hard to remember that sometimes.
It was her — the way she made them feel like this. Like they had to measure their worth in the way they presented themselves, the worth they could bring to the family. Like any step outside the line would cost them everything.
His eyes flicked up to the Gryffindor banner and he saw red for an entirely different reason.
Merlin help him, he wanted her to see it. The posters on his wall. The banner. The blood in his mouth from the slap that still hadn’t faded.
Let her scream.
He wasn’t shrinking for anyone. Especially not Walburga bloody Black.
*** 23rd December 1974 ***
She had enough to say about the robes.
The sleeves were a disgrace. The navy was juvenile. The cut was borderline offensive. She yelled until her face went red — a colour that looked almost foreign on her — and Sirius fought her on it right up until the second they stepped out the door.
Because the only thing worse than arriving with a son in navy robes was arriving late.
She chose her humiliation. And Sirius reveled in the win. Truthfully, he almost got a little high off it — the rush of needling her, of watching her lose control, was better than anything the Ravenclaws could ever brew.
They arrived just in time for the ceremony; which was long, dull, and self-indulgent. Exactly as Sirius had expected. He was almost glad for it; the audaciousness gave him something to sneer at.
And he looked damn good doing it.
His mother had been right: he was the only one in blue. A lone navy suit in a sea of black and grey. It drew eyes, of course — whether it was the robes or simply his presence so close to the front, he couldn’t tell. Either way, he felt the stares.
And he lapped them up. Sat back in his chair, legs stretched, smirk tugging at his mouth like he owned the place. If he had to endure this circus, he might as well be the main act.
The reception was as lifeless as the ceremony — same colour scheme, same sneering faces, same endless prattle about bloodlines and money. The only difference was that Sirius wasn’t seated with his parents this time. Instead, he was at a long table of cousins.
Regulus sat further down, beside the Rosier siblings, trying his best not to make eye contact with Sirius — who was walking the line between reckless rebellion and perfect pure-blood heir. After all, he didn’t want to ruin Narcissa’s day completely. She didn’t deserve that, even if he didn’t always agree with her husband’s ridiculous politics.
When Sirius turned back, Bellatrix and her husband had slipped into the seats across from him.
Bellatrix — dark-haired, sharp-eyed — carried an unhinged kind of beauty, like Walburga if she ever slipped the leash. Rodolphus, by contrast, was cold and composed, his cufflinks gleaming beneath the chandelier, his stillness almost sculptural beside her restless energy. Sirius tried not to recoil, though the urge to sneer twitched at his mouth.
He hated to admit it, but the two of them made him deeply, viscerally uncomfortable.
Because he remembered.
The first time he’d met Rodolphus properly had been just after their engagement. The couple had taken the entire Black family out to dinner. Sirius couldn’t have been more than twelve at the time, Regulus even younger. They had been dragged to a restaurant too sophisticated for their age, left to sulk in a corner, bored out of their minds, flicking sugar packets at each other.
He had wanted nothing more than to go home, and had regretted that wish the second Rodolphus and Bellatrix had offered to take the boys for a walk around the gardens.
He still remembered the way the air had smelled that night: roses, heavy and overripe, pressing down on the dark. It had seared itself into his memory.
Rodolphus had stopped by a statue, pulled out his wand, and said he had something funny to show them.
Funny. That had been the word he’d used.
Sirius had leaned in, stupid and eager, expecting a trick. A gift. Something kind.
Instead, it had been a rabbit: small, grey, twitchy. Rodolphus had let them pet it, the thing squirming in his grip, soft fur pressed against Sirius’s sticky palm. Regulus had even laughed at first, delighted.
Until Rodolphus had flicked his wand.
And the rabbit started screaming.
High-pitched. Piercing. Like glass scraped with metal. Its body had convulsed in his hands, back legs kicking, spine bowing as if fire licked invisibly up its skin. Eyes bulging, shrieks tearing through the stillness.
Regulus had burst into tears immediately. Sirius hadn’t moved at all — frozen, hollow, stomach plummeting, wide eyes locked on the creature spasming in Rodolphus’s grip.
Somehow, that had only made Rodolphus laugh harder. The more they had reacted, the funnier he found it. Like it was some stupid party trick. Like he was testing how far he could push them before they broke.
And Bellatrix had just grinned, practically vibrating with delight while her fiancé demonstrated the Cruciatus curse in front of her two young cousins.
Like she’d found it funny.
Sirius hadn’t been able to look at rabbits the same way since.
And now — here they were. Smiling. Charming. Making polite conversation about the Ministry and warding charms with him, sipping wine like nothing in the world had ever screamed in front of them. Their smiles were all teeth, stained red with wine, fake as anything.
Sirius just stared back, expression slack, until someone waved a hand in front of his face.
“Hello?” Bellatrix sing-songed. “Earth to cousin.”
He blinked. Jerked slightly. “Sorry. Long day.”
He slid back into the conversation with ease — or pretended to. Nodded where appropriate. Made a vague comment about defensive runes.Didn’t hear a bloody word of their response.
Because he was scanning the room now, heartbeat in his throat.
He needed out.
He needed air.
He needed a buffer.
Where the fuck was Avery?
He hadn’t seen him yet — not among the guests, not at the bar, not near the dance floor.
And Sirius was suddenly, irrationally desperate for his company. Because he was the only person he could bear to be around right now. The only one who didn’t leave him wanting to tear his own skin off the bone.
And by some small blessing, Avery found him.
He slid up behind Sirius like he belonged there — smooth, easy, laughing with Bellatrix and Rodolphus like old friends. His hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. The way James sometimes did, like the world couldn’t tilt if he was steady beside it. Familiar. Almost grounding.
It used to be enough to calm him. But now? Now, all Sirius could think about was how badly he needed a fucking cigarette. His chest was too tight, the light too bright; Bellatrix’s laughter grated like glass in his ears, and the wine tasted like vinegar. The navy cuff of his robe was suddenly the most interesting thing at the table; he pulled it tight enough to pinch his wrist, holding on to the small sting like it might keep him present.
He leaned into Avery’s side, just enough to pull him away from the group. “Come with me.”
Avery barely had time to glance over before Sirius was steering him toward the bar, sharp and urgent. His blonde hair was slicked back so firmly it didn’t so much as shift when Sirius tugged him along. They’d only just cleared the worst of the crowd when Sirius asked, low and fast, “Do you have a smoke?”
Avery blinked. Light eyes meeting his. “I don’t smoke.”
Sirius let out a breath that bordered on a laugh — but there was no humour in it. Avery paused. Maybe it was the twitch in Sirius’s jaw, or the way his fingers kept flexing and unflexing at his side. Maybe it was the silence. Either way, something in Avery softened; he sighed.
“But Jugson does.”
Sirius barely made it one step out the door before he was lighting the cigarette with his wand — hands trembling just enough that it took two tries. The first drag stung, but he welcomed it. The wind was frigid and ferocious, nipping at his fingertips and burning through the cigarette faster than usual, smoke whipped away before he could hold it in.
“Merlin, Sirius,” Cass said, watching him with a wrinkle in his nose. “Desperate much?”
Sirius let out a low, breathy laugh. “Something like that.”
But Cass wasn’t really listening. Not really. A group of older men stood nearby, just off to the left — smoking cigars, murmuring in clipped tones. They glanced over when the door swung shut, from where they stood huddled together in a tight circle, eyes narrowing slightly; one of them nodded, another didn’t bother to hide the scrutiny. Sirius didn’t rise to it. He leaned back against the stone and tried to look casual.
Avery shifted beside him — but didn’t relax. Sirius noticed. “What’s your deal?”
Cass didn’t answer right away. He kept watching the men like he didn’t trust them — or like he did; Sirius couldn’t tell which. Finally, he explained himself, voice low: “They’re Death Eaters.”
Sirius scoffed. No, they weren’t.
He’d heard the term, seen it splashed across front pages, knew what the Death Eaters were: terrorists that families like theirs whispered about and, in some cases, idolised. But those men? They weren’t that. They were just Bellatrix’s stupid friends — the same ones who’d been around since forever, smoking in gardens, laughing at summer dinners, clapping him on the shoulder like uncles. Familiar. Harmless. If a little stupid.
Sirius frowned. “No, they’re not. They’re just — Bellatrix’s lot. You know how she is.”
Avery turned to look at him. Deadly serious. “Exactly.”
That one word — flat, simple — made something cold settle under Sirius’s ribs. He looked back to where the men had been standing. The last of the group disappeared through a side gate, laughing at something. It sounded hollow. It took a second to click — then it hit all at once.
Not a joke. Not weird cousins with twisted hobbies. Not just Bellatrix laughing at the wrong time or marrying a man like Rodolphus.
They were involved.
And suddenly that memory — of Rodolphus in the garden, wand drawn, rabbit screaming, Bella watching like it was a joke — wasn’t just some sick family story anymore.
Sirius sat down hard on the stone step, breath colder now. Because, if that was what Rodolphus had done for fun at twenty — Godric only knew what he was doing now. How long they’d all been doing it.
Orion’s warning echoed in his ears: You keep pushing like this, you’ll get yourself, or all of us, killed. It didn’t sound paranoid anymore. It sounded like a warning.
He took another drag from his cigarette — hands trembling just enough to make it hard — and tried to slow his breathing, tried to laugh it off. Behind him, Avery shifted, quiet and unreadable.
“You didn’t know?” he asked.
Sirius didn’t look up, didn’t breathe for a moment, before admitting: “I didn’t know.”
The words tasted thin. Stupid . Because he should have known. The signs were there — always had been — and somehow that was the worst part of it. Not that they were monsters, but that they always had been.
And he’d still called them family. Still defended them. Still laughed with them. Still sat beside them and thought he was above it somehow — separate from it. Safe. Because he hung some Muggle girls on the wall of his bedroom? Because he wore Gryffindor colours and smoked in protest and rolled his eyes at dinner?
You stupid fucking child.
He swallowed hard. Ash caught at the back of his throat, bitter and cloying. For the first time in a very, very long time, Sirius Black felt like an idiot. He thought he was fighting the family — but he was still in it. Still owned by it. And too slow — too fucking arrogant — to realise what that really meant.
He dragged the cigarette to the filter, then ground it out with the heel of his boot, jaw tight, hands still shaking. It was a mistake, he told himself. A blind spot. A fluke. Didn’t mean anything. Didn’t change anything. And if he repeated it enough times — maybe it would start to sound true.
Because he hadn’t been the one to torture the rabbit, had he? He hadn’t been the one to join the fucking cult.
He looked up and forced his mouth into something that almost resembled a smile — lopsided, tired, too sharp around the edges. “Well,” he said. “That’s cheered me right up.”
And just like that — it was compartmentalised.
Buried.
Done.
Chapter 16: December, 1974 (pt 4) - Merry fucking Christmas
Summary:
Christmas at Grimmauld Place goes very badly
Notes:
TW: Self harm (graphic), suicide ideation, neglect.
NOTE: I really cannot stress how dark this chapter is. Please take care while reading, and skip if you need to. The mask finally comes off here.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
*** 25th December 1974 ***
He tried not to think about it, tried not to dwell on it— he really did. But still it looped, over and over in his head, whether he wanted it to or not. Like a record stuck on a scratch, spinning endlessly without any of the music — just the grating repetition, enough to drive him mad.
Bellatrix.
Not the monster Cassius had painted her as, not the terrorist he could suddenly picture too clearly — but the cousin he had loved when he was small. The wild one. The one who made the house feel alive in ways no one else could. She had always been sharp, erratic, a little terrifying, but it thrilled him. In ways he was never quite willing to admit. Daring him to nick bottles of wine from Orion’s cellar, teaching him hexes behind the garden wall, pinning her antics on Kreacher and laughing as Walburga punished him for it. Chaos in a family otherwise dead and joyless.
And he’d adored her for it, once. Maybe even saw a bit of himself in her wildness.
But now — he saw that same face tucked behind one of those bone-white masks, curly hair spilling free in wild tangles.
A Death Eater.
The word clanged around his skull until it hurt. His stomach lurched each time he replayed it — the tilt of her grin, hidden now behind something faceless, marching alongside those men. Not just sharp, not just cruel. A terrorist.
Or worse. A murderer.
What did that make him? Complicit, at the very least.
He pressed his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. How had he been so naïve? How had he missed it?
With hindsight it was all there. In the man she’d married. In the way her eyes had shone whenever Sirius was cruel to Kreacher. In the toasts she gave about blood purity that he had always assumed were tongue-in-cheek.
Fucking stupid, Sirius. You’re so fucking stupid.
He wanted to throw up.
And worse: he was alone with it. James hadn’t called yesterday. On Christmas Eve. Not even a quick good morning, not a check-in before bed. Just silence pressing in from all sides, while the four walls of his childhood bedroom closed in around him.
The restless energy fizzed under his skin like static, buzzing, looking for somewhere to go. No cigarettes to take his mind off it — since Orion had destroyed them. Nothing but the stupid book Remus had bought him, and he could hardly bring himself to touch it today. It was too soft.
Fuck.
So he burned it off somewhere useless.
Shirtless, he climbed onto his bed and tacked another half-naked Muggle girl to the wallpaper — by hand this time, shoving the pins in until they bit his fingertips. Each picture a new scar on the house, on the family. His only outlet. Pathetic as it was.
He must’ve looked completely insane: black hair matted to his forehead, skin grey under the dim light. Ribs jutting sharp without a shirt, body bony and ugly in a way that made his throat burn.
He wasn’t being quiet about it either. The door was ajar, curses spilling into the corridor — like he wanted them to hear. Wanted them to see.
Because what else was there to do with it?
He could hear them right back: laughter rising from downstairs, the tail-end of their perfect-bloody-Christmas breakfast. Pretending they were a real family, not just three people trapped in the same house — Kreacher clanking plates in the sink, Orion already tipsy and prodding at the piano keys, Walburga cackling in that horrible way she always did.
Not like it would’ve been at the Potters’: fire smouldering, breakfast balanced on their knees, him and James tearing through presents while Monty hummed some stupid jingle under his breath.
Not like it would’ve been at Hogwarts: James up before dawn, bouncing from bed to bed, the Great Hall alive with excited chatter, Peeves swooping overhead to pelt them with Christmas crackers.
Blood welled where the pin slipped and caught his thumb. He laughed under his breath — jagged, humourless — and pressed until a droplet gathered. He brought it to his mouth, let it sting where his tongue touched it. Merry fucking Christmas, you daft idiot, he thought bitterly.
“—Merry Christmas,” a small voice echoed behind him.
He turned.
Regulus.
His brother’s eyes skimmed across the room, snagging briefly on the posters before settling on him. He didn’t comment.
Sirius pretended not to notice how unhinged he must’ve looked: eyes fever-bright in the pale window light, reflecting the snow outside. Merlin — if his friends could see him now.
His brother, by contrast, was put together as ever. He wore a stiff suit and tie from breakfast — the one Sirius had refused to attend — and a sad little smile. Didn’t say a word at first, just held out Sirius’s navy dress robes, pressed and neat. “I had them cleaned,” he said simply.
Sirius dropped down from his bed and snatched them back, bleeding all over them. Not that he cared. Regulus could’ve kept them, or set the bloody things alight for all it mattered. He hated them anyway, what they stood for now.
Still, the word slipped out, quiet. “Thanks.”
The silence after was suffocating. The air hadn’t moved in days. Sirius clutched the robes too tightly, hating himself for it — and maybe hating Regulus a little too for standing there looking so much like them. Like her . With his grey eyes, Black bone-structure, and stoic expression.
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t even rational. But it bothered him all the same. He turned away, hoping his face didn’t give him away.
Regulus cleared his throat softly. “It’s snowing,” he said, nodding at the window. Genuine, almost friendly. But Sirius couldn’t stomach it today — whatever this stupid game was they played together. Pretending like they weren’t on two different sides of this war. Pretending like that didn’t matter, even though they both knew it did. A lot.
Sirius followed his gaze. Frost blurred the glass, pressing heavy against the pane. Once, it would have meant something. Once, they’d have run out into it together — boots sinking deep in the snow, cheeks burning pink, Walburga shrieking from the doorway for them to come inside. Orion would have let it slide. Just this once. Because it was Christmas.
Now it just felt cold.
“Yeah,” Sirius said, flat.
Regulus seemed to catch the weight of it. His mouth tilted sideways, faint, and he turned toward the door. For a moment he looked like an older version of the boy who used to linger there, waiting for his brother to pay him even a shred of attention — eyes too bright for the rest of him.
He knew Sirius’s moods by now. Had known even back then — when to back off, when to say nothing. And Sirius hated that. Hated being read so easily, like he was nothing more than a string of tempers to be managed.
But this wasn’t just another mood swing—
“Did you know?” Sirius’s voice cut after him before he could cross the boundary.
