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Chapter Text

“Professor Sprout will not be happy about this,” says Remus Lupin.

“You already said that,” Peter huffs, distracted.

“That is, Pete, in fact untrue. It was moments ago that I clearly said that Professor McGonagall will not be happy about this, especially if you yellow-rain on the heads of some poor, unsuspecting first-years down below, but now I’m saying Professor Sprout, as piss has got ammonia in it, and if you two keep at this there’ll be dead spots in the grass down there,” retorts Remus. As usual, his sound advice is ignored by the remaining three in the room and the world continues to turn.

“Mine’s farther.”

“You’re fucking wrong. And you’re — you’re fucking nearsighted, too, bitch!”

“Ha! Means I can see how close yours is, tosser. But I’ve also been holding this in since breakfast. It’s got to be farther.”

“This fog’s so dense I don’t know how either of you can see.”

“Well, make the judgment call fast, Wormtail. I’m running out of juice. Fuck.”

Remus sits on the floor with his back against his four-poster bed in quite possibly the messiest room in Gryffindor Tower. He’s drunk out of his mind — so drunk that the only things he’d actually rely upon himself to recall accurately are the following three facts: a) he is indeed seventeen years old, b) he is a werewolf, and c) Sirius Black and James Potter are currently standing on a windowsill overlooking the Hogwarts grounds with Peter Pettigrew’s head wedged between their hips. Standing, yes, but pissing is more accurate. And Sirius has got his arse out, though it seems that nobody in the room but Remus — albeit mentally — will acknowledge that it is completely unnecessary to get out one’s arse while having a piss.

“Honestly, I think this one goes to Sirius,” Peter says, then retreats three steps backward beyond the boundaries of a Sirius-versus-James tussle.

“Yes!” Sirius shouts, voice hoarse with adolescent triumph, and when his hands shoot victoriously into the air, his trousers drop to pool at his ankles.

James glares, already tucked back into his own trousers by the time he hops off the windowsill. “This is the last time I drink a whole pitcher of pumpkin juice before nine and reroute all my paths to class to avoid Evans ‘cos I know she’d make me piss my pants on first glance.”

“So that’s why you went upstairs to get to Potions,” Peter murmurs thoughtfully.

“So that’s why Evans was in such a good mood today!” Sirius grins. The victory smacks to his bum complete, he tugs his trousers back up and sits down. Now that the imminent threat of drunken plummeting from the tower has passed, Remus lifts his wand to shoot a poorly aimed, only half-successful, mumbled Colloportus at the window behind Sirius. On the floor beside Sirius’ feet rests a rather rickety gramophone that Sirius claims is from the depths of the Potters’ basement and had been the reason for his return to Hogwarts earlier that week with an armful of secondhand records in addition to his trunk. Muggle music, Moony. Blew my mind. Remus looks on as Sirius uses his wand to subtly raise the volume of some Led Zeppelin track that Remus doesn’t particularly like and thinks is a bit of a cliché, but he snorts fondly nevertheless.

“She was not,” James argues vehemently. Then his eyes flicker to Remus, lined by worry for all of them to see. “Was she?”

“Yes,” says Sirius. His eyes fixate imploringly on Remus. Remus, who knows that James’ heart has developed a shell of protection against Sirius’ taunts but is more fragile than it seems, who knows that James looks to him for truth and honesty at those times that he gets to being so heartsick that he’s willing to ‘emasculate’ himself in their eyes. Remus raises a brow at Sirius, scoffs, and then lets his head loll so he’s looking at James.

“Not any more than usual. Actually, she seemed rather secondhand-distressed because Alice was in a mood for reasons I accidentally overheard —”

Sirius scoffs and pushes himself off the windowsill, socked feet landing against the wooden floor with a graceful, almost-soundless thump. “Reasons that he accidentally overheard but shan’t share,” he finishes for Remus as he approaches him. And Remus wrinkles his nose, but this doesn’t stop Sirius from delivering an enthusiastic tousle to his hair before leaping directly over Remus and onto Remus’ bed. “That’s our Moony, ever the picture of virtue,” Remus hears from above. As he glances upward, he finds Sirius’ head poking out over the edge of the mattress, his chin resting against folded arms. “I’d venture to guess that Longbottom did something daft.”

Remus’ eyes roll and he reaches over to drag the illicit Firewhisky bottle from underneath his own bed. "It’s the safest place to stash shit, Moony, in case a prefect comes in. They’ll never suspect you." "I’m the eldest Gryffindor prefect, Sirius. And James is Head Boy. Who else would come in here and do a bloody room check?" "I don’t know, Remus. That Ravenclaw prefect Murray skeeves me out." Remus often grew too weary to dissent. 

“You do realize, Sirius, that not all girls’ problems revolve around boys?” Remus mutters as he takes a generous swig from the handle. It burns less, but it tastes worse than the first time that night. He’s still boneless and aching and weary a couple of nights after August’s late full moon — it’d been a particularly bad night — and the whisky dulls some of that. That’s the reasoning he gives himself so Thursday-evening-drinking doesn’t sound so pathetic, at least. He’d never been much of a drinker prior to sixth year, and they’ve not even been at Hogwarts for a week, but it seems that this last year, an era of seniority, shall be forever marked in their memories by egregious amounts of smuggled alcohol and pot.

Sirius waits a beat to respond — it’s evident that he’s waiting on moral support in this argument he’s inadvertently started with Remus, but James is hunched over his nightstand, rolling a joint, and Peter will not by any means come to either of their aid. He prefers to remain the Switzerland among them. “I’m shocked and upset, Moony, that you would even venture to think that I should be so close-minded.” James gives a loud snort from his nightstand. Remus watches, with his chin tilted upward, as Sirius eyes James sullenly, and then those sparkling, gray eyes fixate on Remus once again. “That was a harmless statement. Harmless. All I meant was that Frank Longbottom is a knob.”

“You said on the first night here that Frank was your favorite Gryffindor,” James mutters, back to them, words sounding vaguely hurt.

“Indeed I did. A knob must surround oneself with knobs, else said knob may discover the true extent of his knobliness and be tempted to correct his knobly behaviors. Hence… all of you.”

Much to Remus’ shock, James offers the joint to Peter first and even lights it for him. Peter takes a hit, and that glazed look falls over his eyes rather quickly. “Oneself? Or knobself?” Peter murmurs.

Sirius jabs a finger in Peter’s direction. Remus’ eyes follow it all the way to the very fingertip. Sirius notices this, smirks mindlessly down at Remus as he says, “That’s the spirit, Pete.”

Through plumes of smoke as he sags onto his bed, James grumbles, “I’ve got no spirit.”

“That’s because you’re a depressing piece of shit,” Sirius responds brightly. “I mean, mate, I know I shouldn’t’ve let you get your hopes up over the summer with your Head-Boy-on-Head-Girl fantasies — some of which I even partook in narrating for you, my apologies, I can’t help it if I’m a brilliant storyteller — but she’s yet to have her grand realization. I’ll give her, say, a couple more days, but I refuse to let your mopey arse drag us two steps back when it is imperative that we take twenty steps forward in making this final year…” He searches for the word, squinting into a far distance no one else can see.

“Bitchin’?” suggests Peter, picking at his cuticles and then reaching for James’ proffered joint again.

“An enormous, inescapable fucking mess?” says Remus, which earns him a painful tousle to his hair from above. “Ow.”

James begins, “The last of my short, loveless life —”

“Bitchin’ is good, Pete,” Sirius interrupts as he rolls his eyes at the collective. “Sometimes, Wormy, I feel like you’re the only one who understands me.”

Firewhisky drips from the corner of Remus’ mouth as he finishes with a swig of it, and he’s bringing his hand up to catch those droplets when he feels Sirius’ fingers card into his hair on both sides, fingertips kneading against his scalp. Remus smiles faintly against the back of his hand as he wipes his cheek, and he’d look up, but that’d mean distracting Sirius from the heavenly tasks of his hands. “Unlike Moony over here,” Sirius adds.

“What’ve we got tomorrow?” James mutters.

“Herbology in the morning,” Sirius answers. “Then Arithmancy for this one.” Remus blinks blearily and groans out a chuckle when Sirius’ nails bite into his head as he knuckles down. “Double Potions after lunch. Thought you would’ve memorized it by now, Jamesy, as I know for a fact that you have mentally categorized the hours of the day at which you’ll see Evans and the hours at which you can wank over Evans.”

James wrinkles his nose. “Haven’t been able to wank since the first day of Potions, when you not only overheated the flobberworm mucus, but ladled it onto my hand.”

Peter snorts loudly. Sirius’ hands are gone from Remus’ hair, then, having undoubtedly left it messier than before.

“Correction: you walked into my ladle.”

“Wait, Herbology?” Peter sits upright from where he’d been lying prone, bats panicked, beady eyes at Sirius and Remus. “I haven’t done the two feet on Beaumont Marjoribanks!”

James huffs. “Who even assigns homework the first week? Sprout’s off her rocker.”

The frame of the bed creaks against Remus’ back as Sirius rolls around on top of it. What he’s doing up there, Remus isn’t entirely sure, but he does know that it’s his own bed, and as much as sleeping on a bed fondled by someone who’s just declared himself champion of a pissing contest should sound unappealing, Remus really doesn’t think he minds. Sirius says from above, “Better start researching now, Pete. I hear Marjoribanks was an enthusiastic cultivator of Cannabis sativa, so perhaps you could open with an anecdote about your personal experiences.”

Remus scoffs. “He’s lying.”

“That’s a first,” says James.

That’s when Peter begins to give Remus that look. Before Remus can launch into an angry-drunk lecture about how exploiting him for his homework assignments should be reserved for genuine emergencies, Sirius laughs and bounces off Remus’ bed. “Don’t even try, Pete. I don’t know where he’s stashing it this year. Could be under the floor tiles in the prefects’ bathroom, for all I know. I only looked under a couple.” Sirius meets Remus’ eyes and gives him a covert smirk as he passes by him, presumably on his way to his own bed. Remus shakes his head, caps the whisky bottle and shoves it back under his bed. He knows that Sirius loves to play at being a slacker, at whining for his homework the way Peter does, but it simply isn’t as convincing to Remus as it seems to be to the others.

“I’ll be up all night! You know I’m a slow writer!” Peter looks helplessly at Sirius’ retreating back, and then at James. “James?”

“Haven’t done it yet.” James rolls onto his side and yawns. “I’ll do it in the morning.”

Remus rises, wobbling slightly on his feet. How you all made it to NEWT-level anything is beyond me, he wants to say, but he knows that would only be voicing the tiny, jealous inner self that wishes he too could wait for the very last minute to effortlessly throw together an assignment and pass with flying colors, like James, or with less-flying, more-graceless-flapping but acceptable colors like Sirius. So instead, he crawls onto his bed fully-clothed, and, because even dickheads sometimes have mercy the gramophone crackles to a freezing-charmed stop.

***

“It’s not that I hate him. Or either of them, really. I just think Black’s an entitled scumbag, which about sums up every story relayed to me by all the girls he’s slept with, and that Potter is even dumber than he looks. I’d overestimated him, evidently, prior to our being honored as Head Girl and Boy, because he’s given my expectations a run for their money these past few weeks,” Lily Evans mutters as she lowers the flame below her and Remus’ shared cauldron. Remus’ eyebrow disappears beneath the mess of his fringe as he continues to carefully pluck the leaves from a sprig of peppermint and pile them onto the table, dropping the remaining flowers into a mortar. When Lily looks up at him, he can’t help but suppress a wry smile, which she mirrors. Sirius knows and embraces his reputation, at the very least. He’ll have to find another time and way to redeem James in Lily’s eyes, however, because she continues to speak.

“I’m aware they’re your friends, Remus. I still don’t know why, because you’re wonderful, and I think there will always be a little part of me that resents that little part of you that is tethered to them, but —”

“Lily, my dear girl!” Slughorn booms as he rounds on their bench, fingertips tucked into the tiny pockets on the vest stretched across his massive belly. “How are we today? That flame looks just right — you don’t want it too hot.”

Remus picks up the pestle and leans his hip into the bench, grinding up the delicate flowers. He observes, from the corners of his eyes, as Gryffindors and Slytherins near and far attempt to peer around Slughorn’s voluminous frame to check the size of their flame.

“Quite well, thank you, Professor,” Lily says, voice an octave higher and three tones softer than it’d been seconds ago. She smiles, eyes sparkling emerald. Slughorn leans over to murmur into her ear, and after another red-cheeked smile, he’s off to reprimand Peter and Dorcas for what is very nearly a dangerous conflagration, Mr. Pettigrew!

Remus lowers the mortar with the crushed peppermint to the table just as Lily pours the water into their cauldron. “What was that about?”

“Slug Club shit,” she sighs, casting a look about the room and then clasping onto the edge of the lab bench as she waits for the water to warm. Remus sprinkles in the peppermint. “Anyway, where were we? I was deriding you for your unfortunate choice of friends, wasn’t I?”

Remus laughs weakly, runs a minty-smelling fingertip along the page in their textbook to find the next ingredient. “That you were.”

“Oh, Remus. I mean everything I say in the very best way.” She squeezes the middle of his arm and catches his eye. “You’re the best of them by far.” She releases him, stirs the contents of their cauldron. “I don’t think I’m at all upset with this partner switcheroo. I actually think we both picked the right end of the stick.”

Remus frowns thoughtfully. “And why is that?” He feels as if he’s half-present, as if his focus keeps shifting across the room to where Sirius has got his arms folded over the lab bench, head down as he drools all over it, and James is gazing fretfully into their smoking cauldron. Remus has hardly an excuse yet; they’re brewing Amortentia as review for NEWTs, but he doesn’t believe anyone’s reached a successful brew just yet. There aren’t any fumes messing with him. This is all him.

A week into the new school year, Peter had pulled Remus aside after their first Potions class. He’d begged, quite literally begged for Remus to convince Lily into their swapping partners. Her and Dorcas Meadowes, he and Remus. There had been begging, lots of it, and some rather disturbing talk of how Dorcas had truly blossomed over the summer and Peter simply had to be her Potions partner, because how else would he ever have an in, Remus? And Evans really likes you. Remus’ eyes flit up to Dorcas and Peter, and if he had to venture a guess as to how their potion is coming along, he’d say that the peeved look on Dorcas’ face and the state of Peter’s forever-running mouth as well as the sweat soaking his forehead really speak for themselves.

“Well, we’re both top of our class, you and I,” Lily states, observing their potion for a beat before tossing the whole peppermint leaves in. “And, well. Dorcas is…”

Remus snorts, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “Are we going to maliciously gossip about your friends now, too?”

“Remus Lupin!” Lily gasps, gaping at him and gently smacking his shoulder, which is just below eye level for her. Then she punches that same spot, but gently. “My words were not malicious. I hardly think you’d find anyone in our year, or in this school, as a matter of fact, who wouldn’t agree with my assessment of Potter and Black. And I would never gossip about my own friends. Grab that powdered Moonstone, will you? It’s just… Well. You don’t know? That Dorcas is…?”

Remus hands over the small container of Moonstone, reaches for the stirrer to be ready for when Lily adds it into their amalgamation. “Do you… Would you like me to guess?” He chuckles hesitantly. “I, er. I suppose I’ll start at the beginning of the alphabet, so… er, is she anemic?”