Regulus stilled in the doorway, knuckles bracing against the frame. “Know what?”
“About Bellatrix.” His throat caught on the name. “Being a Death Eater.”
The air thickened the second Sirius spoke it into existence. Like all the oxygen burned up at once. Regulus froze, shoulders locked, eyes darting away quickly. He didn’t move for a long moment, so still you could’ve been fooled into believing he’d been carved there. But his face — Sirius saw it. The avoidance. The truth.
“No,” he said finally.
Sirius’s laugh was bitter. “Don’t lie to me. You knew.”
Regulus’s voice was quiet, clipped. “Nobody tells me anything.”
They stood like gunslingers in a western. Neither moved, neither blinked — just two brothers locked in a ridiculous standoff, waiting to see who’d flinch first.
“Sure,” Sirius muttered, disbelief coating the word.
The silence that followed was heavier than shouting. Regulus lingered one breath longer, then slipped out.
Sirius shut the door behind him this time, harder than he meant to. The sound cracked the quiet, then withered and died.
He stood dumbly with the robes in his hands, blood tacky on his thumb, sweat slick on his forehead. Fingers twitched like he might chuck them across the room, tear them in two, anything to take his mind off it. Instead he crumpled the fabric into a ball and shoved it deep into his trunk. Out of sight. Out of mind.
The window caught him as he straightened — his own reflection staring back. Long black hair. Blank expression. Dead eyes.
The same features he’d recoiled at on Regulus.
The same features he’d once adored in Bellatrix.
The same blood in all their veins.
He suddenly felt hideously alone in it.
James hadn’t called. Regulus had left. Bellatrix wore the mask.
“Merry fucking Christmas,” he said again, to no one at all.
The silence swallowed it whole.
By the time the mirror finally stirred, Christmas was already halfway over.
The morning had dragged on in complete silence, almost unbearably long, after he’d cast another silencing charm over the room. Sirius lay flat on his bed, staring at the tapestry again — the corner fluttering faintly in the breeze now that he’d thrown the window open. His fingers drifted absently across his bare chest, tracing the line of fine hairs there, standing on end from the cold and his touch. He shivered but didn’t move to cover himself. The cold was something at least — sharp enough to remind him he was still here, even if he wished he wasn’t.
No one had called. Not yesterday. Not this morning.
He told himself he didn’t care. Except he did. Of course he bloody did.
When the mirror finally flared, the glow felt violent in the half-dark. For a moment he thought about leaving it face-down, making them wait — letting them stew in the quiet the way he’d been forced to all morning.
But he wanted it too much. Almost embarrassingly so. He clambered toward it, fumbling when his half-frozen fingers wouldn’t close properly around the frame.
James’s face blinked into view — hair smashed flat on one side, pupils blown, shirt buttoned wrong. Like he’d just woken up.
It was quarter to eleven.
Something soft stirred within him briefly — relief, maybe, at not being forgotten again, not left to stew any longer. But instead of addressing it head-on, it slipped out sideways.
“Oh, look who’s alive after all—” Sirius said, voice flat, eyes raking him up and down.
James winced. “Mate—”
Behind him, Peter and Remus hovered close, both unusually quiet. Even Peter wasn’t smiling, his gap tooth hidden behind tight lips.
“And all his little friends,” Sirius added bitterly.
Peter gave a strangled, awkward little laugh at that.
“We’re so fucking sorry,” James blurted, stumbling over Remus and Peter, who were talking at the same time.
“It was completely—”
“—not on purpose, we—”
“—lost track of time—”
Sirius let the pause drag, blinking slow, letting them squirm. “Were you kidnapped?”
Three guilty glances.
“And clearly not murdered,” he went on, dry as anything. “So?”
James’s hand raked through his hair, sheepish. “We—uh—were talking.”
“To who? The Minister of Magic?” Sirius asked, tilting his head.
James hesitated, looking between the other two, coy and uncomfortable. “Lily.”
For a moment Sirius only stared. Then laughter burst out of him — too loud, sharp enough to bite. “What?”
“She wanted to talk,” James said defensively. “We were just—”
“Oh, I see,” Sirius cut in, voice sharp, anger barely held. “I’m away for two weeks and suddenly I’m lower in the pecking order than Lily bloody Evans.”
James groaned, tipping his head back. “Oh, don’t start,” he said quickly, looking all soft, stupid, and sorry.
“I’m not starting,” Sirius said, stretching long across the bed, like he hadn’t a care in the world. “Just surprised, is all.”
And he was. Surprised. Because—Lily. Really? Bitterness spiked hot under his ribs.
The silence stretched. Remus’s eyes flicked to him — steady, too steady, the kind of look that landed like concern. Sirius bristled at it. If he really bloody cared, he would’ve called yesterday.
Peter, desperate to fill the gap, piped up: “So, uh—did you get anything for Christmas?”
James swatted at him like he’d lost his mind. “Peter.”
Sirius shook his head slowly, lips almost curling into a smile at the sheer stupidity of it. “No, you buffoon.”
Only… that wasn’t true. Not completely. An owl had come that morning with a novelty Christmas card of a reindeer doing the twist from Effie and Monty. They’d sent a parcel with it: a Led Zeppelin band shirt — the kind he only ever wore at school — and a tin of biscuits still steaming when he opened it. The only warmth he’d felt all bloody day.
He’d shoved it under the bed before anyone could see. Too tender. Too close. But for a flicker, the thought softened something inside him.
He looked back at his friends: James chewing his lip raw, Remus unnervingly steady, Peter awkward and pink around the ears. They were sorry. He knew it.
Something inside him loosened. Just a little. Maybe he was too far in his own head. Maybe not everything had to be so hard.
For a moment, he almost told them. About Bella. About what Avery had said. About how it was eating him alive. The words pressed, nearly passed his lips.
But he faltered. Because he could already see it — the worry, the judgement, James’s fists itching for a fight. He couldn’t bear it. They wouldn’t get it. Couldn’t, really.
To them, Bella was just another enemy. To him, she was worse — blood, history, the cousin he’d once adored. A piece of him, whether he liked it or not.
Then James looked at him — steady, open, bleeding — and it ached. Too much to risk.
So he swallowed it back. Let it drop.
He sat against the pillows, smirk sliding neatly back into place. “Alright, Potter. You fucked up. Do tell me how you plan to make it up to me.”
James didn’t hesitate. His whole face lit up. “Whatever you want.”
Sirius’s gaze drifted toward the window. It was still snowing, heavy and white, pressing down over the house like a shroud.
The bitterness twisted, sharper for a second. Then he let it go with a grin.
“Fine,” he said. “Nudie run. Outside.”
Peter groaned like he’d been hexed. “You’re joking.”
Remus muttered something about hypothermia, though his mouth twitched faintly.
James grinned even wider, already hauling his flannelette pajama shirt over his head. “You’re on.”
Sirius barked a laugh, startled, real. “And your pants too.”
“Already on it,” James said, standing there bare-chested, grinning like a maniac.
Peter dropped his head in his hands. “Merlin, James, at least wait until we’re outside!”
But James only laughed, reckless and warm even through the glass, and Sirius let himself laugh with him. The sharpness hadn’t gone, not really. The loneliness still sat low in his chest.
But for a moment, watching James stand there half-naked, grinning like an idiot, it felt lighter.
Because James was mental. And that was enough to distract him for now.
*** 29th December 1974 ***
As if out of penance, James started calling him two, sometimes three times a day after that. Morning, afternoon, and night — overeager and overcompensating, like he was daring Sirius to complain.
But he never did.
James talked to him over breakfast with his mouth full, curled up with the mirror in bed and nodded off with it in his hand, even dragged him along on every ridiculous adventure around the castle — never leaving Sirius alone long enough to start chewing holes in himself. Sirius rolled his eyes, called him clingy, acted put out. But he always answered. Because the truth was, the constant interruptions were the only thing keeping the house from swallowing him whole.
Which was why, when James didn’t call on the morning of the full moon — or again that afternoon — Sirius knew something was wrong. Horribly wrong. James wasn’t stupid or heartless enough to do that to him twice.
So when the mirror finally lit, Sirius answered immediately, nerves spiking before James even opened his mouth. The glass bit cold against his palms.
He’d been crying. Sirius could tell. It was written all over his face — bloodshot eyes, splotchy cheeks, mouth pressed thin like he’d been failing to hold it together for hours. The silence of Grimmauld pressed in heavier for it, the only sound his own breath fogging faint against the mirror.
The bottom fell out of him, leaving nothing but a sick, twisting weight in its wake. Like someone had reached through his ribs and yanked his stomach loose — sharp, brutal, hollowing him out.
He didn’t have to ask. James’s face said it all. Sirius watched in horror, stomach lurching, as his friend lifted a shaky hand to his cheek and dragged a clumsy line down it — leaving a pale streak scored through the redness.
“It’s bad, Sirius. He’s got a scar. Right across his face.”
Sirius only breathed in response — short, ragged, so angry he thought he might burst. His fingers clenched around the mirror’s frame, the brass digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks, so tight it was a wonder the glass didn’t crack.
A small sob from James pulled him back. The sound cracked through his fury, jagged and boyish, and Sirius blinked, startled. For a second he forgot the mirror, forgot his own chest caving in — because James needed him. Remus needed him.
They all needed him.
“Oi,” Sirius rasped, rough in his throat, grip loosening on the glass. “Don’t—don’t do that. He’s alive, yeah? He’s alive. That’s all that matters.”
James shook his head, tears spilling fresh, and Sirius hated it — hated how wrong it felt to see him undone like this. So he kept talking, voice low, desperate, trying to patch the cracks with anything he had.
“He’ll be okay,” he said quickly. “Tougher than all of us put together. He’ll be alright. Poppy will fix him up.”
And he believed none of it. Not really. But if it steadied James, if it stopped the shaking in his shoulders, then Sirius would say it a thousand times before he let himself fall apart.
James’s voice broke as he went on, words spilling like he couldn’t stop them. “It’s our fault, you know? We should’ve finished the potion ages ago. But we’ve been too busy — too busy fucking around with school and Quidditch and—and girls—”
That last one hit like a curse, aimed straight at him. Sirius knew it. Worse still — he fucking deserved it.
Because James was right. He’d been too caught up in his own shit, in distractions and noise and running from himself, to be where he should’ve been — with them. With Remus.
And now what? Remus was scarred. Again. Across his bloody face. As if his arm hadn’t been enough of a warning.
He wanted to ask how bad it was, wanted to drown himself in the details like he deserved. But James was still crying.
The urge to hurl the mirror across the room hit him square in the chest. His arm even twitched with it, rage burning through every muscle. He wanted to watch it shatter, watch his own face break into a hundred jagged pieces.
But James looked like he was splintering already.
So Sirius forced the fury down, fingers tightening on the frame instead.
“Listen to me,” he said, voice low and steady in a way he didn’t feel. “This isn’t on you. Okay? You’re the one who found the map. You’re the one who came up with the plan. I’m the one that’s been dragging my ass, yeah?”
James shook his head, but Sirius kept at it, words sharp as teeth because softness would only make him break.
“He’s alive. You hear me? He’s alive, and okay, and we’ll figure the rest out. But you don’t get to blame yourself for this.”
He was talking to James. He was. But the words felt like they were tearing something out of his own chest.
When James’s breathing finally steadied, Sirius forced the question out. “How is he?”
James scrubbed a hand across his face. “He’s… he’s talking. Just not about it. Won’t let anyone near the subject. Pretends it didn’t happen. Pomfrey tries to comfort him, and he just… shuts down.”
Sirius’s stomach clenched. He could picture it — Remus lying there, polite and calm, as if a scar across his bloody face was nothing at all.
Heat pricked his eyes then, finally — hot, stinging — and he hated it. Fury snapped through him at once, vicious, self-directed. What good were tears? They wouldn’t change a fucking thing. He clenched his jaw until it ached, forced the air out slow through his teeth. He wasn’t going to cry. Not in front of James. Not now.
So he pressed it down and made his voice certain. “We’ll fix it. We’ll finish the potion. He won’t go through it alone again.”
James nodded quickly. “Yeah. I know we will.” His mouth pulled, eyes dropping for a moment before flicking back up. “I just… wish you were here.”
The ache was sharp, instant. Sirius swallowed it down, something hard catching in his throat.
“Fuck, mate. Me too.”
The mirror went dark in his hands, James’s face slowly disappearing beneath it, leaving only his own pale, gaunt reflection staring back. He held it there for a moment, completely numb. Fingers stiff, bloodless, foreign — like they didn’t belong to him anymore.
The hollow void of the brass frame stared back until something else flickered into it — Remus’s face split open by the scar. The image taunted him cruelly: a ragged slash tearing from ear to cheek, skin yanked apart in uneven ridges, pink and raw at the edges like it might never knit closed. His soft, beautiful features warped into something grotesque and unfamiliar. Sirius blinked hard, trying to will it away, breath coming out shaky.
But suddenly, it was all he could see.
The image swelled until he couldn’t bear it any longer. Remus’s face flashing, unbidden, over and over again. He needed something to stop it.
Fucking anything.
Something to cut through the panic before it drowned him — a hand dragging him under, cold fingers clamped over his mouth while he clawed and thrashed, nails raking, lungs burning, choking the life out of him.
Nicotine. Or firewhisky. Anything.
Please .
He staggered to his feet, still clutching the useless mirror. Bare feet slapped against the floorboards, every sound too loud in the dead hush of the house. By the time he reached his father’s study, his breath was ragged, desperate.
Still — all he could see was Remus’s face in flashes. Disfigured.
He would never look the same.
The room was stale, heavy with dust and disdain. He ripped the drawers open one after another, papers and bottles and trinkets crashing to the floor. Hunting for the cigars. They had to be here. They had to.
Top drawer — nothing.
Second — nothing.
Third — a vial rolled against his hand, cloudy, half-used. Contraceptive potion. Sirius slammed the drawer so hard the desk rattled.
Fuck.
Yuck.
Fuck.
“Fucking fuck,” he rasped, voice cracking. “Where are they?”
Where are they. Where are they. Where are they.
His hair clung to his forehead as his eyes darted over the desk, chest heaving panickedly.
Hair plastered to his forehead, eyes darting over the desk, chest heaving.
That was when he saw it.
The knife. The bone-handled one he’d nicked from Borgin and Burkes, lying across the blotter like it had been set out for him.
Like a Christmas present from his parents.
His hand reacted before he could think.
He pressed the tip into the soft pad of his thumb — right where the pin had pricked him days before. Deeper this time, until blood trickled down his wrist.
Coward. Do it properly .
Deeper still.
Pathetic. Selfish. You should’ve fucking helped. You should’ve been there. You should’ve finished the potion. Remus is scarred because of you.
The blade trembled. Chest rattled with harsh, shallow breaths. Blood dripped off his elbow onto the floor.
Bellatrix’s face bled into it then. Then the mask. Then his own.
You’re just fucking like them. You think a few posters on the walls makes you different? You think running your mouth makes you brave? You’re a snake. Complicit. A Black.
And then his eyes caught it, beside the letter opener.
The cigar box.
The knife hit the desk with a sharp, metallic crack that split the silence like glass breaking. His fingers shook so violently the lid rattled as he prised it open, leaving a red smudge on the wood.
He lit one where he stood and dragged hard, the smoke clawing down his throat, shoving him back into his father’s chair.
You weren’t supposed to inhale cigars.
He didn’t care.
He wanted to fucking choke.
And he did. Heat burned raw and tight in his lungs. He doubled over, hacking and coughing and wheezing until his ribs ached.
Tears spilled, slow at first, in between hiccups as he wheezed for air.
Then faster.
Another drag. Deeper, harsher. Again. And again.
Each pull scraped worse, the smoke gagging him until the edges of his vision blurred. Chest convulsed, stomach cramped like he might vomit, but he forced it back down — dragging until his head spun and black spots danced at the corners of his eyes.
Then the tears broke fully.
His head dropped forward onto the desk, pain jolting up his neck. He folded down, hair pooling like blood around him. Chest seizing, breath jerking, until the sobs tore loose.
It wasn’t quiet. It wasn’t clean.
It wasn’t pretty.
Coughs tangled with it, every sob strangled. “Fuck—Remus—” he choked.
pathetic. coward. selfish. useless.
He clawed at his hair, yanking until his scalp burned beneath his nails, muttering curses and apologies into the wood. His throat shredded, voice breaking into humiliating squeaks he couldn’t stop.
All he could see was Remus — silent in the hospital wing, scar carved deep across his face. He couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t breathe around it.
The sobs grew wilder, more frantic, until nothing was left in him but shaking and dried blood down his arm. He pressed his forehead hard into the polished desk, wishing it would split his skull open and bleed the noise out.
And then it hit him.
Like a hex to the chest.
This wasn’t his room. He hadn’t silenced it.
The study wasn’t charmed.