Lily rolls her eyes, spoons in some Moonstone, gestures for Remus’ anti-clockwise stir. “I guess you really don’t know, then,” she says under her breath, “that she likes girls?” Her brows raise a second before Remus’ do. Dorcas is gay. Instead of breathing, Remus emits a wheezing sort of noise, and Lily’s smile is wry as she prods at his wrist to prompt another triple-anti-clockwise stir. He obliges. “It’s not a secret, not really. Everybody in the girls’ dormitory knows, and most of the blokes, too. Except, I suppose, you and Pettigrew.” When Remus still hasn’t said anything, has only stirred their concoction in a half-conscious way, Lily jabs him in the side with her elbow. “You didn’t, like, like her or something, did you, Remus?” she queries quietly, now so close that he can feel their hips brush. Or, rather, her hip against his thigh. Then, though Remus isn’t even looking in her direction, her aura seems to go dark. “Or do you have a problem with lesbians? Or homosexuals in general?”

Remus almost upturns their cauldron when he jumps. “No!” he squawks, his hands in the air in surrender, then falling to the top of his head, at which point he looks at Lily, who merely appears confused now. “No,” he says, a bit quieter, and clears his throat. “No, I’m… I suppose I’m just surprised.” He coughs, gesturing with a bony hand at the rose thorns by Lily’s hand on the bench. “And, y’know, that’s bad luck for Pete. You should — should put the thorns in, while there’s still a, uh. A slight vortex in the liquid.”

Lily assesses him with an unreadable smile, then does as he recommends without batting an eye. “Alright, Remus. Calm down.” She then smoothes out the crumpled page of Remus’ worn textbook.

Remus’ antsy fingers drum against the lab bench. “You didn’t… think to mention that? About Dorcas? When we were trying to — facilitate this whole thing?”

Lily’s chin tips upward when she looks at him again. “No?” she says, drawing out the vowel, and her thin eyebrows furrow curiously. “I thought you knew, Remus.” Her head cocks to the side. “Or did you not want to be my Potions partner?”

Remus, half in fear of offending her and the rest in fear of upsetting James, feels his insides pulled in seven different directions at once. “I — Oh, oh. Of course I wanted to be your partner. And I still do.”

Lily smiles. “Good.” She pulls the stirrer from their cauldron. “I suppose we just let it sit now. The other ingredients don’t go in until next week.” She hums, taps her red-painted nails against the table. “I wonder when it’ll start producing its aroma.”

Remus exhales what feels like his entire body’s capacity in air, and then leans over to sniff the cauldron. “Certainly not yet. Smells like wet dog,” he mutters, and it’s out of his mouth before he can catch himself. The slap of a palm across his lips doesn’t do much to explain for Lily everything that is very, very wrong with that statement, but she doesn’t ask.

Lily laughs. “Surely not! All we added was peppermint and Moonstone,” she says, and then moves onto her tiptoes herself to catch a whiff. She warily meets Remus’ eyes after a brief silence. “You may be right. Smells quite like — like. Boy sweat. Body odor.” She shivers, covers their cauldron with a silk cloth. “I’m off to the toilet. Show Slughorn that we’ve finished in case he asks, yeah?” Her auburn ponytail swishes through the air between them as she turns on the ball of her foot.

Remus nods to her though she can’t see. He gnaws on his lower lip, and his eyes inevitably find themselves back on Dorcas Meadowes. It seems that Peter has given up on his incessant babbling and now is rapidly stirring their potion in the clockwise direction, the poor soul. Dorcas cranes across the space between her bench and that of Marlene and Alice, and the trio bursts into a raucous laughter that has Slughorn’s immediate attention. As Remus swallows, fingers twisting together as he tries to wrap his mind around this new discovery, his gaze roams the room to find that James and Sirius are mid-conversation, though Sirius interrupts this to pull a face at Remus when they lock eyes. Sirius then jabs his thumb in James’ direction, supposedly mouthing something that Remus could never in hell understand from the exaggerated way he’s going about it. His smile is perplexed as James shoves Sirius’ fist away and the latter surrenders. Remus can, at the very least, catch what he mouthes then. Later, Moony.

*** 

“James is jealous,” Sirius says when Remus meets him and James out in the hallway. They idle outside the classroom door — Peter had managed to knock over his entire Moonstone vessel in the effort of carrying his cauldron to storage, and must hang back to clean it up.

Sirius’ voice comes out slightly labored, and Remus comes quickly to realize this is because he’s got James on his back, who has his arms circled loosely around Sirius’ neck.

“Oh, come off it,” mutters James.

“You two were really hitting it off, Moony. You and Evans,” Sirius states.

“I am not jealous. Evans would never go for Moony, anyway. He’s not her type.” James shrugs as he looks at Remus, jostled slightly when Sirius adjusts his grip on his legs. He gives Remus a pointed look. “You’re not her type, mate.”

Sirius butts James in the face with the literal back of his head. “And you are?”

James scowls and rubs at his nose, eyelashes batting against the glasses that have been smushed into his face. Remus knows what he’s about to say, so he lifts a finger to silence him. “Lily would never have agreed to switch partners if it’d been you in my shoes. Sorry, but it wasn’t going to happen anyway.” He snorts, attempts to not take James’ harmless jibes to heart, and shakes his head as he looks between the faces of Sirius and James. “Why are you up there?”

“I lost a bet,” Sirius grumbles, turning and taking James with him when he spots Peter emerging from the Potions classroom. “Said I’d give Pete five minutes ‘til he repulsed Dorcas with a fart joke. Prongs was generous, gave him eight. Ended up being fourteen, which means we were both quite off. But still, His Majesty’s feet can’t touch the ground for the next half hour.”

James extends his hand to offer his fist for Peter to pound as he catches up to them. “I had faith in you, boss.”

Pete returns the contextless fist bump without question, though the forlornness on his face doesn’t fade as he gazes out at the hallway before them with empty eyes. “That could’ve gone better.”

Remus claps a hand onto Peter’s shoulder, rubs gently. “It’s not you, Pete. It’s — she’s —,” he cuts himself short, hesitating. The last thing he wants to do is be a gossip. But Lily said most everyone in Gryffindor knows, didn’t she? And, now that he’s gone and stuttered, Sirius’ gaze is keenly fixed on him, so keen that he almost plows over a passing second-year Hufflepuff with his own weight times two.

“What do you know, Moony?” asks Sirius.

“She’s, er.” Remus lowers his voice. “She’s a lesbian.”

Peter’s face flushes pink, James blinks blankly. Sirius’ face floods with a mixture of shock and delight. “No fucking way!” he breathes hoarsely. “Meadowes is a muff muncher?” The cogs in his brain turn visibly, and he then squints at Remus. “Yeah, er, no fucking way that’s true. Her and I, we played tonsil hockey plenty last spring.”

James cackles, close to losing his balance for all of his clapping. If he hadn’t caught himself, Sirius definitely would not have. “Some reputation you must’ve given the male sex in her eyes, Pads. Well done.”

“She enjoyed it!” Sirius protests. At the silence that follows, he huffs. “I believe she enjoyed it. I got a blowjob out of it. Once.”

Remus exhales a sigh, claps a hand on Peter’s shoulder again. “My point is, Pete, that you’re fighting a losing battle, and it’s not your fault, necessarily.”

“It’s the fart jokes’ fault,” James says.

“That woman is not a bean flicker,” says Sirius under his breath.

“Someone’s in denial,” James chuckles, and Sirius releases him. Peter is there, a step behind, to catch him before he plummets to the floor — not out of chivalry, but just inadvertently in the way — and James sputters as he rights himself using Peter as a handrail.

“His Majesty can now go fuck himself,” Sirius replies graciously, turning to walk backwards and bow in James’ direction, who responds to the gesture with a distasteful look.

“Knobself,” giggles Peter, though airily, as if he’s still got Dorcas Meadowes on the mind.

“Yeah, well, if I go fuck myself for the rest of the night, I suppose that means you all won’t want to hear what I know of the big news Dumbledore’s to share at tonight’s dinner,” James retorts haughtily, fingers fiddling with the Head Boy badge on his robes.

Sirius, still meandering backwards down the hall like the bird at the point of their vee formation, naturally commands a parting in the sea of underclassmen swarming through the hallway around them. He pauses in his step, at which point Remus rams right into him unthinkingly. “Whoa, Moony,” hums Sirius, straightening him out by the shoulders and giving him a gentle pat to one cheek. He winks, and Remus laughs, breathy and faint, but the shining spotlight of Sirius’ attention is cast on James before Remus can realize the moment has passed him right over. “What’re you on about? Am I to believe they’d trust you and Evans with something of actual consequence?”

“Well, no,” James mutters. They’ve formed a circle in the center of the hallway, and Remus readily awaits for James to spill something of the they’re switching out treacle tart for fresh fruit at dessert or the I saw a flash of Lily’s bra strap the other day and it is now confirmed she owns two bras in different shades of light blue variety. But James hooks an arm around Peter’s shoulders and the other around Remus’, nodding for Sirius to continue down the hall. “I’m not sure they trust me with anything, for that matter. I think the professors just don’t want to deal with the first years themselves. But, I do overhear things.”

Sirius’ eyes gleam with intrigue, or perhaps it’s their silvery reflection of the flaming wall sconces. He skips backwards without tripping once on the hem of his robes, palms pressed with dramatic flair to his chest. “Out with it, then. Put this man out of his curious misery, Jamesy.”

***

Sirius and Remus stroll side by side into the Great Hall. It having only been just about five days, it’s still a welcome sight and feeling for Remus to enter the endless room, to be ensconced by the warmth of too many kids, too much food, and too many candles in an illusorily infinite evening sky. James is several paces ahead of them, though already late for the time at which McGonagall had demanded that he and Lily be present at dinner to instruct the particularly rowdy new class of first years in table manners and anti-food-fight etiquette.

“There’s no way James is telling the truth,” Sirius is saying. “It’d be… That’d be just ridiculous, don’t you think, Moony? And think of the odds! We’re just about to bust out of here in less than a year’s time, and now, in our seventh year, is when the higher powers decide it’s due time to torture us with this year-long, overly grandiose, cosmopolitan event that does nothing to promote inter-school unity but only further divides us?”

Remus hears the words — they don’t go in one ear and out the other, but they go in and stew and he finds himself rather incapable of formulating a response as they traipse past Dorcas Meadowes, flanked by Marlene and Alice once again. Because it’s all too obvious that Remus is staring, he and Dorcas make eye contact, and she gives him a friendly smile. He only returns it manically when his brain does realize he’s been caught out.

“Remus!”

He flinches, comes to a stop beside Sirius, who’s giving him an expectant look, and, oh, there’s an empty spot on the bench that he’s pointing to, and… right. He should sit. He should do that. “Sorry,” he breathes, stepping over the bench and plonking down.

Sirius sits beside him and swings his legs over the bench. From the corner of his eye, Remus sees Peter rush into the Hall, take the open seat across from him. “What’s with you?” Sirius murmurs, voice lowered, as he gently knocks fisted knuckles against Remus’ temple. “Did you hear a lick of what I said?”

Remus, only then meeting Sirius’ eyes, is a tad shocked to find him so close. In fact, there’s not much room at all to sit comfortably far apart on the benches at all, and it’s only just past six. The news about the mysterious announcement must have traveled fast.

Because he can read Remus’ eyes like a French novel — which Sirius could do with his eyes shut — Sirius smiles wryly and lifts his brows. “It’s a bit cozy, isn’t it?”

“Sirius, would you pass the mash?” Peter asks, extending his arm across the table. Sirius’ eyes leave Remus’ so he can slide the dish to him.

“I heard what you said,” Remus says evenly, wincing when the small third year on his right accidentally digs a pointy elbow into his ribs. “And I — I guess I agree. What I think is the least believable part is that they would bring back the tournament after, what, nearly two centuries?” He watches Sirius dole out mash onto his own plate. “To have even called it off for so long, the circumstances under which they’d ended it must’ve been… you know. Bad.”

“Exactly,” says Sirius, exasperated, and drops a mountain of potato mash onto Remus’ plate. He’s always overfeeding Remus, and Remus hates it just a little, knowing that half of it will go to waste anyway. “I had family here back then, when the tournament was last had. We had newspapers lying around from it. Indelible, the Prophet called it, that cockatrice incident.” He snorts. “I’m sure as hell not dying this year. And death by cockatrice would just be pathetic, wouldn’t it, when there’s some maniac and his psychopathic gang at large out there killing Muggleborns and blood traitors and fucking elves.”

Remus’ brows crease together at the center. In all the time they’ve spent at Hogwarts, though most choose to ignore it while within the seemingly safe walls of the castle, there’s no denying the fizzling undercurrent of tension that is the war on blood supremacy waging far and wide. For all he wastes his time nonsensically, Sirius has, for several years, been incredibly impassioned about what most adults are now calling a war. “The timing is odd,” Remus concedes. “But… Dumbledore is a rational man, I think. He wouldn’t do this if there wasn’t a valid reason for it.” He twiddles his fork between his fingers as he watches Sirius drop a small clump of mash from his mouth and onto the table. “And, well. Hasn’t been confirmed yet. Maybe we’re getting all worked up about nothing —”

A chair at the High Table screeches and echoes through the hall as Albus Dumbledore rises to his feet.

“Shit,” Sirius mutters, leaning back so his mouth is level with Remus’ ear. “Check out the robes on ol’ Dumbledore.”

Remus squints. “Are those red florals? Red isn’t usually his color.”

“Looks baroque to me.”

“How chic.”

Remus catches Sirius’ eyes long enough to see his grin before the ebony curtain of his hair, now just reaching about halfway down his neck, swishes past Remus’ nose.

“Good evening, everyone. This is earlier than I would typically ask for your attention, but it seems that I’ve got everyone on the edges of their seats already, although the cat has yet to leave the bag,” Dumbledore speaks, all steepled fingers and smiles and crescent-shaped, mirthful eyes. McGonagall, seated beside him, frowns at the mention of a cat. “So I thought I would clear the air for this new year so that you all are free to fill your bellies and discuss amongst yourselves your reactions to these updates.

“Firstly, forgive me for being the bearer of bad news, but there shall be no Inter-House Quidditch Cup this year. Quidditch teams —”

“What?” yawps James from near the High Table, so sharply that it echoes throughout the Hall. He and Lily are seated on opposite ends of the head of the Gryffindor table, snug between rowdy first years. Lily’s eyes narrow and dart to James, but he doesn’t notice, his arms lifted in outrage as his sentiment is joined by parroting, dissatisfied murmurs.

“Do let me finish, Mr. Potter.” Dumbledore chuckles. “Indeed, there shall be no Inter-House Quidditch Cup this year. Recreational Quidditch teams will be headed by current House captains, which I encourage you to join if you fancy some flying and off-hours scrimmaging, but as Hogwarts must reallocate time and resources toward alternate events this year, we are rendered helpless in the face of this issue. I do apologize, and hope that this next announcement will be of some consolation… and a source of much excitement for us all.

“This year, Hogwarts has the honor of hosting the first Triwizard Tournament in a hundred and eighty-five years.”

“Fuck,” whispers Sirius. Peter drops his knife to his plate with a loud clang, though it’s followed by a cacophony of similar sounds. Remus is already looking tentatively at Sirius by the time the latter’s eyes roll to him.

“Yes, yes, you heard me correctly. And although I’m sure some of you have heard the tales, perhaps know someone who knew someone who knew someone who knew someone who participated in that very final tournament, please allow me to shed some light on the event for those who have not, and confirm for those who have…” Dumbledore goes on; international cooperation, competition and interaction that leads to friends made for life, challenging tasks, social events, a thousand galleons in prize money and historical glory for one of three champions.

“He’s mad,” an alarmed Peter says around a mouthful of chicken, trembling slightly. Sirius has also got his mouth full of chicken, but he’s yet to say a word that isn’t fuck. “What did he do this summer? He must have gone mad.”

“Maybe he spent the summer in San Francisco,” Sirius mutters once he’s swallowed, smirking faintly down at his hands. “Hippy life? Dropped some acid?”

Remus sighs. “You can elect to not participate, Pete,” he says. “Can’t say I disagree with you, though.”

“… And because of that very death toll, and also to shake up some antiquated traditions long-since set in stone, some changes will be in effect for this upcoming year’s tournament,” Dumbledore continues.

“Here we go,” Sirius whispers through a chuckle, lifting one leg over the bench so he’s straddling it. Remus’ eyes rest on the back of his neck before they flicker back to Dumbledore.

“Traditionally, the tournament is held between the world’s three largest schools of magic — Hogwarts, Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, and Durmstrang Institute. However, in our efforts to broaden the scope of the student wizard companionship we seek to promote, we shall be venturing beyond the borders of Europe this year. Durmstrang Institute has elected not to participate, and in their place, we will welcome the students of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to Hogwarts, in addition to those of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.” The volume of the hushed conversations in the captive audience rises considerably, but Dumbledore trudges on in his lofty tones. “And lastly, to ensure that the elective participation and responsibility taken on by champions is understood and enforced, students below the age of seventeen shall be barred from participating.” A hush follows, as if everyone is trying to catch that last word that they’d missed, but a loud, angry clamor ensues. For instance, a very strongly Irish WHAT THE FUCKITY FUCK? I’D HAVE WON THE SHIT OUT OF THAT is hooted directly into Remus’ ear. “I hope,” Dumbledore says, voice rising above the indignation of hundreds of overconfident students, “that you all will join me in hospitably welcoming the students of Beauxbatons and Ilvermorny to Hogwarts on Hallowe’en’s eve. That will be all for now. More is to come.” He taps his fingertips together anticlimactically, then gestures vaguely to them all. “You may recommence dining.”

Remus turns back toward his mash-filled plate, at which point an intrusive weight attempts to squeeze into the nonexistent spot between him and Sirius. “Did you all hear that? Did you hear that? No Quidditch. Fucking ridiculous. This year’s gonna be a shitshow,” James grumbles, his forehead now glued to the table and his arse halfway on Sirius’ lap because there is simply no room for the rest of him.

“News to me,” Remus mutters, picking up his fork.

He receives a side-eyed glare from the table below. “This is not the time, Moony.” James sits up like a rod, then, and Sirius tousles the back of his shaggy hair consolingly. “No fucking Quidditch. This just — Evans likes Quidditch players. She practically drools whenever Shacklebolt does that fancy thing of his with his Beater’s bat. This was going to be my year — I was to be co-captain! And now, Dumbledore’s ripped my plan to shreds —”

Sirius chuckles and rests his elbow against the table, chin upon his fist. “Maybe you should become the Hogwarts champion, Prongsy. If your poor showering habits aren’t enough to nab her, perhaps it’s time you move on toward fame and glory.” Remus watches Sirius around the mess that is James’ hair, watches as he gestures with a piece of chicken speared onto his fork. “Another option is beefing up, though I hear Shacklebolt’s training routine is rough.”

James blinks, then looks slowly ahead, as if he’s staring directly through Peter, who’s alone on the bench across from them. “That’s not a bad idea,” he murmurs eventually.

Sirius continues to examine the chicken on his fork with narrowed eyes until, Remus supposes, he’s considered it appetizing enough to stick into his mouth. “That was a joke, James. That’s too much self-discipline for you to handle. And, if you’re actually able to beef up to his level, it’d be rather funny, I think, because then you’d be small and beefy. No potion will help you permanently grow a foot taller.”

“Not the — not the beefing,” James huffs and shakes his head. He has to push his glasses back up his nose. “I’ll enter into the tournament. I’ll be the Hogwarts champion.” A smile grows on his face and he nods slowly. “I’ll be the fucking champion.”

“I was thinking about entering, too,” Peter says, and Remus rolls his eyes toward him. For all of his redeeming qualities, Peter has never seemed to grow out of his insatiable need to impress the rest of them, James in particular.

Meanwhile, Sirius spits out a piece of chicken as he laughs aloud at James’ words. A bit of it hangs off the corner of his lip as his head whips toward James. “Triwizard champion? You’re shitting me.”

“James, it’s not…” Remus starts, eyes searching the room for Lily’s easily-spottable cascade of red hair. When he finds her, sternly supervising as two Hufflepuff first years at the next table over clean up the mess they’ve made of their pudding on the table and one another’s faces, she glances up to meet his eyes with a little smile and a wave of her hand. Remus swallows, at least half-returns the smile. “This tournament isn’t a joke. Entering to impress a girl is probably the worst reason —”

Sirius interjects, “Yeah, damn. One girl? Shit, mate, if you won that tournament, you’d have every girl. No time for just Evans. Even the French half-veelas from Beauxbatons, not to mention all the American girls —”

Remus scoffs, leans onto the table with his elbows to try and commandeer the conversation again. “Shut up, Sirius. It’s dangerous. People have died in this tournament. And… And Lily and I are becoming rather good friends. There are other ways, James, to impress her. I could talk you up a bit.” 

Sirius licks his lips and frowns. “I seem to have jumped too quickly to conclusions about this tournament. Think of all the French fanny…“

“Don’t be such a worry-wart, Remus. They’re bringing the tournament back over a century after people died. They’ve probably revised it, tightened the rules on it, er, ruled out the deadly creatures,” James says thoughtfully, then smirks. “Shit, who knows. What if it’s easy? I’ll crush the damn thing.”

Remus, palms flat on the table, back stiff and lips pursed, glances toward Peter in hopes of finding understanding or some sort of common ground. Peter simply looks apologetic as he pours himself a second glass of pumpkin juice.

“Fuck’s sake,” sighs Remus and slinks off the bench, leaving his plate untouched. The clicks of his heels die into the hubbub of the Great Hall as he strides toward the door.

“Oh, come on, Moony,” he hears James call. And Remus has just made it out of the Hall when warm, strong hands clasp onto his shoulders from behind and a solid chest bumps into the slight hunch of his back as — yes, he can already tell who it is — Sirius’ momentum slows.

“Astronomy Tower?” he murmurs directly into Remus’ ear, sending a turbulent shiver down his spine. They continue walking in sync, just with Sirius hanging onto Remus’ back.

Remus shakes his head. “I’ve got work to do.”

“Bring it with you.”

***

Remus sits with his back against the cool stone, textbook cracked open in his lap, parchment rolled out on the floor by his thigh, ready for note-taking. He hadn’t thought this through very well, though, because moonlight isn’t an adequate light to read by. He would need a headlamp at this point to get a thing done. But Remus is already aware of how much Sirius lowers the standard of his decision-making.

Sirius leans against the railing, the one that Professor Alnair always warns them to keep three large steps away from, cigarette between his lips as he lights it with the tip of his wand. Apparently that’s a habit he’s picked up this summer, or so he says. Remus would try to find some fault in it if he wasn’t too distracted by the angle of Sirius’ jaw.

Remus forces his gaze down to his notes. “You’ve really reconsidered the tournament, then?”

Sirius chuckles somewhere in the dark, the planes of his face likely lit up by the soft glow of the moon and the orange burning on the end of his cigarette. “No, Moony. I haven’t changed my mind. I still think it’s an outrageous event, a massive waste of time and resources, yadda yadda. It’s not like I’m entering.”

Remus dips his quill into his pot of ink, scribbles the date in the top right corner. “What was all that with James, then?” He splashes an accidental, black splotch onto his parchment when Sirius drops down in front of him, right by his feet at the end of his long, extended legs. Sirius holds onto Remus’ feet by the tops of his shoes for a moment as he takes a fingerless drag from the cigarette, and he leaves one there as he reaches up to pluck it from his mouth and exhale a white puff of smoke. Remus observes through his eyelashes, holds his breath.

“I dunno. I mean, fat chance he’ll actually be picked, so. I don’t see why he shouldn’t go for it,” Sirius murmurs.

Remus snorts. “Why don’t you, then? For the French fanny?”

Sirius’ smile is audible in his voice as Remus stares at the textbook — it’s nothing but gibberish on paper to him. “You propose a convincing argument, Remus, but believe it or not, I can bathe in French fanny even if I’m not a champion. The Beauxbatons students will live here. In the castle.” He tuts his tongue. “It’s just too easy. Why would I want the added stress of surviving three outlandish tasks?”

Remus breathes out sharp and short from his nose, tries to shake his head in disapproval, but he’s fairly certain it comes off as amusement. “I’m just glad you’re not entering,” he says.

“Nonsense, Moony. What would you all do without me if I died?” There’s a beat of silence that Remus suspects is filled by cigarette-puffing, confirmed by the acrid smell that follows seconds later. “James’ head would get too big and he’d just float right off. Peter would help with that. You would go off and find bigger and better people to spend time with.” He squeezes the top of Remus’ foot. “Can’t have that.”

Chapter Text

“I hereby call this meeting of the Marauders, Les Messieurs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, to order,” Sirius says loudly, arms linked behind his back as he paces the room in nothing but his underwear.

Remus winces at the volume.

“I thought we agreed before we left for the summer not to call ourselves that anymore,” says Peter, voice muffled underneath the weight of a book resting against his face. He’s lying on his bed, fingers laced over his chest like he’s a corpse in a coffin. “It’s lame.”

Sirius’ hand goes to his heart, and he whirls so fast in place to face Peter that his black locks whip across his eyes and get caught on the bridge of his nose. “I don’t recall having a meeting in which we, as a democratic congregation, agreed upon this newfound lameness of our collective moniker.”

“Good god, Sirius, shut up,” James groans. “You’re messing with my concentration.” He’s also horizontal on his bed, repeatedly tossing and catching a Snitch in the air above him. “And if we never agreed on the lameness factor, when the hell did we agree on having this meeting? There is no meeting. We all just happen to live here and be present in this dorm because it’s nearly midnight and we’ll be skinned if we’re found anywhere else.” He wrinkles his nose. “And I can’t even be arsed to get out my cloak.”

Sirius, with a pout on his lips, meanders toward James’ bed. He stops at the foot of it, curls his fingers around James’ bare ankles, and dodges the fussy kick he receives in retaliation. “And here lies poor, poor Jamesy, entrenched in the misery of unrequited love and a Quidditch-less year.” He sighs dramatically. “Everyday, in his wallowing, he becomes more and more of a bloody arsehole, infecting everyone around him with his negativity.”

James can’t really refute that point, so he continues to fidget with the Snitch and resolutely ignore Sirius.

“I thought so.” Sirius smiles and unhands James, his hands returning to his hips as he takes those few steps back to the biggest clearing of floorspace in their room, which is still cluttered by discarded clothes and chocolate wrappers — a number of which Remus himself has contributed to, unfortunately. Sirius’ thumbs sink into the soft, pale flesh at his hips, and Remus lets himself look. If Sirius notices, he’ll pretend he’s looking at his jocular excuse for underwear — some novelty shit he’d bought over the summer, white with red and black aces, spades, hearts and clubs dotting the fabric. “If it’s a reason for this meeting that you want, just look around you, men. Look at — him.” Sirius points his forefinger at James. “Do you hear this? Can’t be arsed to get out his cloak of invisibility. Is a prat to anyone who so much as utters a word directed to him.” He shakes his head, chest heaving with even, calm breaths. His torso is slightly more defined than Remus recalls it being three months ago; he has, after all, memories to corroborate it. He couldn’t count up to the number of times he’s seen Sirius in the nude.

Sirius carries on, “James Potter’s life, as it seems, has no meaning without Quidditch. It’s already got less meaning without the elusive Lillian Evans —”

“It’s just Lily,” James mutters.

“— That’s what I said. As I was saying, it’s already got less meaning without the elusive Lillian Evans, but he’s lived so long with that hole in his heart that he’s learned to numb the pain. But Quidditch? No competition? No more crushing the hopes and dreams of the most athletic Slytherin House has to offer, those with rocks for brains, and much less kill the joys of their horde of equally rocks-for-brains supporters?”

“Get to the point,” Peter calls. Instead of having copied an Arithmancy formula onto his parchment, Remus finds he’s written rocks for brains.

“Ah, yes. Thank you, Wormtail.” Sirius clears his throat. “Yeah, well, the fucking point is that this year’s already gone to shit and it hasn’t even been two weeks. James can’t get a girl or play Quidditch, Remus could get James’ girl if he really wanted to but he won’t, Pete’s gone after a carpet muncher who just so happens to enjoy the dick of only one Sirius Black, and I’m fucking bored of all this already. We need to do something exciting! Something big! We need to make something of this year! Not — sit around doing Arithmancy.” Sirius wrinkles his nose, gestures at Remus. “Or pretend to be doing Arithmancy.” He looks next at Peter, then scoffs loudly. “Pete, why the hell are you reading an Arithmancy book? You’re not even in the fucking class!”

Peter lifts the book from his face so he can close it and examine the cover. “Oh,” he mutters, blinking sluggishly. “I swear I thought this was for Divination.”

“Thank you for further proving my point. We’re floundering.” Sirius stalks across the space between their four beds, evidently still impassioned to the point of melodrama.

“What do you suggest?” James pipes up.

Sirius turns on the balls of his feet like a ballerina. “I thought you would never ask.” Presumably because it’s the closest, Sirius hops onto Remus’ bed beside him, wiggles to make himself comfortable glued up against his side, an arm now settled around Remus’ neck. “I’m still formulating all the details, what shit we’ll pull, who the victims will be — in addition to Snivellus, of course — but where I believe we should start, men, is money.”

James sighs. “Don’t you remember? The last time I spent my allowance on Dungbombs and Stink Pellets, my ‘rents found out and I didn’t see a single galleon for three months.”

One of Sirius’ fingers digs absentmindedly into Remus’ jugular. He wonders, worriedly, if Sirius can feel the frantic pulse underneath. “That’s exactly why I’m suggesting we start with the money,” Sirius explains, eyes aglimmer.

“Entertaining as it sounds,” says Remus, “we’re not extorting money from first years.”

Sirius smushes his cheek against Remus’ shoulder, peers up at him. “Moony, who do you take me for? Psh, extortion. I would never.” His smirk goes devilish, just for a moment, and Remus really can’t help but shake his head. “We’ll earn our money fair and square. We just need to figure out a minimum viable product. We need to know what the people want — if there’s something we’re able to provide that they want.”

“I’m not selling my body,” says James. Remus’ lips curl up at the corners.

“Nobody’s buying your body,” Sirius mutters, eyes narrowed. “However, it’s not an entirely terrible idea. Not your worst, Prongs.”

“If you’re going to pimp us out, Sirius, we really ought to rethink the whole Marauders thing. Not because it’s lame, but for branding purposes,” Remus says, deciding his Arithmancy homework is lost to the world, at least for that night. “Doesn’t sound very reliable.”

“Why does the thought of Sirius as a pimp not surprise me at all?” James asks the ceiling.

Sirius holds up a hand. “No pimping! We’re — you’re not becoming rent boys overnight! We wouldn’t survive a second in that industry anyway. James’ prick is much too small, and I don’t even wanna talk about Peter’s prick. Moony’s got the prick, but is rather lackluster in the confidence department.”