Every sound — the sobs, the gagging, the spit and snot and choking — carried through Grimmauld Place. His parents in their room beside him. Regulus another door down. Kreacher in the kitchen.
They could hear him.
He froze, still heaving, forehead pressed to the desk. Another noise ripped out anyway, jagged and involuntary, and the shame burned hotter than the smoke ever had.
They’d heard him. They must have.
And they didn’t come.
They let him tear himself apart alone in here like an animal.
And they didn’t care.
Notes:
Author Note I really am sorry for that one. If you want something a little lighter, maybe go read the sister fic here and watch the Potters coddle him? House Fires
Chapter 17: Jan, 1975 (pt 1) - Scars
Summary:
Sirius returns to school with his mask firmly back on, and his scars hidden. Remus, on the other hand, isn't so lucky.
Chapter Text
*** 5th January 1975 ***
When Sirius walked into the dorm a few days later, he looked like he hadn’t lost a wink of sleep over it: hair perfectly manicured, boots scuffed just enough to look intentional; a picture of composure. Almost as though he hadn’t been up half the night cycling through what he might say, pacing in front of the mirror until the line finally landed right.
He stepped inside, glanced across the room, and saw Remus hunched over in bed with a book propped on his knees, a soft sweater pulled over his hands.
The scar was impossible to miss. Not quite the grotesque ruin Sirius had pictured in the dark of his room, but there all the same — pink and jagged, still a little bloody at the edges, marking his pale skin like a brand. The kind of wound that would never truly fade.
And yet — he still looked like Remus. Still had the same kind, amber eyes that wrinkled at the edges when he smiled. Or, like now, when he frowned at whatever nonsense James had just said. The scar didn’t erase that. If anything, it sharpened it — made Sirius’s chest ache more, knowing he was still himself beneath it.
He was glad, on some horrible, pathetic level, to have something else to focus on aside from his cousin. Easier, this — walking into a room and being able to help, being the one with the jokes, than dwelling on that.
He didn’t flinch.
Just gave a low whistle as he looked Remus up and down.
“Well,” he said, slinging his bag to the floor, “don’t you look rugged.”
He didn’t, of course. Even with the scar he looked like someone who’d spent more hours curled up with books than swinging an axe. Soft hands, spindly arms, and pasty; in his eyes, it only made the joke funnier.
Remus blinked. “What?”
“The ladies,” Sirius said, casual as anything, though panic clawed faintly at the back of his throat, worried the joke might not land. “They’re going to love it.”
But it did land. Sirius watched in delight as it rolled over him — first a ripple, then a howl. That kind of uncontrollable laughter that curled at the edges and made Sirius’s chest hitch.
He grinned, cocky as ever, like it was all part of some effortless performance — when really he was clinging to the warmth of it, desperate for anything that might dull the ache the break had left behind.
Before he knew it, a shoe came flying across the room at him. He barely dodged it. James, huffing from his bed, threw the other towards the floor in frustration. “No. You’re not brushing this off with a joke. He’s been through hell, go console your friend, you bastard.”
“I just did!” Sirius threw up his hands, tossing the shoe back.
Which only made Remus laugh harder — tipping forward, clutching his side, laughing so hard tears pooled at the corners of his eyes where the skin wrinkled.
Sirius recognised the sound — the wild, unhinged edge to it — but he didn’t try to tame it. Just smiled back, sharp and bright, letting the noise fill the hollow places in both their chests until they hurt a little less.
This was Remus processing in real time. The others didn’t see it. Maybe didn’t understand it. But he knew.
“Fucking hell, Sirius, I mean it.” James now, sitting up straighter, the spitting image of his mother — not judgemental so much as fierce, protective. Like Effie, he said it with love, but it still made Sirius snigger.
“What do you want me to do?” Sirius spread his arms wide, voice going theatrical. “Not even I know a glamour charm strong enough to fix that.”
That set Remus off again — his laughter pitching higher, shoulders shaking, tears sliding down his face now.
Which made Sirius laugh too, sniggering through his teeth, warmth buzzing in his chest. Absurdly proud — that he’d dragged the laugh out of Remus, that he’d lightened the load, even for a moment.
But he ached for his friend too — because at least Sirius’s wounds were hidden, not plastered across his bloody face for everyone to see.
James was shooting him daggers, clearly annoyed.
But Remus, Sirius thought, might be safely crying for the first time since it happened. It just didn’t look the way James thought it should. Sometimes, with people like them, it had to come out backwards — laughter tilting into tears — lest it go sideways, the way it had that night in Grimmauld Place.
Sirius drifted toward the foot of the bed, grinning at him, taking in the way his whole body shook with laughter — shoulders jerking, chest heaving — but also the way his eyebrows furrowed tight, almost pained beneath it.
He softened instantly, smile shifting warmer, less sharp. His hand ran lightly over the blanket beside Remus, close enough to bridge the space, to say I see you, but without any of the unwelcome touching.
He kept his other hand buried in his pocket, index finger pressing absently against the fresh bandage on his thumb, which was still bleeding from the other night.
Remus, still wheezing, managed to howl back an even worse joke — “At least it’s not my good side” — so dreadful Sirius nearly keeled over, half-choking on his own laughter as the room finally tipped toward brightness.
Even if James was still steaming, looking every bit as red and flaring as the Hogwarts Express about to blow its whistle. It was enough to tip the balance.
“Nah, you two are fucked,” Peter finally piped up from his bed, joining in on the laughter. “Completely fucked.”
James just shook his head, disappointed.
The dormitory was quiet with just the two of them in it. Remus was stretched across his bed, the same book propped open from that morning, the fire throwing a faint crackle that warmed the room.
James and Peter had left them alone. On purpose, Sirius thought. Too casual, too quick — there’d been some unspoken agreement in the way they’d slipped out together, leaving him and Remus behind to sit with it. To force a conversation. To give Remus space — and maybe themselves some time — to work on the Animagus plan.
Remus hadn’t blinked when the others filed out, had barely even looked up. Just kept reading, hiding, the collar of his jumper pulled up over his chin like it might shield him.
And Sirius… couldn’t stop staring.
The scar cut stark across his cheek, glinting pink where the fire caught it. Earlier, he’d made a joke of it. But now — with only the two of them here, and no noise to hide in — the sight turned his stomach.
It’s your fault , he thought.
If you’d been less preoccupied with Emmeline.
If you’d finished the plan when you said you would.
His chest tightened. He looked away sharply — like it pained him, jerking his eyes anywhere but Remus’s face. The fire. The carpet. The sagging collar of that jumper that had now slipped off his chin—
And froze.
Something silver glinted there, half-hidden beneath the wool.
The pendant.
His pendant. The one he’d shoved at Remus at Christmas, wrapped in crumpled brown paper, meant as a joke. Nothing more.
He hadn’t expected him to actually wear it.
But there it was, looped around his throat on an old thread of twine.
Sirius’s stomach lurched, hard and fast, like he’d been caught looking at something he shouldn’t have been allowed to.
How embarrassing.
“You’re wearing the pendant.” The words slipped out before he could think them through properly. Running on instinct, as always.
Remus cocked his eyebrow. “Wasn’t that the point?”
He froze. Because yes — technically. But also, no. Not like that. It had been a throwaway thing, a joke. Something to fill the silence, not something to… keep.
He felt heat crawl up his neck. “I don’t know,” he muttered, eyes darting away, cheeks prickling. “I guess.”
Remus’s mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smirk forming. “What do you mean, you guess? Who gives someone a gift and doesn’t expect them to wear it?”
Sirius wanted to sink straight through the mattress. His smile came too sharp, too fast. “It was stupid. Just—just a bit of fluff from Hogsmeade, not—”
“Not what?” Remus prompted, clearly enjoying himself now.
“Not…” Sirius’s voice cracked against the word. He ran a hand through his hair like he could shake the feeling loose. “Not meant to be taken seriously.”
The silence after that stretched, Remus watching him over the top of his book. Sirius could feel it — the weight of those steady amber eyes on him, the pendant catching light against his chest. His throat twisted so tight it almost hurt.
He dropped back against the pillows with a groan, covering his face with one arm. His cheeks pricked hot against his skin. “Merlin. I’m dying of embarrassment.”
He could still feel Remus smiling at him, even with his eyes covered. Smug bastard. Sirius grabbed the nearest pillow and flung it blindly across the room. It thudded against the floorboards a good two feet short.
Remus’s laugh followed.
“You’d be the only one,” he said after a beat, voice softer, “to look at me right now and not see my face.”
Sirius snorted from behind his arm. “I’m self-centred, remember? Everything revolves around me.”
When he dared a peek past his elbow, the smile was gone. There was no laughter now — just Remus watching him steadily, eyes darker in the low light.
The silence pressed in quick and close, hot against Sirius’s cheeks. Like a slap. His chest hitched once, twice, and he forced himself upright, long dark hair spilling into his eyes.
“It really isn’t so bad, you know?” The words came out too fast, too desperate, tumbling over one another like they’d been waiting in his throat all evening.
He swallowed back the pride, the embarrassment, the awkwardness clawing up his chest — because he knew Remus needed to hear it.
“The scar, I mean,” Sirius added, voice softer than he usually allowed it to be. “You still look like you.”
Remus’s mouth twisted, half grimace, half laugh. “Great. Comforting. Not like it matters anyway.”
A frown tugged at Sirius’s brow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The book stayed open in Remus’s hands, but his thumb had stilled against the page. “It’s not like anyone was ever going to look at me that way. Scar or no scar, it’s not—” He let the rest trail off.
Sirius’s heart thudded harder. He reached for humour like always, even if it felt short this time. “Hey, stop that. I’d still snog you.”
That earned him a look — sharp, steady, unamused. “You’d snog anything with a pulse.”
A laugh puffed out through Sirius’s nose. “Fair.”
But Remus didn’t let it go. “Anyway. You know what I mean.” His voice was quiet, deadly serious.
And Sirius did. He heard all that wasn’t being said: that Remus didn’t think he was worth it. Worth affection that lasted. Worth being chosen.
It wasn’t true. Merlin, it wasn’t.
“Mate,” Sirius said — and the word slipped out soft enough to stun even him.
Remus’s shoulders hitched like the sound had reached him, but all he gave back was, “It’s fine. Just drop it, yeah?”
Sirius wanted to argue. To tell him it wasn’t fine. That if anyone deserved that kind of love, it was Remus bloody Lupin. That he was better than the rest of them put together — smarter, kinder, stronger — and didn’t even know it. He wanted to say it all.
Instead he just looked at him. Took in the shape of him in the firelight: the strong cut of his jaw, the mess of perfect curls falling over his forehead, the way the pendant glinted stupidly against the soft line of his throat as he swallowed.
Honestly — what was he on about? Thinking no one would want him, when he looked like that . Werewolf or not. Affection swelled sharp and dangerous in Sirius’s chest.
Remus glanced up, expression flickering, and said dryly, “At least nobody will be looking at my face with this gaudy pendant around my neck.”
Sirius barked a laugh, the tension breaking easily. “Absolutely. Chicks dig jewellery too, you know?”
Remus went back to looking at his book as he said it: “Although, I don’t know what you were thinking, giving a werewolf silver.”
Sirius smiled. “It’s not real silver.”
Calling his bluff, Remus quipped back, “You know it is. I’m sure it was expensive.”
That landed harder than Sirius wanted it to. He tried to cover with a smirk, fingers fussing at the blanket by his side. “Lucky that’s just a Muggle myth then.” Said like a joke, easy as anything — though they both knew what he was really dodging.
Then, Remus dug the knife deeper—
“Thanks, by the way. For… going home. So I didn’t have to.”
The words caught Sirius off guard. He shrugged quickly, leaning back into the pillows like it was nothing. “It’s no big deal.” A smirk tugged at his mouth, forced. “Shitload of good it did, though.”
That pulled a laugh from both of them — low, and a little frayed, but steady enough to bring the rhythm back. Sirius clung to it, knowing he’d do it all over again if it meant keeping Remus safe.
He only wished it had worked this time. It might’ve made the ache of Grimmauld Place worth it.
*** 6th January 1975 ***
Of course, instead of talking about it — Grimmauld Place, Remus’s scar, any of it — to anyone, Sirius just did what he always did.
He stuffed it down.
When James asked how the holidays were, he said fine. When Peter asked about Narcissa’s wedding, he said fine again. Same tone. Same shrug. Same half-smirk like nothing mattered.
And whenever either of them tried to talk to him about Remus—
Well. He just didn’t.
He sat at his Transfiguration desk, shoulders tight, jaw set. One leg bounced under the table, heel tapping a rhythm he couldn’t stop. His left hand was clenched on the edge of the bench, the other worrying at the bandaged finger beneath the table — dragging back and forth across the cut, just enough to make it sting.
It still hadn’t closed.
He pressed on it harder. Just to feel something. Something real.
Behind him, Bertram Aubrey and his dumb fucking sidekick were whispering.
“—not the Whomping Willow, though, is it?”
“Nah. Heard something else. Something weird.”
Of course. That story — the one Dumbledore had floated about the Whomping Willow, how it was dangerous for everyone to be near. Something to explain away the jagged pink scar across Remus’s cheek without inviting too many questions.
And, conveniently, to keep curious students away from the tree near the full moon.
Two birds, one stone.
Sirius closed his eyes. Just for a second. Tried to tune them out — Bertram, the voices, the scratching of quills, the weight pressing behind his ribs. Tried to breathe through it like a normal person.
But it wasn’t working.
His hand throbbed. The cut was weeping again — he could feel it, warm and damp at the edge of the bandage.
He pressed harder.
James was watching him. Sirius didn’t even have to turn to know it. He could feel it — the shift in the air, the weight of his worry. James always noticed these sorts of things, his tells: the twitch of his hand, the way his shoulders rose with every breath, the tension buzzing like a hex under the skin.
He didn’t look at him. Didn’t want to see the concern. Or worse — the understanding.
And then—
The laugh came.
From behind him. Sharp. Mean. Loud. Aimed squarely at Remus.
Enough to snap his attention away.
The buzz in his ears went sharp, like a whistle. His fingers curled tighter under the desk, blood smearing through the fabric of the bandage.
He didn’t even hear what was said. Didn’t need to. The laugh was enough.
Like Remus’s scar was funny. Like any of this was funny.
Sirius didn’t think — he just moved.
He turned abruptly — and before anyone could say a word, he was out of his chair and flying over the desk. He grabbed Aubrey by the front of his robes, dragging him up by the collar until they were nearly nose to nose across the table.
“Say it again,” Sirius said, voice low, shaking with restraint. “Go on. I fucking dare you.”
There was a frightening quietness to it. It was his father’s voice — cold, controlled, the kind that made people’s knees buckle in obedience. He hated how naturally it came to him.
Bertram froze — hands half-lifted like he wasn’t sure whether to fight back or flinch. Sirius’s breath was close enough to fog his glasses. His collar pulled tight against his throat.
Sirius didn’t blink. His grip stayed tight.
The air in the room felt heavy, taut with something hot and splintering.
James tensed behind him. Peter startled. Remus sat up straighter — quiet, unreadable.
And then—
“Sirius, let him go this instant.” McGonagall’s sharp voice sliced clean through the tension. “Outside. Now.”
Sirius didn’t argue.
Didn’t speak.
He let go, begrudgingly, and shoved the desk for good measure — hard enough that a quill skidded off the other side — then turned on his heel. His chair screeched against the stone as he kicked it backward into place. Ink stained his fingertips from where he’d knocked his pot over.
As he passed them, he jabbed one of those fingers toward Bertram — calm, but cold. “You’re lucky she got there first.”
The door slammed shut behind him.
He didn’t stop walking. Jaw locked, fists still curled, like the fight hadn’t fully drained out yet.
He heard the door swing open behind him but didn’t turn. Just stood there in the corridor with his jaw clenched and his eyes downcast.
McGonagall’s footsteps were quiet, but not hesitant. She stopped a few feet away.
Her tartan robes were crisp as ever, dark hair pinned back with precise, unforgiving symmetry — not unlike his mother’s. There were lines at the corners of her mouth too, not from smiling — not often, anyway — but from the sheer effort of holding things together. For her students. For this school. For the war everyone kept pretending hadn’t started yet.
“I know why you did it,” she said, voice calm. “Truly, I do. But that was out of line.”
Sirius didn’t answer. Didn’t nod. Didn’t make a joke. He couldn’t. His chest still felt tight, his hands still itched with the urge to hit something — anything — and his ears were ringing with the sound of that nasally, high-pitched laugh.
He was already thinking about how to get back at him. Not with some stupid prank — that was child’s play. No, he wanted something sharp. Something that would sting. A whispered rumour in the right ear. A death threat over breakfast. A well-placed comment about how Aubrey had only got his spot in the Slug Club because he sucked Slughorn off behind the greenhouses. Then, he pictured blowing up his head — literally — swelling it to twice its size mid-conversation until it bobbled like a balloon. The thought almost made him laugh. Almost.
Behind him, McGonagall exhaled slowly. Not impatient — just tired. Concerned.
“This seems reactive,” she added, “even for you.”
There was no bite to it. No edge. Just observation. Careful. Measured.
It made his skin crawl — reminded him of being eleven again, just after the Sorting, when she’d looked at him the same way. Sad. Knowing. Like she already felt sorry for him.
She’d pulled him aside in the common room that night. Asked if he was alright. Voice gentle and careful, like he might break. As if that wasn’t the most humiliating thing you could possibly do to a first-year — in front of all their peers. Like he needed help. Like he couldn’t handle himself.
He shrugged sharply. The wall was cold against his back. “So am I getting detention?”
“Yes,” she said, without missing a beat. “Of course.”
“Fine.” He pushed off the wall, still not looking at her. “Can I go back to class now?”
There was a pause — longer than he liked. He could feel her watching him. Not with judgment. With something worse.
He hated it.
“No,” she said eventually. “I think you’d better take a walk. Cool your head.”
Sirius let out a short, bitter laugh. “Fuck. Bit late for that, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps, Sirius.” She didn’t scold him for the language. Just repeated quietly, “Perhaps.”
She always used his given name. Never his family one. The others were all Mr Potter, Mr Pettigrew, Mr Lupin. But never Mr Black. And he appreciated that — the sentiment. It made him feel less like a walking legacy and more like someone who could be trusted. Even if he didn’t always deserve it. Especially not on days like today.
He nodded once, sharply. Like a reflex. Then turned and walked away — fast, like if he stopped moving for even a moment he might explode. His hand was still buried in his pocket, fingers curled around the unhealed cut, pressing down like he could keep it all inside if he just pushed hard enough.
Dinner was loud and chaotic as always, but not where they sat.
At their end of the table, it felt like someone had cast Muffliato — not total silence, but close enough to it. Awkward. Brittle. Peter was the only one trying; cracking jokes, flinging peas, narrating his day like his life depended on it. No one laughed, but he kept going. Godric love him for it.
Not because he thought it would work. Just because someone had to.
James picked at his food with one hand and tapped his fork with the other, glancing between Sirius and Remus like he was waiting for something to explode. Again.
Remus hadn’t touched his food. Just sat there looking tense, with his eyes down. The scraping of his cutlery across the plate was the loudest sound at the table.
Eventually, he lamented—
“You can’t just go fighting people all over the castle.”
Sirius didn’t look up. Just stabbed a bit of pork roast and muttered bitterly, “Didn’t fight anyone.”
“Grabbing Bertram by the collar counts,” Remus snapped.
“Should’ve been worse,” Sirius said. He was already rolling the cut on his finger between his fingers and palm, pressing like it might let something out.
Remus scoffed. “This just is what it is, Sirius. People are going to talk.”
“Not if I shut them up.”
It came out low, meant mostly for himself, but not enough to go unheard.
Remus looked at him properly now — the way always bloody did. Like he was trying to see what Sirius wasn’t saying.
But there was no softness to what he said next: “What did you even do to it, anyway?”
Sirius blinked.
Remus gestured, vaguely. “Your thumb It stained his collar.”
James shifted like he wanted to say something — but didn’t. Just kept tapping his fork.
“Caught it on something.” Sirius shrugged, but didn’t elaborate.
Remus frowned, but didn’t push. Maybe he didn’t want the answer. Maybe he already knew.
Sirius kept his eyes on his plate. Annoyed he couldn’t fight Remus, too. At least not without making it worse.
And wasn’t that the whole fucking thing?
All he ever did was make things worse. No matter how good the reason. No matter how hard he tried. No matter if he was only trying to help.
*** 8th January 1975 ***
Sirius wasn’t the only one haunted by Remus’s scar, as it turned out.
Because a few nights later, long after lights-out, long after even the fire had burned out, Sirius lay awake in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers, listening to the sound of only two boys snoring.
The dormitory felt wrong. Too still. The kind of quiet that made every shift of the bedsprings sound accusatory, every creak of wood mocking him. The air hung heavy and warm under the blankets, but his toes were cold against the sheets, and the harder he tried to stay still the more his body hummed restlessly.
Every time he shut his eyes, he saw it: that jagged pink line down Remus’s cheek. The way it pulled his face wrong. Too sharp. Too new.
And Remus had laughed. Had said, “At least it wasn’t my good side” like he was talking about a pimple or a bad haircut. And Sirius had nodded along. Smiled, even.
But it wasn’t funny.
Not really.
The horror bled easily into the others, like it always did. His mother’s slap cracking across his face. Regulus in the doorway in those too-small robes, silent and expectant. The weight of the knife in his hand. The tiny hiss of blood when he pressed too hard. Orion’s cool, disappointed look at breakfast the next morning. Bertram shaking in his grip.
All of it layered. All of it loud.
He turned onto his side. The mattress was too hot, the pillow too thin, his thoughts too thick. Merlin, he just wanted to do something. Anything but this — lying still, feeling everything, choking on it.
A soft creak.
Sirius held his breath. Whoever was spiralling with him was getting up. He caught the shape of them by the door: tall, messy-haired and twitching. For half a heartbeat he thought maybe it was Remus. It usually was.
But… tonight it wasn’t.
James slipped out quietly, careful enough not to wake anyone.
At first, Sirius told himself it was probably nothing. Loo run. Water. Something stupid. But the door didn’t open again.
Minutes ticked by. Ten. Then twenty. Sirius’s chest pulled tighter with each one.
He checked the watch by his bedside, its face hard to read in the dim light of their dorm room.
Three thirty.
With a low groan, he shoved the blankets back and swung his feet to the floor. The stone bit like ice at the soles of his bare feet.
The common room was mostly dim too, just a single enchanted candle flickering on the mantel. Shadows played at the edges of his vision, leaving everything else in the dark. Wrong, somehow. This room wasn’t meant to be quiet. It usually hummed with laughter, footsteps pounding the stairs, James holding court in front of the fire. Seeing it this dead felt like walking into a stranger’s space — not home.
James was hunched over one of the long tables, head bent low, hair falling into his glasses. The table was chaos in front of him: maps sprawling out from the centre, parchment overlapping parchment, smudged ink and half-spilled bottles everywhere. His handwriting scrawled frantic loops Sirius could barely decipher. Words circled over and over until the parchment nearly tore through.
He was losing the plot.
Sirius rubbed the grit from his eyes, pajama shirt hanging loose off one shoulder, and squinted.
“What the hell are you doing down here?” His voice was gravelly and thick with sleep.
James didn’t look up. Just kept turning a sheet of parchment in his hands like the paper itself might hold the answer. His leg jittered incessantly under the table, thumping against the floor.
“Trying not to feel useless.”
Sirius’s throat went tight. He didn’t have to ask what that meant. He knew. The guilt. The plan. The dew. The only thing standing between Remus and—
He forced the thought down.
It hurt, seeing James like this. All wired edges and quiet wreckage. Sirius wasn’t used to it. Seeing his friend hollowed out. Tired in the bones.
Sirius swallowed hard and nudged his elbow. “Move.”
James blinked up at him, half-frowning. “What?”
“I said move over, you tit.”
Sirius tugged out the chair and dropped into it, close enough their shoulders knocked. For a moment, he only scanned the papers. His heart ached at the desperate circles and half-manic notes. He wanted to tell James to stop. To go back to bed. To sleep. But that wasn’t an option. Not when Remus was branded. Not when there was something they could do about it.
Finally, James muttered, voice cracked low, “I still feel like it’s my fault.”
Sirius felt it behind his ribs. The weight of it, familiar and relentless. “Yeah. Me too.”
“Is that why you tried to murder Bertram the other day?”
“I guess.” Sirius shrugged.
James dragged both hands through his hair until it stuck completely on end. For a second he just sat there, mouth half-open like he might say something else. Push. Ask. But then his jaw clicked shut, and he looked back down at the parchment instead. “It shouldn’t be this hard. I’m supposed to be good at this — my dad’s good at this sort of thing — and I can’t even manage a few drops of bloody dew.”
Sirius leaned in, eyes scanning the chaotic scrawl, and threw out the first thing that came to mind. No matter how half-hearted, just to get the momentum going. “What if we try… grow it ourselves or something?”
James shot him a flat look. “What part of never touched by human feet or hands don’t you understand? That’s dumb.”
Sirius smirked faintly, but didn’t twist it into a joke. “Exactly. That’s the point. There are a hundred dumb ideas we haven’t tried yet. Eventually one of them will stick. And between the two of us, we’ve got plenty.”
A reluctant snigger slipped out of James then, shoulders loosening just enough.
Sirius pressed on, steady. “My point is, we’re not out of options, mate. Not even close.”
Because James needed this to happen. And Sirius needed it too.
They both needed the distraction, the plan, the win, the dumb ideas. Anything to keep from drowning in the stillness of their own heads.
So it was going to happen — even if it killed them.
Chapter 18: January, 1974 (pt 2) - The Dew Problem
Summary:
The marauders continue to tackle the dew problem & Sirius finally gets himself stitched up.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
*** 9th January 1975 ***
He wasn’t avoiding Emmeline.
He’d just been busy, that was all. They’d only been back at school a week, and James had taken up most of his time and attention, holding him and Peter accountable to the Animagus plan. Every spare moment was consumed by it. Mornings bled into evenings, evenings into mornings again, until Sirius could hardly tell which way was up.
That was where his time went. His focus. His fire.
Not Emmeline.
And not Remus either, actually.
The other boy had noticed too — Sirius could feel it. In the way his eyes lingered when he and the others slipped out before breakfast. In the way he asked questions without ever actually asking them outright. In the way he kept joking about being left out of things, like it didn’t bother him, when of course it did.
Which stung. Because how were they supposed to explain it without giving him hope he wasn’t allowed to have? Without letting slip the one thing they couldn’t risk him knowing.
So no, Sirius’s avoidance of them both had absolutely nothing to do with what James had said over break about them being “too busy fucking around with school and Quidditch and—and girls,” to help Remus.
As if they’d been the reason he’d been branded for life.
As if kissing Emmeline in broom cupboards had been the thing that cost them the timing.
No. Bollocks. That wasn’t it.
It was about pushing forward with the plan. That was all.
He wasn’t avoiding them to make himself feel better. To avoid admitting the truth of the situation: that all of this was his fucking fault.
Except, obviously, he was.
He wedged himself into the back corner of the library — well clear of Remus, of questions, of the bloody Gryffindor dorm and all its warmth he didn’t deserve anyway. Tucked up by the window, barricaded behind a fortress of thick, dusty tomes.
He’d checked out every book the castle had on the Animagus process, determined to get it right this time, to make up for it.
But he was running on so little sleep that the words were starting to blur; diagrams skittered across the page. He’d read the same sentence three or four times already, circled it twice, and still — nothing.
His jaw ached from clenching it so tightly.
Fucking useless . That’s what he was.
The silence didn’t help. The library was the wrong kind of quiet — heavy, suffocating, every shuffle of parchment or muffled cough echoing too loud in the still. The sort of quiet that made his thoughts louder, meaner, like circling vultures until he was convinced he was to blame for everything wrong in the world.
His quill snagged against the parchment, leaving a fat blot of ink that spilled like blood across the page. He groaned and dropped his forehead into his palm, hair spilling loose and sweaty around his face. The rest of him folded inward — long limbs crammed beneath the too-small desk, shoulders hunched, spine curved, every inch of him coiled into the smallest shape he could manage.
Fucking brilliant. Couldn’t even copy notes without cocking it up. Gifted student, heir of the noble House of Black, magical prodigy — and he couldn’t even make sense of three measly pages of instructions some Ravenclaw had probably mastered in their sleep.
He swore under his breath.
And that was, of course, when Emmeline found him. Typical . Bloody Ravenclaws — always in the library.
She stopped at the end of the table and took him in, a striking silhouette against the afternoon light. Arms folded. Eyebrows arched. “Since when do you come in here willingly?”
Sirius looked up, mask already in place. He flicked his hair back like he hadn’t just been caught wallowing. “Since now.”
She glanced around, quick and coy, making sure there was no one watching before leaning in and pressing a small kiss to his cheek. Warm. Unexpected. It tugged a smile out of him, despite his sour mood.
Her hair was down today. It tickled his arm when she leaned in, nose nudging his cheek like she knew exactly how to distract him, before she pulled back to sit beside him.
But he ducked his head again, tilting his chin away, letting his own hair fall like a curtain between them. Still — he kept one hand on the table, palm up, a quiet peace offering.
Her fingers slid into his easily. “What are you reading?”
He turned a page. “Just homework.”
A pause. He could feel her eyes on him, sceptical, before she pushed lightly: “Didn’t realise they taught fourth years about Animagi?”
Sirius’s ears prickled; she was too close to the truth for comfort. “Guess McGonagall’s changed the curriculum.”
Emmeline huffed a laugh. “Well, I suppose she would know something about that. Being a cat and all.”
She leaned in closer to the book, studying the page like she might actually understand it. “The Animagus spell’s meant to be brutal. Half the wizards who try never pull it off. It’s one of the hardest transformations in the book.”
Like he needed the reminder. The words blurred again, diagrams jumping off the page.
“Mm.” Sirius mumbled in half-reply.
She nudged him playfully. “So? If you could be anything, what would you pick?”
He froze for a fraction of a second, then scoffed. “I don’t know. A hippogriff or something. What’s it matter?”
Her eyes lingered on him, steady, unimpressed. The look she gave him was cutting. Her thumb brushed lightly over his knuckles. “You’re being cold. Are you upset with me?”
That startled him. His head lifted before he could stop it. Her eyes were dark, steady, searching his face for the answer.
He forced his voice flat. “No. Not with you.”
Which was true, for once. The hate was turned inward, boiling under his skin like fiendfyre.
She tried for levity, gave him half a smile. “Well, I’d be a fox, thanks for asking.”
Silence. Sirius didn’t bite.
She faltered. “You’ve barely looked at me since Christmas, you know?”
And she wasn’t wrong. He’d wanted space — to study, to fix what he’d broken, to put his focus where it belonged. She was only distracting him. Again.
And that was when his mouth betrayed him. “It’s not like we’re dating or anything,” he snapped. Too fast. Too clipped...
The words hung there between them like a slap neither of them saw coming.
Her lips parted in surprise. He saw it hit, saw the tiny flinch before she smoothed it away. “No. We’re not.”
She let go of his hand.
The absence of it startled him — his skin suddenly cold where hers had been. He stared at the space it left behind, hating himself for noticing it. For how badly he wanted her to put it back.
He risked a glance up. She was watching him still, gaze narrowing, like she was trying to decide if he was worth the effort anymore.
He wasn’t.
Then, quietly: “Did something happen over the holidays?”
He forced his shoulders into a shrug, sharp and careless. “Nothing happened.”
“Is it about Remus then?”
The flinch gave him away. He felt it ripple through his whole body, too obvious to hide.
Her voice softened. “It’s horrible, what happened to him—”
“Don’t.” It came out meaner than he meant.
Silence again. Long enough for him to hear the blood rushing in his ears.
He swallowed, guilt prickling at his throat. “Sorry,” he muttered. “It’s just… touchy.”
That pulled a laugh out of her — small, wry. “Yeah, I can tell.”
He half-expected her to leave then, and honestly, he wouldn’t have blamed her.
But she didn’t.
Instead, she slid her bag onto the table and dropped a couple of books beside his with a quiet finality. Without comment, she cracked one open and started on her own Transfiguration work.
Sirius watched, dazed. He didn’t deserve it — not after the way he’d just snapped at her. But still, there she was.
Her hand found his again — gentler this time. Calmer. Her thumb brushed over the bandage on his thumb.
He nearly pulled away — every instinct screamed at him to — but he stopped himself just in time.
“What happened?” she asked softly.
He kept his eyes on the page. “Cut it over break.”
Her brow creased. “And it’s still bleeding? Have you even tried Episkey? Or Vulnera Sanentur?”
He hesitated. The truth pushed out before he could stop it. “I think maybe the knife was cursed.”
Of course it was. What had he expected? Cutting his finger open on something nicked from Borgin and Burkes — he’d be lucky if that’s all it was.
That earned him a proper frown. The kind that showed she cared too much — gave her away. They kept telling one another this meant nothing, but the cracks were starting to show.
He smirked crookedly, trying to cover. “Everything in that house is cursed. Comes with the territory.”
She didn’t smile back. “We’re going to see Madame Pomfrey.”
His grin faltered. “No, we’re not.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “We are.”
He groaned, slumping back in his chair. “Merlin, you’re impossible.”
“Stubborn,” she corrected, tugging him up by the hand as she tidied her books back up.
“Fine,” he muttered, lips twitching. “You’re lucky I’m into bossy women.”