“As Head Boy, I feel obligated to mention that any direction we could possibly head in from here seems illegal.” James frowns deeply. “And say what you want about my dick, but it’s not small. You just have high standards.”

“Of course I have high standards. The Black family has always been well-endowed in the dick department. Take Bellatrix, for example.” Sirius bites his lower lip hard enough to make the pink skin go white as he grins.

Remus hums at this. “Really? I would’ve picked Andromeda to have the biggest.”

“I could see where you’re coming from, Moony. But Dromeda’s ballsy. She’s got the balls. Bella, though — definitely dick. Pretty sure she pegged Lucius Malfoy before he got together with Cissa.”

“Pegged?” asks Peter with a frown. Remus’ eyes dart to Peter and he shakes his head minutely.

“I don’t see how Bellatrix’s dick is going to make us any gag money,” James snaps.

“Right. Well, this has been both a formative and inspirational conversation, so thank you all for your participation. I’ll think of something. Not pimping, mind you. And I’ll handle everything out of the love in my heart for all of you, and if you decide to join me, so be it, and if not, so be that as well. But. Soon. Mark your calendars. My Get Rich Quick scheme will be in motion.” Sirius claps Remus on the shoulder and slides off his bed.

Peter sits up, lets the Arithmancy book drop to the floor with a series of thuds that makes Remus pity its poor spine and crumpled pages. “Isn’t a Triwizard Tournament enough action for one year? Why are we doing any of this? James’ll be champion. We’ll all have our hands full with that. Haven’t you heard about the past challenges and those obscure clues they give?”

“Merlin’s sake, man! James is not going to be champion!” Sirius laughs as he sprawls backward on his own bed.

“What makes you so sure?” James retorts.

“They choose one. One out of everyone who enters. Think about it. You’ve got the Head Boy thing going on, which, well, yeah, good for you. But against someone like Kingsley, who’s got brains and brawn? Or Evans? Beauxbatons and Ilvermorny will cough up their best.”

“I’d say those are good odds!” Peter argues.

James licks his lips, and across the dimly-lit room, Remus can see his frustration bubbling to the surface. “I’ve got nothing on Lily, that’s for certain. But Shacklebolt? He’s just a big hunk of meat. I’m cleverer than him. I think, Pads, that you’re too scared to enter, so you’re trying to intimidate me out of doing so myself.”

Sirius doesn’t reply, which makes Remus nervous at first. James stares at the figure of him expectantly, infuriated, but Remus thinks he hears Peter swallow. But then, “Arsehole,” mutters Sirius, and without moving anything but his wand with a flick of his wrist, he whips his bed curtains shut.

James is red. “Say that again,” he demands, and his bare feet hit the floor with a dull thud as he whisks the drapes apart.

“You’re a fucking arsehole,” Sirius says, loud that time, as he sits up, lip curled in a snarl, his and James’ faces separated by a mere foot. “Can’t you see I’m just being realistic? Get the fuck out of my face.”

“‘Realistic’ is a funny way of saying you’re scared and jealous that you’ve not got the guts to enter.”

From the corner of Remus’ gaze, Peter gives him a look. Do something.

Remus reacts just fast enough. It’s rather unfair, really, when he shoves James back against the bed and wedges himself between the two of them just as Sirius has finished transforming, foaming, shiny-pink gummy jaws snapping at his newfound target and sinking into his skin. There’s not quite enough room in the dorm to be growing antlers and hooves without permanent damage, so the fight is unequal. Remus tears his wrist from the black dog’s teeth, grits his own teeth against the burn of it as Padfoot cowers back onto Sirius’ bed and James rights himself indignantly.

“Get out of the way, Moony. This’s got nothing to do with you,” James hisses.

“You’re not going to get anywhere acting like five year-olds,” Remus murmurs, eyes them both, and on the latter half of his double take, Sirius is himself again, eyes aflame on James. Remus rolls his eyes. “I beg of you, go to bed.” He rubs at the puncture wound on his wrist, at which point Sirius’ hand darts out to grasp him by the shoulder.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks lowly, eyes great, big pools of silver.

Remus shakes him off. “Go to bed.” As he slinks back toward his own bed, he sees that Peter’s got his covers pulled up over himself. A little help would’ve been nice, he thinks. But he doesn’t hear another peep from the opposing side of the room for the rest of the night.

***

In every class but Potions, James and Sirius are able to avoid each other. They sandwich Remus between them, and James jabbers at Peter while Sirius broods, hardly speaking a word even to Remus or looking his way unless it’s with heavy guilt. Remus isn’t so much angry about the dog bite as he is about Sirius’ childish attitude, necessarily, because Merlin knows he’s banged up Sirius badly enough on full moon nights that it’d take a whole lot more than one bite to make the score even. At meals, James throws himself into his Head Boy responsibilities and stuffs toast whole into his mouth to avoid sitting down with the three of them. Remus attempts to remain unbothered, knowing whatever this is will sort itself out soon — can the bloody tournament just roll around already so they can settle who the bloody champion will be? — but he does worry for their lives when he alone heads to Ancient Runes or Arithmancy, his knee bouncing the entirety of the class periods as vivid images of Sirius strangling James or James knocking Sirius unconscious or head butting him with his terrifying antlers flash through his mind.

But they make it to Potions the following week with tensions still running high. Lily notices it before Remus has a chance to do what Sirius has been begging him to all day.

“Idiots angry with each other are somehow much more amusing than regular people angry with each other,” says Lily as she uncovers their cauldron of Amortentia.

Remus is hit instantly with the heady smell of chocolate, worn leather, and, well. Still wet dog. He exhales shakily only to breathe it back in again, like he’s that seedy bloke huffing glue behind the dingy market in his hometown. Then he blinks, eyes simultaneously alert and entranced by the sensations in his brain darting to Lily. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, biting her lower lip and staring into the cauldron. “Just… talking about those angry idiots over there.” Without looking, she nods toward Sirius and James across the room.

Right. How could he forget? In truth, Remus hadn’t forgotten at all, considering precisely what had been flooding his senses, but the stressful situation at hand — indeed, forgotten. James has his arms folded over the lab bench, clearly unaffected by their batch of Amortentia, glaring intently down at his hands. Sirius leans against the wall, gaze unblinking on the ceiling. Remus wonders vaguely if he’s asleep, because it wouldn’t be the first time Sirius has drifted off with his eyes open. But the moment that James rises to his feet, Sirius twitches, as if on guard for an offensive strike.

“Alright,” crows Slughorn as he shuts the door to the laboratory behind him and toddles toward the students. “I hope your Amortentia has had a nice steep, and that you’ve come in, as instructed, to do your nightly stirrings in the meantime.” Remus resists the urge to snort when James and Sirius simultaneously whip around to look at each other with wide eyes, only to recall their differences and pretend as if this mutual fright about their failure of a potion had never happened, lines of worry and stubbornness creasing again onto their young faces. “The rest of the ingredients shall go in today, after which I will evaluate them and we will move on and toward the next in our review: the Draught of Living Death! Everyone’s favorite.” Slughorn chuckles and a few sycophants force smiles and awkward laughs. Lily appears mildly repulsed, but when Slughorn looks her way, her smile could melt snow.

“Why do you deal with him?” Remus mutters, starting up the flame beneath their cauldron.

Lily sighs. “A recommendation from an accredited Hogwarts professor for the Healer training programme.”

Remus’ lips quirk up faintly at the corners and he opens up his textbook, just before pausing and standing up to his full height again. A glance toward James and Sirius reveals that they haven’t moved. “I… Okay, I know you won’t like this, but it’d be just for one class, or two, at max — I hope — but,” he begins to stutter, eyes trained on Sirius again.

Lily is already cleaning their Ashwinder eggs, wiping their shells gently. “Remus, no. I don’t know which of them made the request, because I wouldn’t be surprised if Black was cross enough with Potter to take me as a partner, but if it was Potter asking, then, well, I wouldn’t be surprised, either.” She drops an egg into their concoction, lifts up the stirrer. “Not going to happen. I’d be more likely to take Severus as a partner than either of them, if only because he’s brilliant at Potions.”

Remus wrinkles his nose, not-quite-fondly recalling fifth year and a certain Slytherin suspended in the air. When Sirius meets his eyes across the room, Remus has to shake his head. And for once, Sirius’ eyes are less guilty and more murderous, but it may be because he turns resolutely to face James, or their shared cauldron, at Remus’ response. “I thought I’d try,” Remus murmurs.

“Oh, boys.” Slughorn’s lilting voice carries from across the room, where he’s standing between Sirius and James. “Your potion has curdled. I’m afraid you’ll have to start anew unless you’d like the failing grade… And even that would only get you to a P at the very best, if your first half of brewing goes well.”

James looks about ready to resign and take the Troll on Amortentia, but Sirius is suddenly up and on his feet.

“No,” he says, and Slughorn is befuddled, uttering a croaked, “Excuse me, Mr. Black?” but Sirius pushes past the weighty man and lopes toward the open storeroom at the back of the class.

Lily places in a second egg, stirs. “This should be interesting.”

“Mr. Black!” Slughorn calls, though Sirius is already hurrying back, precariously hugging several clinking bottles and pots to his chest.

“The fuck are you doing?” James hisses as Sirius edges past him toward their cauldron again. Remus doesn’t believe Slughorn was supposed to hear, but the professor is too preoccupied by Sirius’ bumbling to reprimand him.

“Mr. Black, what is the meaning of this?” Slughorn demands. Remus winces. At this point, he knows all eyes in the room have migrated toward Sirius; even Lily’s as she mindlessly stirs their batch.

“It’s not completely done for,” mutters Sirius as he turns up the heat below their cauldron and uncaps a clear bottle filled with amber liquid. “Castor oil. It’s an ingredient in the Amortentia antidote, but it’ll help with the clotting — just need to separate the solidified Moonstone from the rose thorns’ resin, and they’re, er, lipophilic, so they’ll take kindly to the oil, meld all together again.” Slughorn’s eyes are bugging and his hands are curled against his chest like those of a praying mantis, mouthing what seems to be Sirius’ words back to himself. Steam rises from their cauldron again, and Remus watches Sirius stir in a smooth, unopposed motion. “The consistency itself should be adequate, but now we’ve got to counteract that antidote ingredient with, mmm…” He wriggles his fingers, eyes searching the bench. James’ jaw has dropped. “More Moonstone, a sprinkle more of the thorns.” His fingers follow his words. As the class holds their breaths and the steam from Remus and Lily’s potion clouds their vision, Sirius gathers the Ashwinder eggs for the second phase of brewing. Slughorn, with a twitching left eye, peers into their cauldron, mystified.

“You’ve… you’ve done it, Mr. Black, haven’t you?” he asks, quiet. “Recovered your potion.”

“Fuck me,” Lily mutters in disbelief. Remus sucks his lower lip into his mouth, his smile undoubtedly ridiculous.

James punches Sirius in the shoulder. Sirius looks between Slughorn and James, grins only for his friend to see.

As if his oily cogs and gears have begun to turn again, Slughorn claps a hand onto Sirius’ shoulder. “Perhaps you have been listening in class after all, Mr. Black. Hm… Ah, yes. I do remember your cousins passing through the school. Andromeda was a bright one, wasn’t she? And your father, old Orion, I did teach have the privilege of teaching him as well. And both of them in Slytherin House! A bright young man he was, your father. He’s been rather successful, hasn’t he? You’re living comfortably, I presume?”

Remus can see the ire, repugnance, and sarcasm play through Sirius’ face as he drops an Ashwinder egg into his cauldron. “I don’t live at home any longer, sir. I emancipated myself last year,” he drawls, bites back on a smirk as his eyes flit to James from their very corners.

Slughorn blinks, thrown. “Oh, goodness me,” he says softly, straightens out his rounded shoulders, and looks about the classroom for a student to next condescend or rain praise upon. “Oh, Mr. Pettigrew, that steam should not be black!” He waddles off.

The instant Slughorn turns his back, James quite literally leaps onto Sirius, forcing the two of them to tumble dangerously close to their simmering cauldron as Sirius barks out a laugh and clasps onto James’ hands where they’re linked around his sternum. Remus rubs the back of his neck, glances at the pearly sheen of their potion, and breathes in the chocolate and leather and dog again. I’m always right, he thinks smugly. James and Sirius would always sort themselves out. If only his own life could be so easy.

Remus scoops up the vial and glass dropper so he can bottle their Potion.

“It’s really quite strong, isn’t it?” Lily says lightly as she wipes down their workstation with a damp flannel.

“Very,” Remus murmurs. He thinks, just for a moment, that there will be an awful lot of their potion going to waste given that Slughorn will only mark their one vial, and it’d be so easy to just… All it would take is a bit of blood, some hair… But that’d be fucking mad. “What do you smell?” He squints at the vial, squeezing a few more drops in. As he holds it up against the light from the wall sconces, the liquid shimmers and curls in on itself, opalescent.

Lily clears her throat, red, rounded nails tapping rhythmically against the bench. “Just… you know. An evening autumn breeze,” she says. The words come out rather quickly. Remus hums mock-curiously. Lily rolls her eyes.

“Right. Me too. Autumn breeze.” He nudges her with his elbow as he leaves her side to deposit their vial on Slughorn’s desk.

***

“That’s bullshit!” spouts James.

“You’re bullshit,” murmurs Sirius from behind Peter’s Transfiguration textbook, which all of them but Peter realize he’s attempting to bewitch. There’s an illustration in the chapter about human transfiguration that Sirius thinks could use some of the flair of the ladies in a Muggle magazine called Penthouse.

“Well, your mum’s bullshit.”

Sirius grins. “I know.”

“Goddammit,” James sighs, shares an ephemeral look of delight with Sirius, just before hounding Remus again. “You can’t go on a date with my girlfriend-to-be!”

All of them but James, who’s seated on the rug in front of the warm fire, have squeezed onto the sofa in the Gryffindor common room. Peter’s curled into one corner, playing wizard’s chess against an invisible partner on a charmed board, Remus in the middle, and Sirius with his shoulders against the other armrest and taking advantage of the real estate on the sofa. His thighs are in Remus’ lap and his feet in Peter’s. He’d had to put his shoes back on after too many whiny complaints about the smell on Peter’s part. None of them could master the Bubble-Head Charm, unfortunately, to help Peter out magically, so it’d had to be the shoes.

The common room is perhaps not the best locale to shout about a girlfriend-to-be, Remus thinks, but he thinks the girls have long since charmed the doorway to their dormitory to keep out the clamor.

“Fuck that. She’s just not into you, mate.” Sirius peeks above the book to grin at Remus, shooting him a single finger gun. “Moony needs it more than you, anyway, Jamesy. Needs to get his dick wet. Last time I heard Remus rub one off was probably three years ago. Even McGonagall knows you’re wanking twice a day.”

“I don’t always finish. The build-up’s the exciting part,” says James to his lap, tone dejected.

Remus, with furrowed brows, clutches at the book in his lap. Unsure if he should be bewildered by the fact that Sirius ever caught him getting off, or even at the fact that he doesn’t recall being so obvious himself, he decides momentarily that it would be best to move on from the topic fully. “We’re not going on a date, first of all,” he states, eyes expressionless on James. “She’s in Runes, I’m in Runes, we’ve got a project in Runes, we’re working on our project together. For Runes. Neither of you are in Runes, so you wouldn’t know that, but somehow you still know that we’re supposedly going on a date.” Remus pauses for a moment to catch his book from sliding off his lap, or off Sirius’ lap, rather, when the latter shifts underneath it. The warmth of his trousers is welcome against Remus’ thighs, even if they’re growing only hotter with the contact. When Sirius begins to smile slyly at James, when they begin to exchange those looks, Remus rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know how you know.”