That made her laugh — for real this time. Bright, unguarded.The sound tugged at something he hadn’t realised he’d been holding tight.
Sirius leaned in and kissed her. Quick. Soft. Almost apologetic.Not hungry this time. More like a thank you , for not giving up on him just yet
She smiled into it.
And he thought — maybe avoiding her had been stupid after all. Figured .
Sirius dragged his feet on the way in, sheepish as anything, like he’d been marched here in chains. Which, in a way, he had — Emmeline at his elbow, brow furrowed, grip firm on his wrist.
“He’s cut his thumb on some cursed heirloom or other,” she blurted before he could get a word in edgeways .
Madam Pomfrey’s head snapped up at once, sharp and concerned. She looked older than she was in that moment, youthful features twisted into something wearier, lined with years that hadn’t passed yet.
“Cursed?” She was already on her feet, bustling him toward the nearest cot. “Sit. Now.”
Sirius offered her his best attempt at a smile, all dimples and flashy teeth. “You look lovely as ever, Poppy.”
“Flattery won’t keep that thumb attached,” she said briskly, pulling the bandage loose. Her voice was clipped, but he could hear the worry tucked in there. That was the thing about Pomfrey — she could scold like McGonagall, but underneath it was care so fierce it made his chest ache if he thought about it too long.
She’d been bandaging Remus up for as long as he could remember. They’d spent so many full moons together he was starting to lose count. There was almost a shared intimacy in it — not spoken, not named, but undeniable all the same.
She loved him just as much as they did. Which meant that love spilled over onto them, too, when it had to. Merlin knew he and James had spent their fair share of time in the infirmary.
The bandage came away with a damp peel and a tut, her mouth tightened immediately. “Merlin’s beard, Black, what is wrong with you? How long has it been like this?”
The cut looked worse than even he’d expected — raw and ugly, skin blackened faintly at the edges where the curse had bitten in. Fresh blood welled up stubbornly as soon as the gauze was gone, trickling sluggishly down the pad of his thumb. It should have clotted by now. Even Sirius felt a flicker of unease in his gut at the sight of it.
He flinched, eyes darting to Emmeline hovering beside him. “Couple of days, maybe" he muttered, trying to sound casual.
The truth was, it had been closer to two weeks at this point.
Emmeline’s gaze flicked between them, sharp with concern. He couldn’t stand it — her knowing look, the thought of her piecing together just how reckless he’d been.
“Out, Miss Vance,” Pomfrey said firmly, flapping her hands at her. “Give us a moment.”
Emmeline hesitated, lips pressing tight, but eventually obeyed. She brushed Sirius’s hand on the way out. The door swung shut behind her, and Sirius let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.
The silence was heavier without her there.
Pomfrey reached for a vial of potion, pouring it carefully over a fresh length of gauze. It hissed faintly as she pressed it against the wound. Sirius hissed too, more out of pride than pain.
“This could have been very bad, you know?” she said, tone low but fierce. “A cursed wound left untreated—what were you thinking? You could have lost a finger, or bled out or —“
He shrugged, leaning back on his elbows like he was perfectly comfortable. “Figured it would work itself out eventually.”
”I know you like to push boundaries Sirius,” Her eyes flashed, sharp enough to pin him to the cot. “But this?”
He tilted his head, feigning innocence. “What?”
“You think I don’t see it? The dark circles, the restlessness, the way you hide behind those grins of yours. You’re not made of steel, kiddo, no matter how hard you pretend. You push yourselves to breaking, all of you, and expect me to sweep up the pieces. One day I won’t be around to. You’re going to get yourselves killed one day.”
Her words landed harder than he wanted them to. He loved her for it — for seeing them, for caring enough to scold — but it made something twist in his chest too. Because he knew she was right. He was exhausted, barely holding it together, and still he couldn’t let her in.
She smoothed the bandage into place with gentler fingers. “How is Remus?”
His breath caught. For a second he thought about telling her the truth — about the scar, about how it kept him up at night, about the guilt gnawing holes in his ribs. But the words tangled up, sharp and painful, and all he could manage was: “Fine.”
Her mouth thinned. She didn’t believe him. “He won’t let me help either. Won’t let me near him. Now you sit here, how many days late with a cursed cut, shrugging like it’s nothing.” She shook her head, sighing. “The lot of you are going to give me a heart attack.”
Sirius looked away, jaw tight. He wanted to laugh it off, to throw some quip about her being too young to drop dead just yet — but he couldn’t find the humour. Instead he stared at the floor, at the polished toes of her shoes, and swallowed the lump in his throat.
Because she loved them. All of them. In her own way. He knew it. He just… didn’t deserve it. Not when Remus was scarred for life. Not when James was carrying his guilt like a weight. Not when Peter was so bloody scared.
Not when all of it… all of it was his fault.
The silence stretched until she patted his hand lightly. “Go on, then,” she said softly. “But you’ll need to come back tomorrow so I can keep applying the potion until it closes.”
He slid off the cot, flexing his newly bandaged hand, and mustered his sharpest grin. “No promises.”
Her smile was tired, but fond. “Of course not.”
*** 11th January 1975 ***
Sirius usually prided himself on being the smartest person in the room.
He revelled in it, actually—threw his head high, cocked a smirk, rattled answers off the top of his head like he’d barely given them a second thought. He liked the way it landed, the way it annoyed people: the groans, the impressed laughter, even the eye-rolls. Anything that made him the centre of attention. That was the point.
Of course, there were exceptions.
Remus, with that ridiculous encyclopaedic brain of his, memorising whole paragraphs like it was nothing. James, with Transfiguration — so brilliant it made Sirius itch to hex him.
Not Peter though. Poor sod never stood a chance.
Usually, that competitive streak meant being the first one to finish homework, the first one to shout out an answer in class, the first one to crack whatever puzzle McGonagall or Slughorn threw at them.
The morning he woke to James perched at the end of Peter’s bed, giggling like a lunatic, Sirius knew immediately — he’d cracked the dew problem.
And for once, Sirius didn’t mind not being the cleverest in the room.
Because it meant Remus might finally be safe. And honestly, he hadn’t seen James smile like that in weeks. Not since before Christmas. Grinning wild, eyes bright, beaming like the Cheshire Cat.
The sight of it pulled Sirius upright in bed, grinning before he could stop himself.
He held it in, buzzing, until Remus padded off toward the showers, towel slung over his shoulder.
Then he leaned across the gap between their beds, voice low and fierce with excitement:
“You did it, didn’t you?”
James flipped around on Peter’s bed, eyes twinkling with glee behind his glasses like the lunatic he was. “What gave me away?”
Sirius huffed a relieved laugh.
“It’s under a tree root. One of those massive ones—all twisted and half above ground. We walked right past them last time, remember?”
Sirius’s pulse jumped. “You’re joking.”
“No,” James bounced once on the mattress for emphasis. “Think about it—ground’s hidden while it grows, right? And then by the time it’s big enough to lift, the tree shades itself. Never touched by human feet, never touched by the bloody sun either.”
Peter whistled low. “That… actually makes sense.”
“Of course it does,” James said, puffing up even more, voice practically tripping over itself in excitement. “It’s perfect.”
The three of them spent the next few minutes discussing the specifics of where they needed to look in the Forrest. The kind of excited planning that made Sirius’s skin prickle.
“I still can’t believe you cracked it,” Sirius swooned, “you’re bloody brilliant mate”
Then James hesitated. Just a flicker—his grin faltering, his fingers fussing with the edge of the parchment.
“Actually,” he said slowly, “it wasn’t me who figured it out.”
Sirius stilled. “What?”
James rubbed at the back of his neck, sheepish. “It was… Lily.”
He blinked.
Because—Lily Evans. Really? Again?
She was another exception, sure. Brilliant, sharp, always ten steps ahead. She and Snivellus (Sirius shuddered) were the best potioneers in their year. He’d never once managed to top them. But she wasn’t supposed to know about this. No one was.
And since when was James Potter chummy enough with the enemy to be asking her for potions help anyway?
It came out sharper than intended: “What the hell?”
James’s hands shot up, fast. “I didn’t tell her anything. Not about the potion, not the plan, nothing.” He glanced between them. “She just found me looking at the map, asked what I was hunting for. I said dew. That was it. And she—Merlin—she came up with the idea so quick, it was almost embarrassing.”
Sirius bristled, heat crawling under his skin. Obvious. Right. So obvious he hadn’t seen it.
Fucking brilliant bitch.
Sirius narrowed his eyes, sharp grin tugging but not quite there. “So now we’re just… taking advice from Evans now, are we?”
James rolled his eyes immediately, like he’d been expecting it. “Oh, don’t be like that. You should be bloody thrilled, mate. It means we can start. Now. Tonight if we wanted.”
That tugged Sirius back around. The jealousy pinched for another heartbeat, then slipped—because James was right. The rush of it was already prickling under his skin.
“When, then?” Sirius leaned forward over the parchment, voice low and eager.
They volleyed back and forth—when Filch was least likely to catch them, when the greenhouses would be quiet enough to harvest the mandrake leaves. Peter sat back on his heels, chewing his lip, looking paler the more they planned.
Sirius noticed it, finally. “What? Don’t tell me you’re scared of a bit of dirt, Pete.”
But Peter only hunched further, muttering, “No, it’s just, Remus has been getting suspicious.”
That made Sirius pause. Because, yeah. He had. Sirius hadn’t wanted to dwell on it, but it was proving to be a bit of a problem.
James nodded briskly, solving it in a breath. “Then we go the night of the full moon. While he’s… indisposed.”
Something fizzed bright in Sirius’s chest at the thought, reckless and certain. He slapped his palm against the bed, grinning wildly. “Seventeen days.”
But Peter didn’t smile with them. He looked miserable, almost sick.
James caught it. “Oi, none of that.” His voice softened in a way Sirius never managed. “We’re doing it together, remember?”
Peter shook his head faintly. “I don’t think I can do it.”
Sirius’s chest pinched. He felt bad for him — because Pete had always struggled. Always leaned on the rest of them for help in class, with homework, with anything that required more than a basic understanding of magic. And even then, it wasn’t always enough. Why would this be any different?
They’d always been more than happy to help him, of course. But the stakes were a lot higher this time. It wasn’t like he’d just end up failing an assignment. Sirius could picture it already — Peter stuck halfway, some poor half-lizard boy, all scaly and slimy, tail dragging behind him down the corridor.
“Course you can,” James shot back at once. “Just like we practiced, yeah? Over Christmas, the chant—You just follow our lead. Easy. We’ll be right there.”
Sirius blinked.
They’d been practicing? Over Christmas?
He hadn’t known about that. Missed it completely, wrapped up at Grimmauld, tearing himself to pieces. He felt the sting of it—brief and hot—but shoved it down quick before it could take root.
Because the pipes from the bathroom had gone quiet.
All three of them clamped their mouths shut in the almost comedic unison, James scrambling to get back to his own bed.
A moment later Remus stepped back in, hair damp, towel looped around his neck. He moved easily toward his trunk, not even glancing at the three of them—who were suddenly all very innocently tugging on their school jumpers, knotting ties, and pulling boots on.
Unusually quiet.
“You lot are being suspicious,” Remus said, voice mild, without looking up.
Sirius smirked, leaning back against his bedpost. “Please. You know I’m better at lying than that. If we had anything worth hiding, you’d be none the wiser.”
Notes:
Thank you all so much for your kind words on this fic <3 Truly, you all have no idea how much it means to see your comments — it can be hard to know how fics are going to be received sometimes, so this has given me a massive confidence boost. Thank you!
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Chapter 19: Jan, 1975 (pt 3) - Seventeen Days
Summary:
Sirius counts down the days until the full moon. But, he keeps getting distracted.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The next few days were the longest of Sirius’s life. Too many people pulling at him. Too many things piling up, pressing in. Too many fucking distractions.
Helping Remus was the only thing that mattered — the only thing he should’ve been putting his energy into. He’d seen what happened when they lost focus. It was carved across Remus’s face now: permanent proof of how badly they’d already failed.
And yet, more often than he cared to admit, he still caught himself reaching for the very things that had dragged him off course the first time: smoke breaks, Emmeline, fucking around. All of it easier than staring down the plan — and what it meant if they failed.
And they were close. Stupidly close.
All that was left was the mandrake leaves and the dew — which they should have ticked off this full moon, if they didn’t cock it up — and then they’d finally have all the ingredients they needed. It sounded simple enough in theory.
But then came the weird bit. The tedious part. A month of carrying a leaf tucked between cheek and teeth until it rotted down to nothing. No talking, no spitting, no slipping up even once. A month of choking on leaf litter while trying to hide it from their best mate — who they just so happened to share a dorm with.
It’s not like they usually ate together. Or slept in the same bloody room. Or brushed their teeth side by side. Right ?
And after that — the easy part, supposedly — they could finally start the potion.
Not that it was difficult to brew. It wasn’t. The hard part was the timing. Because once it was finished, they were banking on a lightning storm to seal the deal. Banking on the bloody weather, of all things, to line up in their favour.
They had to get it right.
If the storm fell over a break — when they were stuck at the Potters’, or, Merlin forbid, Grimmauld Place — then months of planning and gathering could go up in smoke.
That, along with everything else gnawing at him lately, was what kept him up at night.
The timing. The idea of Peter fucking it up and getting stuck halfway. The worsening full moons. Half the school still whispering about Remus’s scar. All of it piling up, winding him tighter and tighter until he was nothing but a shaking wreck.
And still — somehow — everything else kept getting in the way of fixing it.
He just needed it to hold together for seventeen bloody days. How hard could it be?
*** 12th January 1975 - 17 days ***
Emmeline, at least, was a nice distraction. As far as distractions went.
An easy one.
She was soft in a way that didn’t feel demeaning, kind without tipping into pity, gentle where everything else was so fucking sharp. Sirius liked that about her — the way she steadied him without making a show of it. Or if she did, she never let on.
She’d pull him into broom cupboards between classes, sneak him into alcoves off the library, drag him into the narrow space behind the greenhouses where the air smelled faintly of earth and stale smoke from their graveyard of cigarette butts. She had a knack for finding places where they could vanish for ten minutes at a time — stolen pockets of quiet in a castle that never shut up.
And in those moments, it was easy.
He’d wrap his arms around her waist and haul her close, greedy for the feel of her. Her hair soft against his knuckles, her body something solid to cling to while the rest of the world crumbled underneath him. And Merlin, it felt fucking brilliant when she shoved him back against the stone in answer — fire under the softness, pressing him into place like she meant to pin him there.
He couldn’t get enough of it. The push, the escape, the weight of her holding him still.
For a while, it was enough. Enough to quiet the buzzing in his head. Enough to make him forget.
But then she’d ruin it by saying something stupid. Like, “Is everything alright?” Or, “You can talk to me, you know?”
She’d glance at his hands with concern etched across her face and ask about his thumb. Or worse — tilt her head in that awful, knowing way and ask how Remus was holding up. Casual, like she wasn’t lobbing a live grenade right at him.
And just like that, the floor would tilt.
All the softness and kisses and gentle words couldn’t silence it anymore. It made him want to rip himself away, shove off the wall, do something frighting and self sabotaging just to stop the pressure building behind his ribs. Scream. Put his fist through the stone. Break something before it broke him.
Because if she kept asking — if she kept looking at him like that — she might find the thing he was desperate to keep hidden: that the distractions weren’t working. That nothing was.
That he was losing the fucking plot.
And suddenly, Emmeline wasn’t such a nice distraction after all.
*** 13th January 1975 - 16 days***
Because it was just so fucking hard to allow himself distractions when Remus was still… living with it. Still withdrawing in small, careful ways.
Sirius noticed. Of course he noticed. Even when Remus didn’t want him to.
The way he skipped meals and claimed he wasn’t hungry, just to avoid the crowd. The way he buried himself in jumpers — hoods up, sleeves tugged down, collars pulled so high you could barely see him beneath it all. The way he’d rest his hand over his mouth in conversation, covering his face like maybe if he hid enough of it, they’d forget about the scar.
Sirius brought him food. Tugged at his sleeves when he caught him fussing with them. Knocked his hood back. Ruffled his hair. Like it might be enough to keep him afloat. But he still couldn’t shake the feeling that Remus was sinking anyway.
It killed him. Because every time he caught himself laughing with James, sneaking off with Emmeline, fucking around with Peter, he remembered: Remus was somewhere else, pretending not to see the scar in every reflection.
That was the price of his distractions.
So when Remus started avoiding mirrors?
That fucking killed him.
Because Sirius saw him. Saw him in excruciating detail — the boy beneath the scar. The one who hoarded Muggle paperbacks like treasure. Who got shy about his appetite, and would rather steal leftovers than go back for seconds. The chess whiz. The boy who smiled out of the corner of his mouth, whose eyes lit when he caught a joke before anyone else. Sirius wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake him, scream look at you — how could you ever think poorly about yourself?