“Mary Macdonald,” Sirius blurts shamelessly as he lays Peter’s book across his chest, covering the bare skin on display beneath his indecently unbuttoned school shirt. He folds his arms behind his head, wand dangling from his fingers, and Remus raises an expectant eyebrow, but he’s not interested. He’s only watching Sirius, well, because. Sirius. “She says that Evans likes you. News like that travels fast in the girls’ dormitory. And it doesn’t surprise me at all. You’re the polar opposite of James.”

Remus just scoffs, lets his eyes back down to his book. Come to think of it, Lily did seem put off by what she’d smelled in the Amortentia the week prior, but Remus doesn’t even know what it could be if it’d been him. Clean laundry? Musty jumpers?

“I’m still here,” says James, waving his arms wildly. Sirius raises a palm as if to calm him by some supernatural force.

“It’s time you let go,” Sirius says calmly. “You and I both know, Jamesy, that I’ve been a devoted supporter of your pining after Evans. I lyricized that song for Valentine’s Day in fourth year and played the piano accompaniment, I tricked her into Madam Puddifoot’s the year after… I could keep going. But the chase, mate, it’s making you miserable. It’s time to move on. I know you feel strongly, and all, but dwelling on her’s not gonna help. Unless, of course, you’d like to give it one more shot. I have ideas, ideas that make Animagi transformations look like child’s play. Have you heard of Polyjuice potion? Hard as fuck to brew, but you put Moony’s hair in and you drink that shit, Jamesy, and you’ll literally become Moony. She’ll eat you up in a heartbeat. You’ll have to be trained intensely alongside conducting extensive observational studies of the subject — the subject right beneath my legs, to be specific — with the hope of acquiring the natural eloquence and endearing, roughed-up gawkiness of one Remus John Lupin —”

“Fucking hell,” Remus sighs.

“I’m sure as fuck not drinking Moony’s hair,” James asserts. Remus has to laugh at the theatrical deadpan of a frown that overcomes Sirius’ face when it is clear that this is James’ takeaway from his speech.

“I surrender.” Sirius flops his head back against the armrest of the sofa. Remus eyes his Adam’s apple bounce against his slender neck.

“I won!” Peter exclaims, just in time for them all to watch Peter’s knight unsheathe its sword and pierce the heart of the magical opponent’s queen. “Phew.” He dusts off his hands, turns to face the rest of them. “Don’t think I’ve ever beat the board before. What’d I miss? I heard something about Moony’s hair? Going on dates?”

“What you missed, Wormtail, is this. Behold.” Sirius lifts the book from his chest, flips to the correct page, and lifts it in the air for Peter to see. Peter squints. Remus scoffs.

“Mate,” James mutters, grinning. “That’s artistry.”

The illustration, once of a witch transforming into a ferret, now depicts a horrifying witch-sized ferret with breasts transforming into a ferret-sized witch with a tail and beady ferret eyes.

“Ferrets don’t have breasts for a reason,” Remus murmurs. Sirius just offers him a wink.

“And real werewolves don’t eat humans’ hearts, and still you’re out here, Remus, stealing those of men and women alike,” responds Sirius.

Luckily, they’re alone in the common room, so Remus doesn’t have to check for eavesdroppers. What he does have to do is play that sentence over again in his mind, baffled.

Peter’s grinning, too, until, “Wait, what did you do?!” he squawks. “That’s my book! McGonagall’s gonna see that and have my neck!”

“You’re welcome.” Sirius hands it over. “Now I don’t have to get you a birthday present.”

Peter wrinkles his nose. “When have you ever given me a birthday present?”

“I intended on starting this year.” Sirius crosses his legs, and Peter seems to recall that those feet are in his lap, and he shoves them aggressively off. Sirius lets his feet slump to the floor, thighs still glued to Remus’. “Isn’t a spanking from McG what everyone wants?”

James spread-eagles across the rug before the hearth. “I could use a spanking from Minerva right about now.”

“To kickstart getting over Evans?” Sirius inquires, eyes fixated longingly on the book he’s handed off to Peter — a master’s handiwork, gone.

James doesn’t reply for a moment, simply stares at the ceiling. “Yeah,” he mutters eventually, sounding oddly quiet, almost broken.

Remus sits up, unconsciously grasping onto Sirius’ ankle as he leans over to look at James. “Listen, mate, I can try to talk to her, if you’d like? I’ll be seeing a lot of her, I think. We’re in all the same classes for NEWTs…”

James’ lips flicker at a half-smile. “Thanks, Moony. But… don’t. It’s no use. She loves rejecting me. Maybe it’s because, well. She’ll never like me. And I’ve gotta accept that! I’ve got to, y’know? Can’t badger her forever. Come to think of it, the fact that I’ve let it go on for this long is pathetic. The fact that you all —,” he scans the three of them on the couch with his pointed forefinger, “— have let me come this far is fucking unacceptable. I should disown you all. Next time, I…” He sighs out his nose. “Next time, do whatever it fucking takes to make me realize I’m being a hopeless prick. I’m vowing to stop running after stupid dreams I’m not sure I care about in the first place.” He seems to mull over his soliloquy as he adjusts his glasses.

“You can’t disown me yet. Where will I go for Christmas?” Sirius mutters.

“From now on, I’m focusing only on the Triwizard Tournament,” James says resolutely. “I’m gonna wipe the floor with Ilvermorny. Knock seven shades of snot out of Beauxbatons.” He pumps his fist into the air above him. Remus slumps down against the couch, eyes showing only their whites until he shuts them.

“That’s not a very good start to your vow,” Remus murmurs, but he thinks only Sirius hears, because when he slings his legs off Remus’ lap and sits like a normal human being on the sofa, it’s to press his face into Remus’ shoulder with a muffled cackle.

***

Lily places Spellman’s Syllabary and Advanced Rune Translation onto the table nestled into the back corner of the Hogwarts library. A cloud of dust billows up from the surface as she does, and when Remus sneezes, she lets out a soft laugh and shoots a nifty, little cleaning spell at the tabletop that has it shiny in seconds.

“Very nice,” Remus comments, earning him a playful smile from Lily. They lower themselves into adjacent chairs, quietly unpack their quills, inkwells, and parchment. A copy of Beedle the Bard’s The Fountain of Fair Fortune stares up at them from between the translation books. Every pair in Ancient Runes has been tasked with translating an old Wizarding folktale from runes to English by the end of term, and Lily feels strongly that they should get the assignment out of the way. She’s the first to speak.

“Er… Why don’t I start from the beginning and work my way up, and you start from the middle and work your way to the end? And if we get stuck, we’ll just ask one another for help?” she suggests.

Remus isn’t sure why he’s so uneasy. It’s usually so easy with Lily, the banter and the chatter and the work, but Remus has Sirius’ secondhand gossip from Mary Macdonald on his mind that he hardly believes, but she seems marginally more tense, too, so he can’t help but think there could be some truth to it.

Remus smiles faintly. “Perfect.” They both move for the book before withdrawing in sync with respective, quiet chuckles, and Remus juts his wand at the book with a quick mutter of Geminio to have it spring apart into two identical copies that thud against the table.

“Brilliant,” says Lily, and Remus nods, leafing to the centermost page. There are a few symbols he recalls off the top of his head, but he finds himself dragging Advanced Rune Translation his way after about three minutes. Lily doesn’t seem to need it, but she also has yet to write anything, which Remus doesn’t dare question. He thinks, however, when she speaks a moment later, that she hasn’t really been thinking about runes at all. “So… Er, last week, did Potter and Black really just resolve their little rift in the span of one Potions class?”

Remus completes the cursive loop on his letter ‘e’, eyes on his parchment. “Yeah. They’re… like that. I would say it’s unhealthy, resolving conflicts through mutual gratification or just whenever one of them’s the first to break out into laughter, but most of their fights are rather stupid in the first place, so. It’s only fitting that the resolution be accordingly stupid.”

He sees Lily nod from the corner of his eye. “What was it about? What were they squabbling about?”

Remus snorts softly, looks up from his parchment as he twiddles the quill between his fingers. “The Triwizard Tournament.”

Lily’s reddish brows rise. “Oh?” She meets Remus’ eyes, rests her chin against her hand. “What do you make of that? The tournament, I mean.”

Remus shakes his head. “I’m not sure yet. I’m not so daft as to enter, but.” He scrunches up his nose. “It’s weird, don’t you think? It’s a big deal. All of Wizarding Europe — and, the States, I suppose — will know about it. The press will pitch tents here. We’ll all be cheering on our champions like some gladiators in an arena for excessive, possibly-fatal tasks.”

Lily’s lips quirk up wryly. “Sure sounds like you have an opinion.”

Remus flushes, shrugs, leans back in his chair. “I suppose I do.” He sets down his quill so he can lace his fingers over his stomach, places his feet flat on the floor so he can press the chair back enough that he’s teetering on just the two back legs like his mum always told him not to. “James wants to be the Hogwarts champion.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “And do you know what Sirius said? He said James would have no chance against entrants like you.” Remus smiles. “We all agreed.”

Lily scoffs a bit. “I’m sure as hell not entering.” Her fingers twist up on the table in front of her. “I think you’re right, for a fact, about the tournament. It pains me to say this — I think Sirius Black is right and I could do a mediocre job, not make Hogwarts seem the fool of the three — I’d still rather just not try to expedite my death date.”

Remus cannot deny that. As someone for whom endless pain and bodily mutilation comes in monthly cycles, he could never convince himself to enter into a tournament like that of his own volition. He chuckles briefly, eyes wandering back to his parchment to inscribe the word for the next symbol. He assumes they’ll continue working, but he can also feel Lily’s green gaze boring into the side of his head, so he makes a show of dropping his quill to the table, dusting off his hands, and smacking them down onto his thighs as he swivels bodily in his chair to face her. His elbows plant onto his knees, his face upon his hands. He’s not surprised to find her looking, of course, but the astonishment in her face makes him brim over with another laugh. “Yes?” he drawls, brows lifted, and she surveys his face, fiddling with the quill between her fingers.

“No, I —” she huffs obstinately, licks her reddened, chapped lips, and for a moment, Remus really thinks she’s looking at his own, his own mouth, before she brushes the ticklish, feather end of her quill against his nose, then prods the middle of his forehead with her fingertip. “Stop that. Go away. I was just zoning out.”

“Fair enough,” says Remus, “Going.” He turns to face his work again, though it’s a futile job, neither runes nor English processing coherently from paper to brain. Sirius is… everything. Sirius is everything and has been everything for Remus for a couple of years now. Remus has never been opposed to girls in the way that he’d find himself ruling them out entirely as an option, though anyone really pales in comparison to Sirius Black. Lily, though… Lily is smart, snappy, and… nice to look at, too, Remus would say. Nobody could disagree. And James has vowed to move on, so it wouldn’t be as much of an arsehole-ish breach of friendship laws as it might’ve been several days ago. He doesn’t know how well James will get on with that plan of his, though, or how well Remus himself would get on trying to follow in James’ footsteps. He feels pathetic, is pathetic, well and truly. At least James made his move, Remus thinks. But he could also do so without the risk of overstepping something incredibly important to him and losing one of his few favorite things — people — forever.

As his train of thought runs off a cliff and into an abyss, Remus takes stock of his lack of progress, then Lily’s. She’s a full six inches further down on her parchment now, which is covered with swirly, neat inking. He doesn’t even realize Lily’s caught him looking until she shoves Spellman’s Syllabary toward him, nearly upending his inkwell.

“You need that more than I do,” she states, nodding at his parchment, and Remus narrows his eyes, despite smilingly and begrudgingly swiping the book off the table seconds later.

***

It’s a week after Sirius’ grand discourse on getting-rich-quick that Remus walks into their room post-Arithmancy to find him on the floor, once again in just his underwear, though not the ones embroidered with card suits. He’s breathing in puffed, stiff breaths, arms flexing, a deep skin crease forming and reforming between his shoulder blades — yes, he’s doing press-ups, muttering the count under his breath too quiet for Remus to hear. It’s not a sight he hasn’t seen before, and he’s not sure whether that’s to his fortune or misfortune. A slight sheen of sweat glistens along the line of Sirius’ shoulders, and when the floorboards creak under Remus’ weight, Sirius’ head snaps toward him and his knees drop to the wood floor. Remus smiles sheepishly, though his eyes betray a sudden confusion, because Sirius’ are manic as he waves Remus over.

“Moony! Moony, get over here. Sit on my back. I need the extra weight,” he urges, rising up onto his palms once again in perfect form.

Remus blinks, drops his schoolbag to his bed, and tentatively steps toward an impatient Sirius.

“Go on,” he mutters, so Remus does, sideways and awkward and slightly off-balance. “No, no,” chuckles Sirius, who turns his head over his shoulder as much as he possibly can to catch Remus’ eye. “Straddle my back. The weight needs to be even.”

Remus’ eyes roll back into his head. “Fuck’s sake.” So he rises and stands first with a foot on either side of Sirius’ back — Merlin help me, he thinks with a rush of blood to the head just looking at the taper of Sirius’ waist, don’t make this awkward — and finally lowers himself to sit against the middle of Sirius’ back. “Why are you so wound up?”

“Good,” praises Sirius instead, exhalations hissed through gritted teeth as he bends his arms. Remus doesn’t particularly know what to do with his own, so he crosses them over his chest, stares at the opposite wall while bobbing up and down at an uneven pace by a couple of inches each time. That silence — filled just with Sirius’ huffing and puffing — lasts for about thirty seconds before he collapses to the floor beneath Remus, who finally allows himself to look downward. “Thanks,” Sirius mutters, then smacks backwardly at Remus’ knee. “Now get off.” When Remus does as he’s told, Sirius springs up from the floor to stand almost on top of Remus’ toes. They’re just barely eye to eye — Remus has about an inch edge on him as well as the height from the soles of his shoes. “What did you ask? Why am I wound up? Oh — oh, yeah. Damn.” He crouches hastily to swipe something off the floor, hold it out for Remus to see. “I — I’m sorry, mate. Kind of chewed that up earlier.”

Remus pats at his chest absentmindedly to find his prefect badge gone, then stares at the damp, mottled piece of metal in the palm of Sirius’ hand, still a bit sticky with dog slobber. “You ate my prefect badge?” he says, voice blank.

“Well, no.” Sirius throws the badge into the air, catches it, then pins it to Remus’ robes, wetness and all. “It’s not in my stomach.”

“Sirius.”

Sirius’ lips quirk up at the corners as his arms fall to his sides — his thin but muscular, lovely arms, fingers brushing the thin cotton over his thighs. He avoids Remus’ eyes though his expression remains amused, as if he’s expecting a scolding but expects said scolding to be proper hilarious. “Yes, dear?”

Remus rolls his eyes, gestures down at the floor where Sirius had been on a vicious press-up rampage. “What’s with you?”

“I’m antsy, Moony.” He licks his lips — torturous, Remus thinks — and his hands clap onto Remus’ cheeks for all of a second before he lets them go with a tight pinch to his dimples. “I’ve told James my plan. He’s on board. Tomorrow, courtyard, just after lunch. It’s genius. The galleons will be rolling in.” Sirius bends down to swipe his black trousers from the floor, stuff his foot at first into the wrong leg.