So when James finally managed to drag him out of bed and up to the pitch to watch Quidditch practice — despite every protest — Sirius was quietly grateful. Grateful to see him outside. Grateful to see him breathing, the sun catching in his hair. Even if it meant spending the whole afternoon watching Mary ogle him like a piece of meat.
Zazzy and Peter played commentator, shouting over each other, narrating every move on the pitch like the fate of the world depended on it. Sirius was only half-listening — too busy watching Remus try not to look overwhelmed by all the noise.
“Isn’t that right, Sirius?” Peter elbowed him suddenly, breaking his concentration.
He blinked — hadn’t even heard the question. He’d been staring at Remus again, tracking every shift of his shoulders, every tiny crease in his brow.
Pete jabbed him in the ribs again, sharper this time. Sirius jolted, bewildered, and Peter grinned knowingly. “Stop staring at him, Merlin. You’re as bad as Mary,” he muttered, smirk tugging at his mouth.
Zazzy barked a laugh. Sirius tried to cover with one of his own, calling Pete a prat. It almost worked. Almost.
Except Remus squirmed in his seat, shrinking in on himself at the mention. Like any attention at all was too much these days.
Sirius’s fingers twitched, restless. Twisting his sleeve. Fiddling with the clasp on his watch. Anything to keep from clawing at his own skin with the frustration of it.
Fuck.
He’d made it worse again, hadn’t he?
Sixteen days. That was all. Sixteen days and they’d finally be able to help.
*** 14th January 1975 - 15 days ***
If Emmeline was the softest, most welcome distraction, Peter was undoubtedly the stupidest.
He came huffing back into the dorm, red-faced and muttering, and flung his books down on the bed like he meant to break the mattress. Quills scattered across the tartan blanket; his bag slid off onto the floor with a loud thump.
Sirius arched a brow from where he was sprawled on his own bed with his shirt half-unbuttoned, but didn’t say anything. Just watched.
Peter made a whole performance of it — stomping around, tugging at his tie, then flopping onto the bed with a groan that echoed off the walls.
Finally Sirius sighed. “Alright, what’s wrong with you then?”
Peter sat up, cheeks still blotchy. “I asked Dorcas out.”
“And?”
“She doesn’t like me like that.”
Sirius bit back the urge to roll his eyes. They had bigger things to worry about than Peter’s crush on bloody Dorcas Meadows. But he schooled his face, leaned back against the headboard, and tried to swallow it down. “Sorry, mate. That sucks.”
Peter dropped his face into his hands. “I’m going to be alone forever.”
“Oh, Merlin—”
“I’m serious!” he groaned through his fingers. “I’m ugly, no one’s ever going to kiss me, I’ll never get a girlfriend—”
“Pete,” Sirius cut in, sharp, picking at his nails. “Stop it. You’re being ridiculous.”
But Peter was spiralling now, words tumbling out faster. “You don’t know what it’s like. Girls are lining up to kiss you, and I’m nearly fifteen and have never kissed anyone—”
Sirius grinned, cutting him off. “I’ll kiss you then. Problem solved.”
Peter’s head shot up. “Fucking yuck, Sirius!”
That broke his funk, at least for a moment — Sirius laughed properly, the kind that tugged sharp from his chest. He looked up from his nails, grinning, watching Peter still fuming, still wound tight.
Instead of consoling him with words, Sirius pushed off his bed and crossed the room in two long strides.
Peter’s eyes widened. “Don’t you dare—”
Too late.
Sirius lunged for him, aiming a sloppy kiss at his cheek. Peter squealed, scrambling out of reach, and bolted across the dorm.
“Come here, Pete!” Sirius shouted, chasing him around the room. “I’ll be your first kiss—”
“Get off me!” Peter yelped, laughing and shrieking at once as he darted around the beds, nearly tripping over his own bag.
Sirius pursued him relentlessly, stupidly, until the door creaked open.
James stopped dead in the doorway, taking in the sight of Peter diving behind his bed and Sirius grinning wickedly after him.
“What the fuck are you two up to?” James said flatly.
Sirius only grinned wider. “I think Peter has a crush on me.”
“Oh. In your bloody dreams, Black.”
James just shook his head and backed out, muttering about how he had better things to do than watch the two of them snog.
*** 13th January 1975 - 14 days***
Breakfast the next morning was almost — almost — normal. James and Marlene were arguing over the finer points of their teams’ Quidditch strategy; Remus had his nose buried in the Prophet, pretending not to listen; and Peter was staring longingly across the hall at Dorcas Meadows.
Sirius was halfway through nicking a sausage off James’s plate when the shift in their faces gave it away — the way they all looked past him at once, nervous, doing a terrible job of disguising their concern.
He turned and sighed dramatically.
“Alright, Regulus. What do you want?”
His little brother stood there like he’d rather be anywhere else — wide-eyed, hands bunched in his sleeves, swaying on his feet. Thirteen years old and looking every bit of it. Sirius had to bite back the urge to sneer.
“Well?” he pressed. “Spit it out.”
Regulus’s voice was soft, shy in a way that made him look even younger. “I just want to talk.”
Sirius barked a laugh. “Oh, now you want to talk about it?”
Regulus shifted, awkward but stubborn. “Can’t we… talk outside?” he asked, quieter still.
“No,” Sirius shot back. “Whatever you want to say, you can say in front of them.”
Marlene shifted uncomfortably beside James as Regulus’s eyes flicked her way.
They went back and forth like that for a while — Sirius tossing every barb he could muster, Regulus digging his heels in with a persistence that only made Sirius want to push harder — until James finally leaned forward, voice low.
“Sirius.”
A nudge against his leg.
Sirius groaned, shoved his chair back in defeat. “Fine.”
They’d barely cleared the doors when Sirius frustratedly lit a cigarette, dragging hard enough to sting. His free hand raked through his hair. Out of the corner of his eye he caught the blink of surprise in Regulus’s face — the way his mouth tightened at the sight — and he grinned, sharp and mean. “What? Going to run and tell Mother?”
Regulus shook his head, hurt. “No.”
When Sirius didn’t bite, he sighed and said it — quiet, strained. “Are you… okay? After…?”
Sirius stopped walking. The question landed like a slap.
After what?
After their mother hit him? After finding out his cousin was a Death Eater? After nearly coming undone in their father’s study?
He sighed. Since when did Regulus care anyway? He’d never cared before — not when their mother snapped his broom in two last summer, not when she locked him in his room for days, not when she refused to write a single word after he was sorted. He’d stood through all of it, silent and complicit. And now he wanted to ask?
Sirius exhaled smoke, bitter. “Oh. So you care now?”
“I’ve always cared,” Regulus said quietly.
“Bullshit.” Sirius’s voice sharpened. “You heard me choking and making a fool of myself in Father’s study the other night.” His teeth ground together. “Where was the care then?”
Regulus’s face twisted — hurt, searching — but he didn’t answer fast enough. Sirius pounced. “Yeah. I thought so. Nothing to say about that, do you?”
“You’re not being fair,” Regulus said at last. “You don’t understand what they’re like. What they’d think if—”
“I understand plenty,” Sirius snapped. “Who the fuck do you think’s been protecting you from all this shit your whole bloody life?”
That earned a short, sharp laugh. Regulus shook his head. “No. You don’t know. You didn’t even know about Bellatrix.”
The words landed heavy. So he had known. Lied to his face. Kept it tucked away while Sirius made a fool of himself thinking he still knew the first thing about her. Heat crawled up his throat.
“So you lied to me then?” Sirius spat.
“I didn’t—”
“Don’t, Reg.” Sirius cut him off, voice rising. “Don’t you dare stand there and act like you give a shit, or know better, when I’ve been the one stopping them from breaking you every year of your bloody life. Who consoled you after Rodolphus tortured that rabbit? Who shoved the boggart back into Mother’s trunk so you wouldn’t have to see it? Who stood between you and Kreacher when they told us to practice curses on him?” He broke off, chest heaving.
Regulus fired back, steel in his voice. “And you think that means you’ve seen it all? That you know better? You don’t have a clue, Sirius. Our family is in deeper than you could ever imagine.”
The words hung sharp and heavy between them.
Sirius dragged the last of his cigarette down to the filter, then flicked the butt against the stone with a hiss. “I don’t have anything else to say to you.”
Regulus hesitated.
“I mean it, Reggie. I’m so bloody done with this family and its fucking secrets.”
His brother’s face twisted again — upset, worried, far too young for the things they were speaking about. Sirius took it in and hated the way it tugged at him.
“I just need to know… that you’re okay?” Regulus asked again, almost pleading.
Sirius rolled his eyes, ready to say nothing — but the panicked look on his brother’s face bent something in him. He relented, begrudgingly.
“Relax. I’m not about to throw myself off the Astronomy Tower, if that’s what you mean.” Sirius didn’t even look at him. “Now fuck off.”
He shoo’d him.
Regulus lingered a moment longer, eyes dark with something Sirius refused to name, before finally turning away.
And as much as Sirius sneered, the truth lodged sharp in his ribs. He wasn’t okay. He knew it. His hands trembled even as he lit another cigarette to hide them.
Another distraction, of course — smoke to fill the silence. But every drag only curdled in his lungs, bitter and ugly. He hated himself for it. Because wasn’t this exactly what had cost them before? He could almost feel Remus’s scar under his fingertips every time the match flared.
*** 14th January 1975 - 13 days***
All of it kept circling — the fight with Regulus, the Black family secrets, the endless tick of the bloody countdown. He flipped the record over again, Black Sabbath rattling the floorboards, bass snarling through the dorm at full volume.
But it still wasn’t loud enough.
The others had left him to it long ago, muttering about they couldn’t think with him blasting that noise at full tilt. Remus had vanished to the library with a pile of books, Peter had clapped his hands over his ears and fled to the common room, James had lasted the longest before chucking a pillow at his head and reaching for his broom on the way out. Sirius barely noticed.
The noise wasn’t drowning anything out. Not like it usually did. Every time the guitars broke there was Regulus again, Bellatrix’s stupid face, his mother’s hand across his cheek, Emmeline asking questions she had no right to ask, Bertram Aubrey of all people. Little distractions cutting in sharp and quick, when all he wanted was to think about the potion — the dew, the leaves, the storm. The only thing that mattered.
Instead, he was spiralling. Again.
Pathetic.
Pull yourself together, Black.
He shoved himself off the bed, boots thudding against the floor, and stormed down to the common room.
Matthew McKinnon was sprawled in one of the armchairs by the fire, talking to Tilden Toots. Both of them had that unbothered, too-cool-for-this ease: trendy boots, loose ties, hair falling into their eyes like they hadn’t a care in the world. Untouchable. Older. The sort of blokes Sirius wanted to be if he could just get his shit together.
He didn’t bother with niceties. “Matt. Can I borrow that record from the other day?”
Matthew glanced up, mouth quirking into an easy grin. “Which one?”
“The loud one.”
“Budgie?” An eyebrow lifted, curious.
“Yeah.”
Matt hummed, dragging his eyes over him like he was checking the shape of his mood. “What for?”
Sirius’s jaw twitched. He hated the way it made him feel — like he was peeling skin off himself. “I just need it to… quiet my thoughts. You know?”
The admission burned. Left him raw, exposed. He pressed harder to cover it. “So can I borrow it or not?”
Matthew sighed, but not unkindly. For a second Sirius thought he might leave him hanging, stranded under the weight of that knowing look. But instead he pushed off the chair. “Yeah, sure. Wait here.”
He ducked upstairs and came back a minute later with two sleeves tucked under his arm. Budgie, just like he’d asked. And another — Deep Purple.
“Thought you might like this one too,” Matt said, handing them over. “Just make sure I get them back, alright?”
Sirius snatched them quick, before anyone could change their mind.
Matt’s voice softened. “I get it, you know.”
Sirius glanced up at him, frowning. For a second he almost asked. But he didn’t need to. Not really. He remembered — how the McKinnons’ mum had died when they were young.
It was part of why Macbeth had ended up in Slytherin, he thought. Sirius wondered how loud Matthew’s own thoughts had been back then.
“Thanks,” he said instead, holding the sleeves tight. Like a lifeline. “I’ll bring them back.”
Matt gave him one last nod, sharp but concerned, like he saw more than Sirius wanted him to. Sirius ignored it. Pretended he hadn’t noticed at all.
He didn’t need concern. Didn’t need pity.
He just needed noise.
Even if he knew it would spark the same pattern every time: distraction, then relief, then guilt. And still, he couldn’t stop.
Pathetic. Selfish. And worst of all, familiar.
*** 15th January 1975 -12 days ***
The Budgie record had helped for a while. The screaming guitars, the pounding drums — loud enough to scour him clean until he felt hollow, sharp at the edges. But the noise didn’t last.
Eventually, he needed something chemical to even him out. He slipped out of the tower with a cigarette tucked behind his ear, hunting for another distraction. Found it on the low wall outside the greenhouses, smoke curling pale in the damp afternoon air.
Cassius Avery.
He sauntered over with that irritatingly casual ease of his, hands behind his head, smirk tugging at his mouth like he’d planned the whole thing. Like some bloody meet-cute.
He didn’t smoke — Sirius knew that — so what the hell was he even doing out by the greenhouses?
Still, he leaned against the wall like he belonged there, letting the silence stretch until Sirius finally glanced over, wary.
“Grown tired of your Gryffindor buddies?” Cass asked, voice light. “Can’t remember the last time I saw you without them.”
“Not tired,” Sirius muttered, flicking ash. “Just needed some air.”
Cass’s smirk deepened. “Some space from Perfect Potter?”
“Don’t call him that.”
“What, Potter?” Cass tilted his head, grin sly. “Or perfect?”
Sirius shot him a look, sharp as a blade, but Cass only chuckled, like he was winning their unspoken game. Then, casually, tipping his head back toward the sky: “So. What did Perfect Potter think of it all anyway?”
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Think of what?”
“Bellatrix.” Cass’s voice was almost lazy. “Your favourite cousin. The Death Eater. What did Potter say, when you told him?”
The cigarette nearly slipped from Sirius’s fingers. He caught it, forced his grin into place. “What the fuck are you on about?”
“Oh, come on.” Cass leaned in a little, eyes gleaming. “Don’t tell me you haven’t told them. Your little Gryffindor fan club.” His smirk sharpened.
Sirius barked a laugh, too quick, too brittle. “Why the fuck would I tell them that?”
Cass shrugged, gaze still pinned to him. “Because you tell Potter everything. He’s the new me, right? The one you run to now?” His voice dipped lower, cutting sharp. “Quite the hero complex, he has. Bet he’d love to swoop in, wouldn’t he? Save you from your big bad family. And all your scary Slytherin friends.”
And wasn’t that half the problem? The reason Sirius couldn’t tell him things like… that .
Cass actually laughed at that.
Sirius dragged hard on the cigarette, throat burning, lungs tight. “Potter’s got better things to worry about than you and my charming relatives.”
“Mm.” Cass hummed, almost pleased. He rocked back against the wall, watching Sirius through the smoke. Not pitying, not cruel — something else. Amusement. Delight. Satisfaction at getting under his skin, maybe.
Sirius flicked the butt down to the gravel, grinding it under his boot. “Don’t you go telling them either. Blabbermouth.”
Cass smirked, pushing off the wall, voice smooth. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Black. I like being the only one to know your secrets.”
He savoured it like a sweet rolling across his tongue, smiling around it before clapping Sirius once on the shoulder and fucking off.
“See you around, Black,” he called lightly over his shoulder, as if they’d just shared a joke instead of Cass sinking his claws in.
He left Sirius sitting there with smoke curling from his fingers and his stomach in knots.
Bloody hell. What was he doing?
He just needed to fucking focus. On Remus. On their plan. That was all.
Twelve days. He just needed to get through twelve fucking days.
Cass’s footsteps faded across the gravel, whistling low like he didn’t know what he’d just done. Although he absolutely did.
Sirius stayed put, the cigarette still burning between his fingers, smoke curling sharp into his eyes.
*** 16th January 1975 - 11 days***
And then James fucked it all up by giving in to his own distractions. Or, more accurately, his own demons.
He and Snape had always circled each other, snapping at heels, waiting for the next excuse to bare their teeth. Ever since first year.
James liked to frame it as a rivalry between all of them — Gryffindors versus Slytherins, Marauders versus Snivellus, some grand house-pride battle — but really, it had always been James at the centre. James who couldn’t leave well enough alone. James who needed the last word, the last laugh, the win.
Usually Sirius was right there beside him, backing him up. But lately, he’d been too deep in his own head to join in.
Still — by the time they hit double Potions, he could feel James’s restless energy bleeding out of him. Jittering in his chair, quill tapping, foot bouncing, mouth running. Neither of them had the patience for instructions and cauldrons today, not with the plan rattling in their skulls like a live wire.