Remus lifts his brows. “Do I get to know what it is?”

Sirius vehemently shakes his head, long, black fringe getting caught in his eyelashes, stumbles into his trousers. The trail of dark hair from his navel to his waistband attracts Remus’ attention until Sirius’ voice takes over. “Not until tomorrow after lunch. Ah, ah —” He holds up a finger when Remus tries to protest, and sometimes he hates being instinctively rational. “You’d put a stop to it. I just know it.”

“That can only mean you’ll be making an utter prick out of yourself,” Remus murmurs, tossing Sirius his shirt, which he catches and balls up against his chest, clutching it there as his eyes track Remus’ movement toward Sirius’ bed. “Suit yourself.” He rounds the corner so he’s opposite Sirius, just the mattress between them, and leans against the unmade sheets, gazing upon him. “Someday, in public, you’ll be acting like a piece of shit, and it won’t be McGonagall disciplining you — actually, it might well be, if you’ve graduated and the social standards of a student-teacher relationship no longer apply — and you’ll accidentally insult someone who’s strong or scary — McGonagall — and they’ll string you up by your bollocks on, like, a flagpole or something, and you’ll be up there, hanging by your bollocks and in a world of pain, and you’ll think to yourself: What did Remus always tell me not to do?”

Sirius’ shirt is crumpled as he shrugs it on, leaves it hanging loosely on his frame as he presses his weight into his palms on the mattress, eye level with Remus. “You seem to have thought this through,” he remarks, lips slanted in that eternal smirk of his, and his fingertips tap gently against the soft covers. “Imagine that. I’ll be strung up by my bollocks on a flagpole, and I’ll be thinking how Remus always told me not to touch the door handle after going to the loo and to instead use magic to open it, because what’s the bloody point of washing your hands afterward if you’re only going to touch that germ-ridden door handle on your way out?”

The smile drops from Remus’ face and he face-plants into the bedsheets, which smell like Sirius’ sweat and his outrageously expensive cologne. He sighs into them. “Only somewhat better than James’ takeaway: What’s the point of washing your hands in the first place?” Remus half-groans, half-whimpers. “But, no, that wasn’t quite the advice I was referring to.”

“Huh,” hums Sirius from somewhere above. “Then I’m sure you mean that time you told me Sirius, don’t think with your head, but with your dick, because your mind is a brilliant, volatile, and unsanctimonious place, and Merlin save us all if you end up actually using it one day.”

Remus lifts his head apparently just as Sirius has gone in to pet his hair, because he gets a faceful of Sirius’ hand, palm compressing his nose and long fingers spidering across his face. Remus peers at Sirius through the spaces between his fingers. “I’m fairly certain I said heart, not dick. And I definitely didn’t use the word brilliant.” Though it would be complete farce to suggest that Sirius was otherwise.

“Mm. Must be my subconscious enhancing my memories for me.” Sirius taps his temple with his free hand, looks upward as if he could possibly make eye contact with his brain. “Thanks, little lad. Always looking out for my ego.” He allows his hand to succumb to gravity, dripping off Remus’ face and dragging his lip down with them until his palm hits the mattress with a dull smack. Remus, still watching Sirius, breathes into his stomach, and then out. In and out. Then he shakes his head.

“If I find you extorting money from small, clueless children tomorrow,” he begins, low and slow, blinking so sluggishly — high off the touch of his friend — that he can feel his eyelids stick to one another when they open and close.

Sirius laughs and the heel of his hand makes contact with Remus’ head again, just to shove him away by the forehead. He turns to pull the drawer of his nightstand open and scrounge around for a pack of cigarettes. “No extortion,” he mutters, words on the edge of coherent around the cigarette he holds between his teeth. “Wait — watch this.” Sirius meets Remus’ eyes, and then his eyes cross as he peers at the end of his cigarette and snaps his fingers. It lights aflame, a soft, orange glow.

Remus’ tongue presses into the inside of his cheek. “Would you like me to pretend I didn’t see you reach for your wand behind your back?”

Sirius removes the cigarette from his mouth, bites the tip of his tongue as he respires a smoky, grinning, “Fuck.” He shakes his head, climbs up onto his mattress on his knees so he can sit there in front of Remus. “How’d you know I wasn’t just scratching my arse?” He tugs his wand from his back pocket, tosses it onto the mattress.

“Intuition,” says Remus, cringes and coughs when Sirius blows the smoke from another drag right into his face. “Rude.”

“Sorry. I’ll get it someday.”

“I know you will. Surprised you haven’t already.”

“He believes in me,” Sirius simpers wistfully, delivering three consecutive pats to Remus’ cheek. Remus jerks his face away, looks absentmindedly at Sirius’ undone shirt, and his fingers itch to tear it off or do it all up. So he goes for the latter, slips the bottommost button through its rightful hole.

“You were saying? About extortion?” he mutters. His eyes flicker up to watch through his eyelashes as Sirius huffs a white, dissipating cloud over his shoulder.

“I was saying no extortion,” Sirius clarifies. “No. All money shall change hands fairly and consensually for the gain of a worthwhile product. Or service, I should say. And if all goes as planned, we’ll have the wherewithal to buy out Zonko’s. Or… a shelf at Zonko’s. Half a shelf of dungbombs, maybe.”

“Motherfucker,” whispers Remus, because he’s skipped a button and now there’s an unpleasant, distracting fold in the front of Sirius’ shirt. Before he can undo it, Sirius’ hand latches onto his wrist, and Remus looks upward.

“That’s just the way I like it. Thanks, Moony.” A squeeze to his wrist and then Sirius is bounding off the bed and releasing Remus. “Off to strategize.”

Remus plucks the cigarette from Sirius’ fingers, but then doesn’t know quite what to do with it. He just stares at its ashy butt, then pats for his wand deep in the pockets of his robes to vanish it. “Don’t let McGonagall see.”

Sirius pats him on the shoulder in silent thanks, then he disappears.

It’s after Remus has found his wand and Sirius is long gone that he blinks and glances toward the door. “Did he say ‘worthwhile service’?” he whispers.

***

The following day, Remus gets to lunch late. Sirius has already gone, and James is alternating between determinedly walking about with his Head Boy-chin held high, avoiding Lily, and schmoozing with the Divination professor where she’s seated at the High Table. She’s the only faculty member who’s convinced that James’ last-minute bullshitting on Divinations assignments is pure genius; the others begrudgingly give him top marks, even while knowing he doesn’t give the slightest shit about their classes and is likely talking smack about them behind their backs.

Peter likes to complete his lunch with a soup course, so he’s still present and Remus sinks down at the table across from him. He picks up a bread roll, pulls it apart, then glances at Peter. “Any idea what’s happening at the end of the hour?” 

Peter shakes his head. “You and me, mate, we’re on the outside, as usual.”

Remus frowns at this, at the torn up bread in his hands. “Do you want this?” he mutters, and Peter hesitates before murmuring something about not wanting to waste it before he accepts the roll and dunks it into his soup. Remus sighs, drops his head to his palms.

“You don’t look well,” says Peter around a mouthful of chewy bread. “But it’s just about that time, isn’t it? Your time of the month —”

“Pete,” hisses Remus. A third-or-fourth-year girl a couple feet to Peter’s right is now inspecting Remus thoughtfully. She nods, as if he’s confirmed her suspicions, then returns to buttering a roll. Remus arches a brow, then returns his face to the comforting nest of his hands.

Peter grimaces. “Sorry.”

“Remus!” A hand on Remus’ shoulder is subsequent to the melodious voice, and he looks up into Lily’s pale, round face. Her fiery hair is divided into two french plaits. “We’re still meeting tonight, yeah? For Runes? I could also use some help on the Arithmancy assignment this week, if you’ve any idea at all what’s going on…”

Remus winces, just barely recovers from swearing under his breath as his face crumples guiltily. “I… can’t. I’ve got… Shit, I’m sorry… Oh, shit, I didn’t mean to say shit —”

“We’re meeting my mother in Hogsmeade this evening, all four of us,” Peter says, still around the chewy bread. Lily appears almost startled at Peter’s voice, and her grip tightens on Remus’ shoulder. “Sorry. It’s been planned for a few weeks.” Peter hums absently, takes another soup-soaked bite of his roll. “But it’s better that way, honestly, to see her for a few hours at a time, or else she’ll post me a letter everyday, expectin’ me to reply to ‘em all separately. And she loves Remus.”

Remus blinks. Peter really seems to shock him at the best and the worst of times. This is one of the best. “… Yeah,” he says, eyes glued to Peter in fascination.

It’s only when Lily gets this confirmation from Remus that she smiles. “Oh! Well, that’s fine.”

Remus smiles, too, but apologetically. “Saturday?” It’ll hardly give him time to recover, but. Past Lily, Remus locks eyes with James, and a cold fear settles in his chest, but evidently he’s not at fault, because James gives him a half-smile, pinches his thumb and forefinger together for Remus.

“Saturday's perfect.” Her thumb digs into his shoulder. “Alright. See you — hey! No amateur transfiguration at lunch! Or at any other meal, for that matter!” She storms off toward a giggling gaggle of Slytherins.

Remus deflates. The table is nice and cold under his cheek, though he thinks he’s got a few breadcrumbs stuck to his skin now. “Thanks, Pete.”

“Got you covered, mate,” Peter says. “My mum is coming, actually, but not for another two weeks, so, if you could —”

“I’ll come, yeah.”

Remus thinks he sees Peter nod. Then, “I’m not used to not seeing James cast a death glare on anyone of the male species talkin’ to Lily.” Peter lays his spoon down in his empty soup cup, rubs his hands together, watches the dish vanish altogether. “And I think she fancies you,” he rushes to add.

Remus rubs the crumbs from his cheek, breathes out his nose. A group of sixth-year Slytherin girls rises collectively and there’s an echoing tap-tap-tap of leather shoes against the floor of the Hall as they all run out, Remus notes curiously. “I don’t —”

“Come on. Lunch is over. Fuck responsibilities,” James says suddenly from behind him, brashly unfastening the pin from his chest and burying it in the depths of his robe. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Peter asks, stumbling to get upright.

“To the courtyard?” Remus answers tentatively.

***

Remus doesn’t even see the sign at first. The first thing he sees, in glimpses at first through the open-air arches in the hall and then as he sets foot on the damp grass of the courtyard, is that Sirius has got his tongue down the throat of one of the sixth-years who’d just escaped the Great Hall. He’s behind a tablecloth-clad table, clutching the edge of it that’s closer to the girl, whose pale hands are pressed to his equally pale cheeks. Remus swears that, even from fifty feet away, he can see a string of saliva stretch between their mouths as they separate about ten seconds later. He doesn’t know much longer they’d been at it before his arrival. The girl trips backward blushingly.

“Worthwhile service,” Remus breathes, and his eyes go from Sirius’ smug, swollen-lipped face to the bewitched, levitating sign above him. It’s practically a menu-board, is what it is. He can’t read it from a distance. He’s not sure he wants to.

Sirius claps his hands together. “Eight sickles for a peck!” he hollers, and it echoes throughout the crowded courtyard. “A galleon for tongue! Two for fifteen plus seconds!”

“That’s not very smart. Shouldn’t he put a ceiling on that time allotment?” asks Peter.

“He’s charging way more than we agreed on,” James mutters, leaves Remus and Peter to stride across the courtyard to Sirius, who absolutely lights up at the sight of him.

“Prongs!” he gasps animatedly, throwing his hands into the air. “Get over here, mate! Join me! I’m living. And we’ve got ten galleons in the bank already!”

Remus swallows thickly. “This is unsanitary,” he rasps at last. He ignores it when Peter gives him a sideways look.

James grabs Sirius by the shoulders. And Remus can’t hear what’s said next, can’t read his lips when he’s facing away, so he stiffly meanders toward the table, the kissing booth, bunched fists concealed by the long sleeves of his robes. James, however, isn’t talking sense into Sirius, but rather the opposite.

“The inflation — you’re a fucking genius. And, I mean, knowing where your mouth has been, you ought to pay them to snog you, but this is proper entrepreneurship.”

Sirius cackles, pounds his fist against the table in excitement as he slaps a hand onto James’ shoulder. “No, mate, no, nobody’s gotta know I’ve licked my own bits once or thrice, maybe even gone rogue and eaten my own shit once in a full moon, but hey! What they don’t know won’t hurt them!”

“If you don’t want them to know, I wouldn’t scream it so loud,” says Remus in a quiet rumble. It’s as if Sirius hadn’t even noticed him approaching, and his eyes now glitter with a newfound mischief at being caught out.

“Moony.” Sirius sighs blissfully. “Moony, Moony, Moony. This is for the common good. These people need entertainment in their lives. They get to snog me, and their pocket money goes to a worthy cause.”

Remus shakes his head. “You’re going to catch something. Someone’s going to catch you.”

“Not if you don’t tell McG. And I am perfectly willing to sacrifice my own health for the cause,” Sirius tells him, smiling calmly still, and then spins to face his booth. “For the cause!” he roars, fists lifted high above his head, where he pounds them into the air. When there’s an answering chorus of hoots and cheers, Remus’ face only further heats.

“Relax, Moony,” says James beside him.

“Tongue for a galleon! Let’s say — three galleons for a whole minute, shall we? I know, ladies, I know, you may think I drive a hard bargain — and not just ladies, we’re equal opportunity over here. Even you, Snivellus. Yes, I see you over there, protecting your delicate, wan complexion under the shade of that oak while reading your bible, the Pureblood Mein Kampf, for the umpteenth time. If you’ve got the money, sweetheart, I’d kiss even you, if I was ever able to get to your mouth with that schnoz in the way.”

Remus’ nostrils flare. Bad idea. James drops out of his peripheral vision so fast that Remus thinks he’s apparated, or something, but when he looks, he’s on the grass, rolling about on his back, clutching his stomach in hooting laughter. Peter, although reluctant under so many watchful eyes, is struggling to restrain his own amusement from bubbling over.

Severus Snape, who is, indeed, seated under an oak tree, but likely not reading Mein Kampf — at least not in public — shuts his book and glares in Sirius’ direction.

“You think you’re funny, don’t you?” Severus gripes acidly.

Avery, prone beside Snape, points a finger at Sirius with a pompous sneer. “You’re a fuckin’ fag, Black!”

Sirius taps his fingers musically against the table. “You wish I was for you, Avery!” he calls.

“You don’t want to start this,” Remus says under his breath, touching the back of Sirius’ shoulder. Sirius shrugs out of his touch.

“Not starting anything,” he murmurs faintly, then grins when a pretty, British-Korean Hufflepuff from their year traipses up to his booth, sets down a galleon. “‘Ello there, love,” croons Sirius, and Remus feels his blood buzz dizzily beneath his temples as Sirius’ fingers draw her gently closer by the chin, and when their lips make contact, Remus has to look away, though he’s unable to render himself deaf to the sound of their lips wetly smacking apart a solid thirteen seconds later. Sirius pockets the galleon, winks at her as she retreats like a pinkish, wilted flower petal.

“You’re enjoying this way too much, mate,” James says as he grabs onto the table to hoist himself up.

“What’s not to like?” Sirius responds, and the barest flicker of a side eye he gives Remus is enough to have his blood boiling. He’s not even sure anymore if the sickening, clenching feeling in his stomach, the painful tenderness of his skin, or the madly rushing blood in his veins can be attributed to the full moon in less than twelve hours. Remus takes a step back, then another one, until his back hits the cold stone siding of the castle.

James pats the pocket of Sirius’ robes. It jingles happily. “Think of all the shit we can buy. I’ve… actually been thinking. Fuck gags and pranks, y’know? We’ve done everything in the book. You’re eighteen in just over a month, Pads. We should get fucking plastered.”

Devilry floods Sirius’ face. It’s the only way Remus can describe it. “Hell yes.“

“Remus, are you really going to just stand there and let this go on?” Lily explodes without warning from beside Remus where she’s stepped into the courtyard. Remus just fishmouthes for a moment, blinking rapidly, and Lily sighs. “I know you’re powerless in the face of your friends, but this is — it’s disgusting, and it no doubt, er,” she hesitates, fingers curling and unfurling at her sides, “I have no doubt it breaks some rule or another. Circe’s knickers, is that Potter? Of course it is.” Her plaits bounce against her shoulder blades as she storms over to Sirius’ booth, smacks her hand down onto the table to interrupt Sirius and James’ tittering. “Potter, get your head out of your arse. You’re Head Boy. You can’t — you can’t let your pervy mates break the rules simply because they’re your mates.” She juts her finger accusingly at Sirius, whose eyes cross in the process of focusing on the very end of her Gryffindor-red fingernail.

James does a surprisingly good job of appearing unaffected, as opposed to a mushy, starry-eyed, boneless blob. “He’s not hurting anyone, Evans,” says James evenly. Sirius smiles innocently, rocks back and forth on his feet.

“Well, you must’ve not read the Hogwarts rulebook the Headmaster sent with your Head Boy letter, which doesn’t surprise me one bit.” She scoffs. “This violates everything from restrictions on public displays of affection to public disturbances and harassment. And, I happen to know that Professor McGonagall is just around the corner, and if you don’t dismantle this — this, right now, she’ll be the one to drag you by the ears to the Headmaster’s office.”

“For fuck’s sake, Evans, no one likes a stick in the mud. No one’s complaining, no one’s getting hurt. I don’t see why you can’t look the other way for five minutes, take a break from ruining everyone’s fun,” James says icily.

Lily’s thin lips purse into a crinkle and her face flushes a spotty red. Her eyes narrow to slits while fixed on James, and then the seconds that follow tick-tick before Remus’ eyes in slow motion, like everyone’s moving through molasses, like he’s wading through molasses himself, like his racing blood has turned to sludge and clogged every pathway delivering oxygen to his brain.

She grabs Sirius by the front of his robes almost defiantly and lurches him halfway over the booth. He’s able to catch his balance just as Lily presses her mouth to his, and Sirius’ eyes blow up, practically all whites, flickering between Lily’s nose digging into his own to James’ face and then back to Lily, and once he realizes she’s not drawing away, he relaxes into it, and there’s more than a flash of tongue on tongue, and it’s so, so wrong, and Remus only comprehends that he’s moving once his hand makes contact with Lily’s shoulder, nudging her aside and breaking them apart as his fist smashes into Sirius’ eye.

“Mr. Lupin!”

Bony fingers curl around the upper part of Remus’ arm. He loses his footing, but McGonagall’s grip is like iron. Shenanigans… Mr. Black, what is the meaning of this? The only other sound in his ears is a metallic ringing, like he’s submerged underwater and it’s beginning to seep into his skull, all the fucking pressure, and his eyes, in the midst of the chaos, find Sirius, who’s clutching at his own eye and leaning his weight into James. Physical violence will not be tolerated… Headmaster’s office… Right now. He swallows against the lump in his throat. Sirius is dramatic about close to everything, but now he’s not, fazed only by the strike itself, and Remus sees the confusion there, etched into his features. Can he see? Please let him see. Take him to the Hospital Wing… McGonagall tugs him toward the castle. Remus feels like he’s on the very edge of vomiting, and that would be bad, wouldn’t it, all over McGonagall’s silky robes. Lily is snow-white as he stumbles past. Severus, over by the tree, looks amused. Remus is surprised Peter hasn’t taken on his rat form and skittered away.

“I’m sorry,” he whimpers. McGonagall just tuts.

Chapter Text

When Remus opens his eyes the following morning, it’s to the overly magnified sight of a dusty floor. He closes them again, suddenly aware of how cold he is, how fucking starving, how the fact that he manages to fall asleep on the chilly, wood floor each time, naked, just takes the cake.

He should dress, he decides, but straightening his left leg proves to be painful. It feels numb and stiff, too, and he decides he’ll put off staring down at what is undoubtedly a mess of matted blood and leg hair for just another few minutes. He’ll have to face it eventually, but he can take comfort in the fact that his stomach feels hollow, concave, clenching in on itself, so if he does feel the need to vomit, nothing will come up.

What’s more harrowing than that bright start to his day are the bleary memory snippets of yesterday’s events. In Dumbledore’s office, Remus had blubbered out a superfluously agonized apology to the Headmaster. McGonagall had finally let go of his arm. And then he’d promptly passed out. He’d awoken several hours later, tucked into a bed in the infirmary, to Madam Pomfrey kindly nudging him awake. Remus, darling, we’ve got to go. He’d sat up, expecting to find Sirius there in one of the other beds, but he’d been conscious, hadn’t he, after Remus had hit him? Fuck, he’d punched the hell out of Sirius. But the sun was setting and Sirius wasn’t anywhere to be seen in the Hospital Wing, so he’d taken that as a good sign.

He props himself up on his elbows, spine popping, and peers down his scarred body at the row of deep, bloody stab wounds on his own calf. From his teeth, presumably. After a scavenger hunt to locate his wand, he performs the healing spells perfunctorily, steps into his clothes, checks the state of his face in the cracked, tarnished mirror on the wall. His lip is split, but that’s easy enough for him to handle, and he does a little secular prayer of thanks for the lack of new scars. And then he heads out into the world.

Saturday morning means his trek back to the castle from the Whomping Willow takes him through troupes of picnicking lower-years and jogging rec-Quidditch trainees. Every set of eyes turns to him, evaluates his sorry state, and either looks away or continues to gawk knowingly, likely because word of his little outburst had gotten around faster than a Niffler would get at an underground treasure chest.

The very first clock he sees upon entering the castle reveals to him that he has barely enough time to clean himself up before meeting Lily in the library, but it’s an absolute must, so he rushes to the prefects’ bathroom on the fifth floor to wash off the distinct smells of dried drool, blood, and musty earth. Their dorm is empty when he retrieves his books. Another secular prayer.

It’s when he spots Lily at the corner table in the library, her shiny curtain of red hair and all, that he realizes he isn’t sure where he stands with her. She’d kissed Sirius — what? — and he’d gone and shoved her aside like some neanderthal without a modicum of manners. It’s too late to abort and run, though, because she senses his presence, even as far away as he is, and turns over her shoulder to look at him. He swallows thickly.

“Remus,” she breathes, sets down her quill. It takes her a full half-minute to say, “You look… all kinds of awful.”

Remus’ first instinct is to smile, but he’s not even certain it shows, if those synapses fire in his brain or not. “I’m so sorry,” is the first thing he whispers, aware of Madam Pince’s owl-like ears, sliding his books down onto the table and dropping into the chair beside her, perhaps so tired out of his mind that he can actually hold extended eye contact without feeling self-conscious. He feels weird, and desperate, but the immediacy takes precedence over self-consciousness. “Merlin, Lily, I’m so sorry you had to see that. And I’m sorry I didn’t put a stop to it sooner — not the way I ended up doing, obviously — and I’m sorry I touched you. Really, really sorry. I don’t…” He leans close, shaking his head in a frenzy, which only makes his aching brain rattle around. “I don’t know what got into me.”

Lily doesn’t withdraw, which is a good sign. She does take stock of, presumably, the dark rings around his eyes, and then rubs her palms absently against her skirt across her thighs. “Hey,” she says softly, after Remus’ heart has fluttered like hummingbird wings for long enough. “Apology accepted. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me, anyway. Just… just Black.” Her lips purse and she turns herself around on her chair to face Remus, fingers twining together in her lap. “However, I do think you set a terrible example for the younger kids there, especially being a prefect, and all.” Remus knows she means her words, at least for the most part, though her lips are now quirked sweetly at the corners.

Remus sighs. He’d forgotten about his dubious prefect status. “Not so sure I am anymore.” Discipline. He’s not sure when it’ll come, or in what form, but he’s toothbrush-washed enough stone floors in his lifetime out of allegiance to his troublemaking friends that he’s sure he can endure it — unless Dumbledore decides to act on one of his devious, sadistic schemes and lock him and Sirius into the Potions supply closet until they can settle their differences, where Remus will inevitably have to confess his undying love, and Sirius will feel so guilty at the unrequitedness that he’ll chug a batch of Amortentia right then and there and come to regret it whenever the potion wears off. 

“Of course you are.” Lily steps onto the tracks of his ludicrous train of thought. Remus blinks, and it doesn’t barrel straight into her. She’s smiling at him, very faintly, and then she, oh fuck, takes his one of his hands in her own. His hands, which have grown obscenely big in the time of his growth spurt, make Lily’s, with their softness and smallness and lack of wiry hair growing on their knuckles, look like a child’s. “Everyone has their royal cock-ups, Remus. You’re past due.” He swallows so dryly it hurts, and she’s still watching him, so he watches back.

“Thanks,” he murmurs stupidly. Girls. He’s not sure what to do, how to read her. And that’s when she pitches in closer and he nearly loses his mind but barely flinches on the very outside. She doesn’t kiss him, though.

“What did you smell in the Amortentia, Remus?” Lily whispers instead. Remus chokes on his own breath.

“What?” he mutters. He and Lily are inside their own bubble; no sane student goes to the library on a Saturday morning, so they’re corralled from the barren, dusty void of the library by the shelves surrounding them, and within that they’ve got the smaller, more intimate bubble of their bowed heads, just inches apart. 

Lily breathes out a soft laugh. “What did you smell in the Amortentia we brewed in Potions?”

Remus simply stares. This must be a trick question, or a joke, and he has to figure out soon, because it’s gone on too long to withhold an answer.

Lily pats the back of his hand. “Sorry. I don’t mean to pry. It’s just that… I smelled a late autumn breeze. Milky tea. And…” Remus’ eyes hone in on the way her upper teeth scratch across her lower lip. “And a really disgustingly sweaty Potter.”

Remus swears his pupils constrict to the size of a pinhead when his eyes dart to Lily’s. “You…”

“Yes.” She clears her throat.

“You… like James.”

“Yes.” She looks past his shoulder, and then her gaze makes its way tentatively back to his own. “I like James. And I think that you smelled Sirius Black.”

Remus’ eyelids peel wide open. His heart skips a beat. “Oh, fuck,” he whispers, and it’s not the denial he meant to spit out because there was never a denial in the first place.

Lily doesn’t seem to think it’s funny. In fact, her expression is oddly serious. “I’m not going to tell anyone,” she murmurs. “And I told you that, about mine, to prove that to you.” Her thumbs rub across the back of Remus’ hand like the windshield wipers on a Muggle car. “It’s just that… after yesterday, Remus, everyone with eyes thinks you fancy me. Potter, for one.” Her nose crinkles up. “Probably Black, too.”

Remus’ jaw hangs open, but he’s not sure why. Sirius and Lily had kissed, and he’d gone in and pounded the shit out of Sirius’ eyeball. It’s a natural conclusion to make. But… “I’m so confused,” he admits, eyes trained downward.

If Remus were to look up, Lily would probably be smiling sympathetically. “Why is that?”

“How you knew,” he says vaguely, in a scratchy voice. “And how — what? You like James? He’s been after you for years, you’ve rejected him time after time. As a matter of fact, it was only last week that he became determined to move on from you, and you —”

“Yes!” Lily says, just a little bit loud, squeezing the life out of Remus’ hands. She winces at the echo, and when there’s only the faintest rustle of paper from the direction of Madam Pince’s desk, she exhales tightly and fixes Remus with a look. “Yes, I know. Don’t remind me. I have the worst timing, and now it’s too late, and I feel like a fool. I’ve just never been good at reacting to his advances, so even at the start of this year, Remus, when we were promoted together, I kept up acting the same as I always did. Because he liked me still, even when I was nothing but a bitch to him — granted, he deserved it more than half the time. But now, I’m still the same, and you’ve just said…” Her countenance is overcome with a delicate sort of distress. “He doesn’t like me anymore.”

“No,” Remus breathes quickly, and his fingers touch her cheek, just because it feels right to do, though he retracts them seconds later, because second thoughts. “He’s mad about you, Lily, he’s always been. It’s just… I’m sure you understand. It’s been a little stultifying for him, being brushed off and flat-out rebuffed constantly.”

Creases form between Lily’s auburn brows. “I know, I know. I’m a disaster.”

Remus laughs humorlessly. “No fucking way. If James knew, he’d throw a party everyday for the rest of his life. You should tell him. I’ll tell him, even. Not that he’ll believe me, but…”

“Remus, don’t,” Lily snaps quickly. “I can’t. Don’t say a word to him, I’ll hex you.” She sighs, lets her eyes slip shut. “I’m a disaster,” she repeats meekly.

“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to?” Remus gives her hand one last scrunch before he drops his elbows onto the table and his heavy forehead sinks into his hands. There’s a silence, followed by Lily’s hand rubbing against his shoulder blade.

“I just had a feeling,” she says quietly. “You were so — so weird about Dorcas. And then about the Amortentia. And I think you thought I fancied you for a moment there, Remus, which… well, I think you’re lovely and brilliant and totally lovable.” She pauses, and he feels her fingers tap against the piling material of his jumper. “Then you hit Black.” Another pause. “I don’t think you should be concerned. It’s not obvious. It was just a lucky guess on my part.”

“I’m not gay, I don’t think,” whispers Remus.

Lily huffs a soft chuckle. “Okay.”

“And I wish I didn’t like him so much. I wish I didn’t like him at all.”

“I know.”

Remus digs his nails into his forehead.

“I don’t think you should rule it out entirely,” Lily now says, and there’s a creak as she turns in her chair and scoots it closer to the table. “Black is… open-minded. He’s comfortable with who he is. I’ve always thought that he’s had this… this particular panache about him.”

Remus rubs at his eyes, thinks about Sirius’ jokes about kissing Severus in the courtyard the afternoon prior. “He’s allowed to have panache, having snogged every girl of appropriate age in this school and shagged half.”

Lily seems to reconsider her words in silence. “I’m sorry, Remus.” She cracks open Spellman’s Syllabary. “I don’t think you should give up.”

Remus’ smile isn’t genuine, but there’s a ball of warmth in the very center of his chest that burns for Lily. “I appreciate the sentiment. It’s me, though, who doesn’t think you should give up.” He shrugs his shoulders, decides to become a real person again, after having spent his first several hours of the day as a werewolf and the latter as a maudlin excuse for a life form. He pulls The Fountain of Fair Fortune out of his stack of books. “I can’t tell you what to do, but… my advice?” He smiles half-heartedly. “Liquid courage.”

Lily snorts loudly, though there’s no accompanying squawk from Madam Pince. “Good god, Remus Lupin. I’m not drinking myself to the point of insanity of actual, verbal confession.”

Remus peeks at her with a wry smile. “Your loss.”

Lily rolls her eyes, fiddles with a button on her cardigan. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to push my own boundaries like that.”