Every question Slughorn asked turned into some half-coded joke between them. Animagi this, transformations that, little digs slipped in quiet enough to dodge the professor’s glare. Sirius stifled his laughter behind his hand, shoulders shaking, while James grinned at him like they were the only two in on the joke.
And Snape was right there.
Just asking for it.
Hunched over his cauldron, scribbling furiously, pretending not to listen. Which only made it funnier when they turned their attention to him. Sirius nudged James under the table, lips twitching, and James bit down on a laugh, eyes gleaming. They egged each other on, leaning closer, trading barbs at his expense.
Until James took it a step too far.
It was quick — just a sly flick of his wrist, something dropped into Snape’s cauldron. A fizz, a pop—
An explosion.
Green sludge shot sky-high, coating the bench, the walls, Snape himself — dripping through his hair, plastering his robes, staining his whole face the colour of swamp water. The smell was indescribable.
Half the class roared. Even Mary, who wasn’t usually one for mean-spirited jokes, bit her lip to hide a grin. James actually fell out of his chair laughing, clutching his stomach, tears streaming behind fogged glasses. Sirius doubled over too, helpless, his ribs aching with the force of it—
Until Slughorn’s voice cut through.
“Potter.”
Sharp. Final.
James froze mid-wheeze.
“Two weeks’ detention. Every evening.”
And suddenly it wasn’t funny anymore.
The laughter died in Sirius’s throat. All the air went out of the room, hitting him square in the chest.
Two weeks. Fourteen days.
Fuck.
He and James locked eyes, realisation crashing over them at the same time. The dew. The plan. The timing they’d been clinging to.
“Sir—” James scrambled upright, still dripping with sludge. “Sir, please, I can’t—”
“No discussion,” Slughorn said briskly, already turning back to the front. “You’re lucky I’m not docking house points. Someone could have been hurt.”
Snape was sniggering, low and triumphant, sludge sliding down his jaw.
“Shut your mouth,” Sirius snapped before he could even get a word out, voice slicing through the room. His eyes burned into Snape’s until the smirk faltered.
Not that it mattered. The damage was done.
Because Slughorn’s word was final.
And just like that, the plan — their whole bloody countdown — slipped through Sirius’s fingers.
He and James stared at each other, and the grin slid clean off his friend’s face. The colour drained, dread settling in where his laughter had been, as realisation washed over him. The weight of what he’d just done.
James didn’t bother with emotional foreplay. The moment the other boys drifted off to sleep, he climbed straight into Sirius’s bed like a kicked puppy — shoulders hunched, hair still damp from his shower. He still smelled faintly of swamp; it clung to his skin, caught beneath his nails.
Sirius blinked at him from where he was propped against the headboard in his pajamas, hair pulled into a messy knot. “Merlin, Potter, ever heard of knocking?”
“Shut up,” James muttered, already shoving his glasses off and burying his face in Sirius’s pillow. His voice was muffled there, wrecked and bitter. “I’ve ruined everything.”
“You haven’t—”
“I have.” His voice cracked. “Two bloody weeks of detention. You know what that means. I can’t—” He broke off, hands curling tighter in the blankets, like the words themselves hurt.
Sirius stared at the mess of him, and his face softened — damp hair sticking to his forehead, fists knotted in the sheets. He wanted to make a joke. Roll his eyes. Tell him he was being dramatic. Anything to make it better. But there was no talking James down from this. Not tonight.
He was too loyal, too proud.
So instead Sirius leaned back, sighing. “You’re not coming with us. That’s true.”
James jerked upright, eyes wild. “I’ll find a way. I’ll slip out after detention, meet you both, I’ll—”
“Absolutely fucking not.” Sirius’s tone cut straight to the point. He sat up, meeting James’s glare head on. “You stumble into the Forest in the middle of the night alone, and you’re not coming back out. Do you get that?”
James’s jaw clenched. His throat bobbed.
“Peter and I can handle it,” Sirius pressed, quieter now. “We’ll be fine. We’ll get it done.”
But James looked gutted — like Sirius had just kicked the air out of him, snapped his favourite broom, stolen the last of his mum’s biscuits. His face pinched, cheeks blotchy, fury at himself written in every line. And Sirius hated it. Hated seeing him fold like that, when James Potter wasn’t supposed to fold at all.
“What if I just… skipped it for one night?”
Sirius shook his head. “Oh, come on, James. They’d come looking for all of us then. You know it’s true.”
“Fine. Go on then.” James’s voice turned bitter. “Do it without me. Not like it was my bloody idea or anything.”
Merlin. He was being such a child about it.
Sirius opened his mouth — closed it again. There was no joke sharp enough to cut through this. But he still tried.
“Actually, it was Lily’s.”
James flopped back down, yanking the blankets over his head to sulk.
“Oh, so now you’re happy to give her credit,” he huffed.
Sirius smirked faintly, corner of his mouth twitching. “Well, if she’s going to marry my best mate, I figured I had to come around eventually.”
James barked a laugh — sharp, surprised, wrecked. “Prat.” Sirius winced, grinning anyway.
The room fell quiet again — not tense, not brittle. Just still. The two of them lying side by side in the dark, warmth pooling between them. Sirius let his fingers drift lightly over James’s arm, a small, soothing pass. Like maybe he could calm him the way James always did for everyone else.
It was enough. James let out a long breath and sank into the pillow beside him, lashes brushing fabric, chest rising and falling in slower rhythm.
Within minutes he was asleep, mouth parted, little snores breaking through. Asleep in Sirius’s bed like he had a hundred times before — but this time, Sirius found no comfort in it.
He watched him for a long moment, chest aching, before finally peeling himself free of the sheets. His feet found the cold stone floor, boards creaking as he crouched at his trunk.
The smell of Grimmauld still clung to the things inside: sadness, smoke, something sharp and chemical. He rifled through until his hand closed on a tiny corked vial, tucked into a sock. His fingers shook as he pulled it free.
Sleeping draught.
He turned it in his hand, glass catching lamplight, and thought: just this once. Just enough to quiet the buzzing, enough to make the night pass without flaying his skin open from the inside out.
Because if James bloody Potter was broken enough to crawl into his bed, then what chance did he have of holding it all together?
He pulled the cork loose with his teeth and downed it in one swig.
Sirius woke abruptly to a hard jolt. Fingers dug into his shoulder, shaking him so violently the bed creaked beneath him.
“Oi—” The taste of sleeping draught still coated his tongue, thick and bitter. The room spun faintly around him.
“Where’s James?” Remus’s voice cut through the dark, sharp but distant.
Sirius blinked, groggy. The edges of everything blurred — the fire guttering low, Peter stumbling with his shirt half-buttoned, tearing apart James’s bed. Chaos he couldn’t quite make sense of or hold onto.
The room itself was washed in an eerie light bleeding through the curtains. A sickly green. Wrong. Unnatural.
He didn’t pay it enough notice.
“Dunno,” Sirius mumbled, dragging a hand over his face. His eyelids felt heavy. “He was here — he was just here.”
But James’s glasses were gone from his bedside.
Remus shook him again, harder. “Sirius. Where is he ?”
The urgency barely registered. The draught still weighed him down, lead in his blood, every movement underwater. “He’s probably just gone to the bathroom or something?” He yawned, words slurring. “What’s the big deal?”
Remus’s expression snapped tight. “There’s been a Death Eater attack in Hogsmeade.” The words cut straight through him. “McGonagall and Dumbledore are calling everyone to the Great Hall. We can’t find James.”
The fog cleared in an instant.
It was like being slapped. His chest cinched, breath catching sharp.
Because… he knew where James was.
White knight prick. Saviour complex asshole. Perfect fucking Potter.
Fuck.
He’d gone to find the dew.
In the Forest.
Which backed onto Hogsmeade.
Which had just been attacked by Death Eaters.
Sirius lurched upright so fast his thoughts barely kept pace, stomach pitching like he might vomit. His hands shook as he fumbled with his boots, half-lacing them, barely managing to shove his feet inside.
“What are you doing?” Remus demanded.
“He’s gone to the Forbidden Forest,” Sirius rasped.
Remus reeled back, frowning. “What? Why the hell would he—”
But Sirius couldn’t answer. Couldn’t breathe. Didn’t have time to explain. His lungs clawed for air, each inhale jagged and shallow.
Peter understood immediately — eyes going wide, swearing loudly as he scrambled for his own shoes.
Because James was out there. Alone.
And Sirius could feel the walls already closing in.
Notes:
I am... so sorry for the cliffhanger.
But, fuck am i proud of this chapter. I hope you guys liked it too!
Chapter 20: Jan 1975 (pt 4) - Attack, attack
Summary:
Sirius falls apart.
Notes:
TW: discussions and descriptions of murder, anxiety attacks
Chapter Text
*** 16th January 1975 ***
Sirius staggered toward the door, limbs heavy and uncooperative beneath the weight of the sleeping draught. His laces dragged loose across the floor, one shoe half-crushed under his heel as he lurched down the staircase. The roar of his pulse filled his ears, so loud it smothered the shouts echoing behind him.
No.
No.
No.
His hand slipped on the banister, caught again, and sent him lurching forward. The common room blurred past him in long streaks of red and gold — a gaggle of first years being herded out by Matthew McKinnon, his favourite chair with the sagging cushion, a chessboard abandoned mid-game by the fire— as his chest cinched tight, lungs scraping for air.
Please be okay.
Please be okay.
Please be okay.
His thoughts tangled together — all self-loathing and useless — but they always circled back to the same thing: James. His glasses gone from the bedside table. The cold spot he’d left behind on the pillow. His bed empty, Chudley Cannons blanket kicked halfway to the floor. His wand was gone too, Sirius realised, the space beside his glasses case suddenly too bare, too neat. James never thought that far ahead, never bothered to plan anything beyond the next laugh or Quidditch match, and the fact that he had now made Sirius’s stomach twist.
Sirius’s half-on shoes slapped against the floor, laces whipping with every step. His throat burned, breath tore ragged.
“Sirius—” Remus’s voice chased him down the stairs, his lanky frame half-tripping over the edges of his pyjama bottoms. “You don’t know that—”
“I do.” Sirius nearly choked on the words. He was hysterical. His hair clung to his forehead, his mouth bone dry. “He’s gone to the fucking Forest.”
“Slow down—” Remus pressed, struggling to keep pace, “You really don’t know that for sure, you’re not thinking clearly.”
“Remus, I do know.” Sirius snapped so fast it almost hurt, like saying it any slower might be the undoing of him.
No.
No.
No.
He started spiralling again: James alone in the forrest; James surrounded by men in bone white masks; James bleeding out under a green, sickly sky.
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Fuck!”
The word scraped raw out of his throat as he shoved through the crowd of students gathering, panic burning a hole in his chest. He caught flashes of familiar faces — Lily Evans whispering with Edie Macmillan by the door, which was strange enough on its own; those two barely tolerated each other, Edie too proud of her pureblood name to be seen with a Muggleborn unless circumstance forced it. A couple of kids from his year. Some of James’s Quidditch mates clustered near the fire. And that was what made his stomach lurch — because James should’ve been among them. Always was.
The common room was properly crowded — the other girls, Zazzy, Mary, and Marlene, were huddled together by the fire in their matching pyjamas. Sirius stumbled into the middle of them, nearly catching his toe on the rug, and they broke apart instinctively, shuffling sideways to give him space, like they could already feel the panic radiating off him.
Marlene’s head snapped up, blonde hair scraped into a messy bun, strands sticking out at odd angles. “What the fuck are you lot doing, what is going on?”
“Nothing,” Remus offered quickly, voice even but concerned. “Just—”
“No.” Sirius’s voice cracked, too high, too fast. Desperate. He gripped the back of a chair like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His chest jerked with every breath. “James is missing.”
The words landed heavy between them. Sinking like a stone.
Marlene reeled, all the colour draining from her face, save for her her cheeks were still tinged slightly pink from standing by the fire. “Missing? What do you mean missing?”
“He’s gone,” Sirius rasped. His vision swam, black spots blooming at the edges. He couldn’t fill his lungs, couldn’t get the air down far enough. “He’s gone to the fucking Forest—”
He inhaled sharply, shakily.
“Sirius—” Remus warned, low, his hand raised like he could contain the panic. “We don’t know that. You’re jumping to—”
“No, he’s right.” Peter interrupted. He was still struggling with the buttons of his shirt, but his eyes were wide and blown. “He’s gone to the Forrest.”
It landed like a curse. Confusion flickered across Remus’s face — quick, hurt, blindsided — as if he’d finally gotten confirmation of what he’d been suspecting for weeks. They were hiding something form him. Their excuses for the animagus plan had been thinning, transparent now, flimsy covers for all the late nights and hurried whispers. He’d been watching them closer, piecing together every odd glance and half-truth, and this was the moment it all seemed to click. But Sirius couldn’t care less in that moment. Not when his ears were thundering, and bile was burning at the back of his throat.
He crumpled over, braced his hands against his knees. The room tilted for a brief moment, firelight blinding him. His lungs pulled fast, shallow, and painful; each breath sharper than the last. He thought he might actually throw up.
“Fuck—” His voice shredded, and his legs lurched forward before he could steady them, stumbling through the crowd of startled girls.
Marlene caught his sleeve, tried to stop him from leaving. But he tore free, half-tripped over his own laces, and pushed towards the exit.
Because he had to find James.
He careened towards the portrait hole—
—and nearly collided with James Potter, climbing back in.
Smiling, like he’d just popped out for a quick bite to eat or a chat with the Fat Lady. No urgency about him at all. As if he had no idea how close he’d come to being killed— or how he’d shattered Sirius’s whole world in the process.
Sirius didn’t recognise the sound that tore out of him— low and ragged, half sob, half yell. It even scared him. Guttural.
Holy fuck.
Relief slammed into him just as hard as the dread had, leaving him dizzy, disoriented, and struggling for air.
Then, as if his arms had taken on a life of their own, he shoved James square in the chest— which was solid and unyielding from all the Quidditch drills Matthew had been running lately — so hard he toppled backwards. The impact jolted up Sirius’s arms, sharp through his shoulders, and sent James staggering back a step, heels skidding against the rug before he caught himself.
“I thought you were dead, James!” he shouted, so hard it left his throat red and raw, like he’d been screaming for hours.
James regained his balance and raised his hands in defence, his father’s Claddagh ring flashing in the firelight as it caught the movement. Sirius let out another strangled, “Fuck!” like it was the only word left in his vocabulary.
The room went silent. Every eye in the room turned towards him. Marlene moved as if to comfort him, but Mary held her back, her deep brown eyes darting nervously between James and Sirius. He caught the low murmur of their voices — quick, frantic, concerned — but the words slipped past, lost in the panic of it all.
But their concern wasn’t enough to stop him. He shoved James again, harder this time, desperate for somewhere to put the anger clawing through his chest.
James didn’t push back. Quite the opposite in fact — his hands shot out, clamping around Sirius’s forearms, yanking him in close. His grip was solid, rough with calluses from hours on a broom, the kind of hold that might have been grounding if not for the fact that he’d almost not been here to fucking hold him at all.
He hugged him to his chest like he could hold him together by force and willpower alone.
Sirius’s ribs cinched under the pressure, and before he could stop himself a single tear slipped free — hot, humiliating, and traitorous — carving a wet line down his cheek.
No. No, no. Sirius Black didn’t cry. Not in public. Not in front of all these people.
He fought it back, grinding the evidence away with the heel of his hand.
But his breath betrayed him — hitched sharp and ragged against James’s chest.
“It’s okay, Sirius. I’m here. It’s alright.” James rubbed circles on his back.
He’s okay.
He’s okay.
James. Is. Okay.
He had to remind himself over and over as he pulled James closer. If that were even possible. Feeling the soft fabric of his jumper beneath his hands
Normally, he’d be horrified. Mortified even. That everyone had seen it — the shove, the tear, the hug. His armour stripped clean off. Mask down,
And he supposed he was. Somewhere beneath the ringing in his ears, he knew he’d want to crawl out of his skin later.
But right now, all he could think was: James is okay.
Alive. Warm. Still here.
So Sirius let his fists twist into the back of James’s jumper with so much force it scared them both, and didn’t care who saw.
The Great Hall was complete chaos by the time they stumbled down: a relentless muddle of voices, noise, and bodies pressing in from all sides. Professors strained to keep order, prefects shouted over the crowd, green light bathed the hall in an eerie glow through the enchanted ceiling, as if it were taunting them. And in the distance, he could almost make it out — the Dark Mark stitched from sickly green stars, a serpent spilling from its mouth. The same one carved into Bellatrix’s arm. Fuck.
James was in among it, as he always was, talking too fast, voice pitching high over the noise. He stood tall despite the other boys shrinking nervously around him.
“I told you, I’m fine, I just went out for a second—”
“For a second? To the Forbidden Forest?” Remus’s voice was flat, incredulous. “During an attack?”
“Sorry I missed the memo. I’m not exactly on the Death Eater mailing list, am I?”
Peter’s adams apple bobbed frantically. “We thought—well, you know what we thought—”
James laughed, sharp and out of place, and shoved his thick glasses back up his nose. “What, that I’d been murdered? Please. I just went out for a quick stroll.” He grinned too wide, all teeth, like he could charm his way out of it.
“A stroll, James?” Remus scoffed. “Who strolls through the Forbidden Forest?”
“Romantics,” James shot back quickly, flipping the hair out of his eyes. “Poets. Tragic heroes. Maybe I was communing with the centaurs, did you think of that? Trading Quidditch tips with the unicorns?”
Normally, they would have let him get away with it. James had that knack — dazzling in the way he lit up a room, spinning nonsense into something that felt like truth, grin sharp enough to make you forget what you were even mad about. He was magnetic, a natural born leader, impossible not to follow. But not this time. Peter gave a weak laugh that didn’t quite land. Remus’s mouth twisted, tugging his scar taut, unimpressed.
And Sirius— couldn’t bear it. That stupid grin. The way James brushed it all off like it was nothing, when Sirius’s lungs were still scraping for air at the idea of losing him.
His body moved before he could stop it. Peeled away. Couldn’t stand to be around it any longer — because if he had to hear James laugh it off one more time, he was going to put his fist through the wall. Or through James Potter’s head. And he didn’t want to be the reason his best mate walked around with a black eye for the rest of the week.
Peter blinked after him, mouth slack and half-open like he wanted to call him back. He looked small next to the others, shoulders hunched, eyes wide and frightened — like he needed someone to comfort him too. Remus’s amber eyes tracked Sirius sharply, concern flickering there, but he didn’t move. Only James reached for him, and Sirius brushed him off quickly. James faltered mid-grin, the laugh thinning at his lips as he watched Sirius disappear into the crowd.
He slipped away to the farthest wall he could find, spine pressed to the cold stone. His shoulder blades scraped uncomfortably against it as he collapsed into it, chest still heaving wrong, breath too sharp, too shallow. He dragged in a breath, tried to count it out slow, tried to press himself flat against the stone as if the chill might knit him back together. For a second he even pinched the bridge of his nose, as if sheer force of will could stop the trembling.
Furious. That was what he was. Furious with James. With his reckless stupidity. Furious that he’d made a joke of it, that he’d made them all think—
His jaw locked. His head spun.
No. He wasn’t furious.
He was scared shitless.
Because what if James hadn’t come back through that portrait hole when he did? What something had happened? What if the Dark Mark had claimed him and Sirius never saw him again?
Fucking hell.
His nails bit into his palms, sharp enough to sting, crescent moons scoring into his skin. The pain barely registered, or maybe it did — maybe he welcomed it, something real to hold onto while the rest of him threatened to come apart.
Merlin, if Death Eaters had killed James tonight, his life wouldn’t be worth living. Nothing could have stopped him from hunting them down. He’d burn the whole world down to avenge him. Scorch the earth in blind fury until nothing but ash and bone remained.
And… if Bellatrix had killed James tonight—
The thought seared like acid. His stomach lurched, bile climbing his throat, and suddenly it wasn’t fear anymore — it was fury, raw and unchecked, clawing up through his ribs.
He would fucking kill her. He wouldn’t even need his wand.
Because it would have been his fault. For not saying anything. For keeping his mouth shut.
He saw himself tearing into her, choking the sound out of her throat, blood spilling hot and slick across the ground, slamming her head into the pavement over and over and—
“—Sirius?”
He blinked.
Emmeline.
She was at his side before he’d even registered the interruption, eyes wide, hair mussed like she’d been running. She still somehow managed to look unfairly cool, even breathless, even with panic sparking in her gaze and her hair a mess.
The Great Hall snapped back into focus — voices, torches, the press of bodies — but his hands still itched like they were wrapped around Bellatrix’s neck.
“I heard James went missing—what happened?”
He blinked again.
“Is he hurt? Everyone’s saying different things—half the room thinks he fought off a Death Eater, the other half thinks he’s just making the whole thing up—is he alright?”
Her voice tumbled over itself, question after question, urgent, fast.
Sirius opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out. The words were stuck, thick in his throat, refusing to budge. He could only stare at her, chest jerking harder with each breath.
She reached out, brushed her fingers lightly over his sleeve, as if sensing his panic — just a touch, barely there — but it nearly undid him. His knees threatened to buckle, like he might actually fall apart right there against the wall.
He looked at her. Really looked. The concern in her face, the way her brow furrowed.
Quieter now, she asked, “Are you okay?”
The words cracked him wide open — like his ribs had been splayed apart, everything bloody and exposed beneath.
A shaky breath rattled out of him. His head dropped forward before he could stop it, and for perhaps the first time in his life, he admitted:
“No. Not really.”
His cousin had nearly murdered his best friend.
For a moment, Emmeline just stared — like she was seeing him for the first time, armour stripped, raw and breakable beneath his usual bravado.
But before she could respond, her mouth left hanging half open, a sharp clap rang across the hall.
Dumbledore. His voice rose over the crowd, clear, commanding, demanding the attention of every eye in the room. He stood tall at the lectern, silver beard spilling down the front of his robes, half-moon spectacles glinting in the green glow from above. His hands rested lightly on the wood, steady and deliberate, as if the chaos around him had no power to reach him. The weight of him filled the Hall, sharp and undeniable — the kind of presence that silenced even the loudest room without effort.
Sirius had never been so grateful for the old man in his life. Because Merlin help him — if Emmeline had pressed for even a second longer, he didn’t know what he would’ve done.
He might have broken down. Right there, in front of everyone.
Again.
How fucking embarrassing that would’ve been.
Dumbledore cleared his throat. “As you have likely heard already, there has been an attack in Hogsmeade. The culprits are still at large. For now, we must be certain every student is safe. So, Prefects will assist with a head count. Please remain calm and cooperative.”
The crowd rippled with whispers, but Sirius barely heard them. Because was already scanning the room, doing a head count of his own.
James: laughing, glasses skewed, talking too fast.
Peter: shaking slightly but breathing.
Remus: stiff, jaw clenched, brow furrowed.
Marlene: pale, clinging to James’s sleeve.
Zazzy: scarily unphased by the chaos unfurling around her.
Mary: consoling Lily, who was crying beside her.
Emmeline: by his side.
And then — despite himself — his eyes caught on another table.
Regulus: sitting stiff among the Slytherins, pretending not to be rattled.
And beside him — Avery: smug, and perfectly intact, of course.
It cost him something to count them both. But he did it anyway.
Sirius breathed a little easier after that.
Dumbledore’s voice carried on: “A Muggleborn shopkeeper was murdered tonight. The perpetrators are still at large. For everyone’s safety, you will remain in the Great Hall tonight. Professors will sweep the castle before dawn.” His expression was grave, the usual twinkle in his eyes snuffed out, leaving them hard and cold behind the rims of his spectacles.
The words washed over him like ice water. Cold and lingering. Murdered? Sirius blinked hard, but still saw Bellatrix’s face every time he closed his eyes. Wand raised. Laugh sharp. James’s body crumpled at her feet.
His chest cinched. Again.
A hand slid into his. Emmeline’s. Firm, steady. His lungs loosened just enough to drag in air again.
“Until further notice,” Dumbledore continued, “there will be a strict curfew. You will go directly to bed after dinner. No wandering the castle between classes. No exceptions. Everyone must be accounted for at all times.”
Sirius leaned close to Emmeline, mouth twitching, trying to force a joke — like if he pretended everything was normal, it might just be. “No snogging by the lake, then.”
She nudged him with her elbow, pink lips curving faintly. It was enough to draw a flicker of warmth back into his chest.
Eventually, the crowd started to settle. The long house tables had been shunted back against the walls to make space for the transfigured beds. Students dragged blankets across the flagstones, sprawling in uneven clusters that looked more like a campsite than a school. A knot of first-years huddled together near the front, some crying into each other’s shoulders, while a few others whispered excitedly as though it were all some grand adventure. Professors patrolled the perimeter, wands lit, faces grim.
Emmeline lingered, still at his side. She dipped her head toward him, voice quieter now. “Are you okay?”
Sirius’s grin slid easily back into place. This time he lied. “I’m fine.”
Her eyes narrowed, sceptical, but she didn’t press. “Do you want to sit with us?”
He followed her gaze. Her friends were tucked into a corner: Gaspard Shingleton, Emily Fairchild, and Violet Vale, the same bookish, brooding ones from his party.
He almost said no. Almost turned back toward his own friends.
But the moment he caught James’s eye across the room, something horrible twisted in his stomach. He just couldn’t do it. Couldn’t breathe around James right now. The idea that he might not be here — might not have made it back in one piece—
Fuck, Sirius. Stop it.
“Yeah,” he said instead. “Alright.”
And he followed her into the crowd.
Remus’s eyes caught him as he passed. A mix of disappointment and concern knitted across his face. Sirius felt it like a punch to the gut— but didn’t slow, didn’t look back. Pretended not to notice, not to care, as he followed Emmeline straight past them.
He let himself be drawn into her world instead. Safer that way.
Her friends shifted to make space without hesitation, and Sirius dropped down between them like he belonged there. Like this was normal, easy even. Like it didn’t sting that he’d just walked away from the only people who really mattered.
As superficial a fix as it was, he let it happen — a bandage over a wound that still threatened to bleed out. Enough to stop the ache, for now.
“Baby Black,” Emily Fairchild said warmly, raising her barely-there brows. The name was a throwback, teasing, affectionate. “Made it through the night, then?”
He smirked faintly, automatic. “Barely.”
Gaspard leaned back, cigarette fingers drumming against his knee. “Wild night, eh? Bet the professors are shitting themselves.”
Violet snorted softly. “Or secretly hoping they might target here next and take out their least favourite students.”
They laughed — high, brisk, a little cruel — and turned the attack into something witty, a thing to poke at. They needled one another, tossed quips about curfews and chaos, the sort of cynical banter Sirius would usually thrive on.
But not tonight.
He couldn’t get a word out. His stomach heaved at the thought of joining in. If he opened his mouth he might actually be sick.
So he leaned back instead, letting them chatter around him, head tilted just enough to look like he was listening.
Emmeline’s hand found his knee, warm and grounding. She rubbed slow circles there, thumb pressing through the fabric of his trousers. Affection disguised as casual touching, a tether he hadn’t realised he needed.
But Sirius wasn’t really with her.
He felt half outside his own body, like he was watching himself from somewhere higher up — slouched among Emmeline’s friends, hair sticking in wild tangles to his damp temples, eyes glassy and too bright. He must’ve looked fucking mad. Hollowed out. Inhuman.
His eyes dragged back to the crowd, to James — alive, talking too loud, glasses slipping down his nose.
Too alive, almost — like he hadn’t just changed Sirius forever.
His chest tightened. Emmeline’s hand pressed firmer against his knee, as though she could anchor him there, in this circle, with her.
But all he could think was: what if he hadn’t come back through that door?
Holy shit.
*** 17th January 1975 ***
The ceiling of the Great Hall shifted pale and pink above them, charmed to mirror the morning sky as it opened up — streaks of light crept through scattered clouds. Below, the hushed murmur of the school waking rolled over the hall. Blankets and cloaks were sprawled in uneven heaps across the flagstones, students stirring slowly, rubbing sleep from their eyes.
Nobody wanted to speak too loudly, or be the first to name it: the fear still clinging to the room.
Until a flutter of wings shattered the quiet. Owls swooping down in clusters, parchment raining down from the sky. Parents checking in after last nights news. Needing to know their children were safe.
Sirius’s throat cinched tight. Because, of course, he didn’t get a letter. They didn’t care.
Beside him, Emmeline stirred as one came for her — her squat little tawny owl, affectionately (and ridiculously) named Toast dropped it right in her lap. She blinked groggily, fringe sticking up, blanket sliding down one shoulder. Sirius felt heat rise instantly in his cheeks at the sight of her, at the knowing they’d spent the night curled up side by side on the floor, her head tucked against his shoulder like it belonged there.
His first instinct should have been happiness, glee— but it wasn’t. He felt sick.
The image felt incriminating in the cold morning light. Awkward, not least because half the school had seen it. The Slytherins most of all.
His brother included.
Regulus sat stiff at the table, already dressed in stiff Slytherin greens, breakfast laid out in front of him. A letter in his hand.
Because of course Walburga and Orion would check in on their golden child.
Something fragile snapped inside him. He slid out from beneath Emmeline in one sharp motion, blanket falling away, and stormed across the hall. His bare feet cold against the stone.
Regulus was too busy reading to notice him coming— until Sirius’s hand shot out and yanked the letter from his grip. Quick and clean.
He spun around, eyes flashing. “Rends-le!” (Roughly translated: Give it back!) His voice was sharp, clipped — like a lash.
He only ever slipped into French when he didn’t want anyone else listening — which only served to make Sirius more suspicious.
Sirius’s grip tightened on the parchment, holding it out of reach as Regulus lunged for it.
“Rends-le, espèce d’imbécile!” (Give it back, you idiot!) Reg’s voice cut across the hall, clipped and furious, but Sirius wasn’t listening. His eyes were already raking over the letter, heart hammering in his chest.
Their mother didn’t write in English either. Her script curled across the page in self-important, looping flourishes, all jagged edges and overblown elegance. She wrote mostly after Regulus, checking in on him. But then—
His eyes snagged, catching on the line Regulus had obviously been trying to hide. Confirmation of what he already suspected: Bellatrix and Rodolphus were involved.
He clenched his hands so hard the letter crumpled beneath his fingers. He wanted to see it burn. And for a brief moment—Merlin—he almost thought it might. The parchment warmed in his grip, smoke curling faintly around his fingers.
Regulus snarled, still clawing for it. Sirius shoved him back with an elbow, words snapping out sharp in French.
“Tu le cachais!” (You were hiding it!)
“Je viens de le découvrir!” Regulus spat back. (I only just found out!) His eyes blazed, face pale with fury.
“Alors pourquoi l’avoir caché?” Sirius demanded. (Then why hide it?) His voice cracked.
“Parce que je savais que tu ferais exactement ça,” Regulus hissed, trying to wrench the letter free. (Because I knew you’d act exactly like this.)
Movement caught Sirius’s eye — Evan Rosier, lounging against the end of the Slytherin table, blue eyes fixed on them, sharp and knowing. One of the few in the room who actually understood the words spilling out of their mouths. He was family, in a way — a cousin, sort of — from the obnoxious French side that still prided itself on staying true to their roots. The same side that had wasted no time in disowning Andromeda for daring to marry a Muggleborn.
Regulus saw him too. He dropped his voice but didn’t soften it. “Crie un peu plus fort, Sirius. Peut-être que tout le château n’a pas encore entendu.” (Why don’t you shout a little louder, Sirius? Maybe the whole castle hasn’t heard yet.)
Sirius bared his teeth, grip tightening again—
And then, the letter went up. In a violent spark of wandless magic he shouldn’t have been capable of, it burnt to ash in his hand — like all of his anger manifesting at once. He recoiled as it singed his fingers, sending the parchment fluttering to the ground, still glowing at the edges.
A ragged laugh tore out of him, startling even himself.
“Oi—” Remus was suddenly at his side, a hand clamping down on his shoulder. “What’s going on?”
Regulus switched back to English, his voice smoothing like a blade drawn clean. “What’s going on? Your friend’s being a bloody psycho, that’s what.”
“Say again?” Sirius snapped, lunging, but Remus caught him, shoving him back.
“Stop it. Merlin, just stop.”
RRemus didn’t wait for it to escalate any further. He all but dragged Sirius away from his brother, grip firm on his arm. His fingers were cold, as always, even through the fabric of Sirius’s sleeve — and stronger than they had any right to be for someone so lanky and bookish.
Over Remus’s shoulder, Regulus lifted a hand in a lazy wave, smirk cutting sharp across his face. “Good boy. Off you go.”
Sirius surged, but Remus snapped before he could open his mouth. “Ignore him. We’re going back to the room.”
“The hell we are—” Sirius started, but Remus’s voice cut clean through, low and lethal:
“No. We are”
Sirius braved a look at him them; he was burning red.
“You’re all going to tell me why James was in the Forest last night.” The tone left no room for argument. Remus wasn’t joking. He was furious.
And Sirius didn’t blame him. But his stomach sank all the same, because he had no idea what to tell him.
When he looked up at James and Peter across the hall, their faces both had the same panicked look about them.
“Bedroom. Now.”
The command hung heavy in the air. Nobody argued. Nobody dared.
The three of then followed Remus out the hall like obedient puppies, with their tails between their legs.