“I think you just might surprise yourself.” Remus gazes at the fifteenth runic symbol for fountain he’s seen in a short two pages.

Lily doesn’t say anything for a while, and Remus is fine with that. He’s recuperating, he thinks, from that feeling of his brain swelling too large for his head, begging to burst and explode from his temples and ears like confetti into the air at the words And I think that you smelled Sirius Black.

“You said you’re not a homosexual, Remus?” is what Lily asks him after fifteen solid minutes of rune-translation. Remus cautiously lifts his gaze. Her face is obscured by a few astray locks of hair that he won’t bother to move out of his eyes despite the fact that they won’t be of any help to cover the ugly blush creeping over his neck.

“I don’t… I don’t think so.”

Lily nods. “But you are a virgin.”

Remus emits a noise that sounds frighteningly like a grunting Hippogriff. There his brain goes again, pounding to the beat of his heart, blood rushing from his toes to gather in his cheeks like the torturous biological phenomenon it is. “Goddammit, Lily Evans, what is it about me that allows you to read me like a fucking book?” he gasps that time, and on his way to bring his hand up to clutch at his hair in anguish, he inadvertently knocks it loudly against the underside of the table. The sound of the thud, as well as Remus’ own “Oh fuckshit!” reverberate throughout the room.

“Shhhh!” comes Madam Pince’s fierce hiss in response.

Remus cradles his hand to his chest, stares in bewilderment out at the forest of bookshelves his swear disappeared into, and then looks with resignation into Lily’s eyes. She’s grinning at him.

“Because, Remus,” she begins coolly as she laces her fingers over the edge of the table, “I happen to think we’re very much alike.” She thinks, then cringes fleetingly. “Aside from the liking you’ve taken to Sirius Black. But… We’re both virgins.” Her eyes flit to Remus briefly, as if expecting him to be shocked. He tries, on a moment’s notice, to act it, but he thinks he fails miserably. Lily rolls her eyes. “Anyway, we’re both behind, technically speaking. We should… we should make this our year, Remus. It’s the last we’ve got at Hogwarts before we go into the real world and everyone will expect us to know more than we do. Who knows, perhaps you’ll meet some gorgeous, older resident Healer at St. Mungo’s who just happens to look like the lovechild of James Potter and James Dean and he’ll fancy you and he’ll ask you on a date and he’ll try to kiss you only to get a faceful of tongue, poorly done tongue, like, drool everywhere, and then he’ll try to put his hand on your breast and your first instinct will be to knee him in the willy because you — you’re a bloody virgin who hasn’t the faintest idea what the hell she’s doing!”

Remus rubs his hand over his chin, attempts to relate. “Right,” he answers slowly. “My… my breast, yeah. Okay. Do go on.”

It’s difficult to suppress a smile when Lily eyes him mock-coldly. “My point is that we should encourage each other. I’ll be your wingwoman, you’ll be my wingman.”

Remus starts to laugh with incredulity, because wingman is not on his resumé. Not even close.

Lily’s eyes narrow. “Oh, come on. People like you, Remus. You’re not obnoxious. The berks that think Sirius Black and Potter are ace think you are, too, and those that think they’re fucking barmy sympathize with you because they think you’re obligated to stick around them by the bonds of time. You’d — you’d make a great wingman, I swear! If you talked me up to Kingsley, he’d trust you, no doubt.” Lily stares long enough to ensure that Remus isn’t taking this all as a joke, and then she forges onward. “And I have pull with the Gryffindor girls and all the House prefects. You’d make my job easy, anyway — selling quiet, cute, smart boys to desperate girls is easy. You’re exactly what we all want!”

Remus scratches at the side of his neck. “I don’t know, Lily. I — No! Stop! I’m not disagreeing with you, don’t start,” he says quickly, holding up a hand. “I just… Is this all necessary? You… you make a point about being ready, ready for when we leave here, which I get. I get it. But… I’m sure it all comes with time, don’t you think? There’s no reason to rush. It’s not that… It’s not that I don’t want to have sex. I do.” He blushes, rubs his fingers against the heat of his cheek.

“Remus, I’m not going to make you do anything you don’t want to. Of course not. I just think that — people in our year have mindless sex all the time, don’t they?” Lily sounds to be fretting. She fiddles with a tear on the page of her book. “They manage to do it, and they’re getting all this practice, and I’m busy, I’ve got shit to do, Remus, not to mention that I’m cripplingly fastidious, which can be a turn-off for boys who don’t really know me, and a good word from you —“

“Good god,” Remus laughs, dropping his palm on top of Lily’s fidgety hand. “I’ll help you. I’ll help you, yeah? And…” He shrugs, sliding his hand to the table and drumming his fingers against it. “And should I find myself in the mood —”

“Firewhisky’ll do it,” says Lily.

Remus arches a brow, but doesn’t dissent. “— I wouldn’t be opposed to you helping me.”

Lily smiles hesitantly, and as she sighs, the tension seems to leave her neck and shoulders. “Thank Merlin.” She shuts her eyes, leans her head against her hand. “If I ever get the opportunity to shag James Potter, I just don’t want to act like a clueless cow.”

Remus presses his fist against his lips chuckles despite himself and drops his forehead against the spot his mouth had occupied. “Again, I shall reiterate my point,” he mutters, directed at the floor. “You could be a — you could be clueless, literally. You could lick James’ eyeball or bite his dick and he’d still be over the moon.”

Lily sighs, swivels around to face her Runes work again. “If you say so, Remus. But I couldn’t. I can’t tell him, not when I’ve spent years rejecting him, acting as if my standards are ridiculously high when I’m just a big, stinking hypocrite.”

Remus rolls his eyes. He’d only caught the last few words of that, because he’s still thinking about it, thinking about Sirius, thinking about Lily knowing about Sirius. “You don’t smell bad,” he tells her unhelpfully. Then his brain catches up with his mouth. “And I still believe you’re taking this all much too seriously. Not everyone is shagging everyone else. Pete is most definitely still a virgin, too. I’d know about it the second he touched female anatomy that isn’t breasts through a shirt.”

Lily blinks at him several quick times in succession, too theatrical to be deadpan. “Brilliant. Peter Pettigrew. Thank Godric I’m not alone in my virginity.”

Remus snorts. “Shut up. You know what I mean.” He notices his quill on the floor, and leans over to pick it up, blows the dust off the shoddy fringe of the feather. 

“People think you fancy me.”

Remus looks up, then. Lily’s smiling again, and not tauntingly. Just in amusement, he thinks. He sighs, stretches out his long legs beneath the table. “Let them. If anything, it’ll help me out a bit, in case anyone else is a sleuthing psychologist-type like you. You can also tell them you don’t fancy me back, like you’ve got a new pathetic admirer on your heels.”

“Alright. But that wasn’t our deal. Sweet as you are, Remus, I don’t fancy you, and you now owe me a snog with Kingsley Shacklebolt.” With a screech of wood against wood, Lily scoots her chair closer to the table. “Now that that’s settled… Runes?”

***

Remus stops by the Great Hall to stuff a steak pie down his throat and takes a second one to go on his way back to Gryffindor Tower. Books in hand, crumbs still on his lips, he schleps into the room with plans to nap for at least a solid three hours, only to stop short at the sight of both James and Peter, both of whose head turns his way when the door creaks open. He swipes at his mouth, catches a book that slips from his grip, and tries to swallow down his last bite that suddenly feels like a ball of cement in his throat. Senses dampened by fear, he belatedly notices that their room reeks of weed.

“Moony,” James breathes, handing a joint off to Peter as he rises from the window seat. “You’ve looked better.”

“So has Sirius,” murmurs Peter. Remus’ chest puffs outward as he snorts.

“I’ve felt worse,” he says, traipses over to his bed to drop off his books. He doesn’t know quite how to address it, the Hippogriff in the room, but he doesn’t worry, knows James will manage to spring it on him soon. “Where’s… where’s Sirius?”

“With… who was it, Pete? Emmeline Vance?” James shrugs, lets his shoulders drop back into place limply. “Guess she wanted another go at him after yesterday.” Peter nods in confirmation.

“Right,” whispers Remus, a bitter smile twitching at his lips. He wastes no time in filing the books into their rightful places on the shelf and flopping into bed, fully-dressed and shoed and in yesterday’s clothes. His arm presses across his eyes wearily, but Remus doesn’t blame James for his innate curiosity when he feels the mattress dip slightly under the weight of James’ arms.

“What was that, mate?” James asks. “Was it ‘cos of… Lily? That was just… fuckin’ bizarre. Or ‘cos we didn’t listen to your advice? I know you get all peaky ‘round this time, but I don’t think you’ve ever been… I don’t know. Aggressive?” James picks at the worn, soft cotton of Remus’ sheets. “Sirius feels bad ‘bout it.” James’ eye contact finally wanders as he adds, “Also didn’t know if you and Lily were, er. Actually, like…”

Remus bumps his fist absently against James’ shoulder and allows his own arm to flop out of his field of vision. “We’re not,” he assures him, smile small but knowing. “And about Sirius… I don’t know. I feel fucking terrible about it. I shouldn’t have… I don’t know what I was thinking.” He gulps dryly. “But if he’s with Emmeline, then he’s — alright?”

“He was bleeding,” Peter pipes up.

Remus feels the color drain from his face, but James chuckles. “Just on his eyebrow. S’just swollen, his eye. Reckon he’s thrilled about it, actually, ‘cos it makes him look tough.”

Remus’ eyes roll, and he shuts them again.

“Scared us there, though, Moony.” James nudges his shoulder.

“Did I at least distract McGonagall from issuing proper discipline for your batshit crazy kissing booth?” Remus’ voice comes out as a croak. For all he’s relieved that Sirius is fine, like he’d suspected, the thought of Emmeline Vance extending yesterday’s galleon’s worth to today makes him feel wobbly.

“She made James take Sirius to the Hospital Wing, and then she went off with you to Dumbledore’s. But by the time she got back, all the evidence was gone,” Peter answers pridefully, penetrating into the reddish darkness beneath Remus’ eyelids.

“Nice one, Pete.” James’ grin is audible.

“Good night,” hums Remus.

James shakes at his arm until Remus cracks open an eye. “Wait, Moony, just.” He sighs out his nose. “Talk to Sirius.”

Remus, gut tying itself into a pretty package of resentment, regret, and jealousy, nods.

***

For all Remus knows, Sirius spends the whole of Sunday with Emmeline Vance. He could’ve even been in Hogsmeade, or London, or Antarctica — Remus only knows that he trudges into their room and rolls into bed long past curfew.

When Remus arises before everyone else the next morning, Sirius has got his bed drapes drawn shut, so he still hasn’t seen the product of his outburst. He’s not sure he wants to.

They’ve all got Herbology in the morning, but Sirius doesn’t show up for breakfast. James only drags his arse out to the Great Hall for Head Boy duties, and Peter tells him that Sirius is still fast asleep. In class itself, Sirius and James walk into the greenhouses twenty minutes late, so they’re forced to take the empty work station closest to Professor Sprout. Remus thinks distastefully, however, that Sirius might just be pleased about that, ever since he’d begun to insist in fourth year that Pomona Sprout is decidedly a cougar, and a fit one at that. Remus himself just doesn’t see it.

He attends the prefects’ meeting at lunch with James and they walk together to Divination, where Sirius has already fallen asleep with his hair over his eyes, masked from the professor’s view by his crystal ball.

Remus feels like a rubber band that’s been stretched much too thin. The day doesn’t give him any explicit opportunities, those in which Sirius is both out in the open and awake, un-flanked by James or Peter or a disapproving Professor Sprout, but he’s also perfectly aware that he could be making those opportunities for himself.

And he doesn’t.

Remus only realizes he’s missed the first half of dinner when he looks up from his books to an empty room and to find the sun low in the sky. He’s meeting Lily soon to help out with the Arithmancy they’d never gotten around to the day prior, and though Remus convinces himself it’s out of convenience that he drops by the kitchens instead of the Great Hall to grab a little knapsack of food the elves put together on the spot for him, he knows why. He’s halfway through his second roll, chewing discreetly as not to attract the crumb-tracking eyes of Madam Pince, when he swerves around the bookshelf that conceals their usual corner table.

“Just so you’re aware, I feel like absolute shit today. Like… steaming. Freshly shat,” Remus mutters around his mouthful, coming upon Lily. Or… not just Lily. Lily, beside whom sits Mary Macdonald. Remus blinks, nails sinking into soft bread, searches the walls around him for a clock. “Er… am I late?”

Lily, who’d been facing Mary, whips around, glossy hair falling over her shoulders, books bundled up against her chest as if she’s just about to leave. She beams at him. “Not at all. You’re just in time, actually.”

“Hi, Remus,” says Mary. Her smile is mellow as she tilts her head to the side, bats big, brown eyes at him. Remus, at a loss for words, lifts his hand in a sad excuse for a wave only to realize he’s still holding a roll. 

“Hello,” he breathes.

“Just got done with my Arithmancy. I think I was just overcomplicating things. A second look over it with a clear mind helped,” Lily explains, hopping up onto her feet. She pushes her chair in, then regards Remus with a questioning look. “I’ve got… Er, I’ve got a meeting with McGonagall that I’d forgotten all about.” Remus can tell she’s prevaricating. Lily winks at him, which just corroborates his suspicions. “But Mary’s in Arithmancy, too, and she hasn’t finished the assignment. I really wanted to help her, I did, but now I’ve got… You understand, Remus. Can’t keep Minerva waiting.”

Remus can’t believe it took him this long to comprehend just what he’d stepped into. It’s a trap, clearly, and now he’s been ensnared by his ankle with nowhere to go. “Tardiness and McG would not bode well,” he agrees slowly, and when Lily’s smile turns pinched, her eyes flickering just barely perceptibly in Mary’s direction, Remus clears his throat. He smiles faintly at Mary, who’s watching their conversation with a funny sort of smile. “I’d be happy to help you, Mary.”

“Perfect!” sings Lily in full soprano. “I’ll be off, then! Bye!” Her exit is abrupt, though she leaves Remus with a squeeze to his arm in passing. When he looks over his shoulder to mouth What the fuck? at her out of Mary’s view, she doesn’t even look back to see it.

Remus clears his throat. He can feel the redness start to creep up his neck from within the collar of his jumper. He’s never had an unfavorable interaction with Mary Macdonald, is the thing. He doesn’t believe he’s ever spoken more than a few words to her. And despite being bamboozled, he can’t help but think Lily has only the best in mind for him, because nobody thinks badly of Mary. And, with her dark, smooth hair and thick brows and long, long eyelashes that frame doe eyes, she’s altogether rather lovely.

Mary picks up her cloak from where it’d been bundled up on the table, traipses over to idle by Remus, more than a full head shorter than him.

She rocks back and forth from the balls of her feet to her heels. He thinks she’s Muggleborn, and wonders vaguely if she’s charmed her eyelashes so dark or if she’s used the pigment on them of which his mother had once been so fond. “Er, fancy heading up to the Astronomy Tower?” Before Remus even has a chance to process this, she says, “The sky won’t be dark for another hour and a half. Won’t be bumping into any classes, I promise.” Her lips quirk up at the corners.

It’s a bit chilly to study in the Tower, but Remus doesn’t object. “Alright,” he answers momentarily. Then, he swallows. Study? She doesn’t even have her fucking books.

When Remus turns and gestures for Mary to slip by first, she doesn’t, and her arm hooks around his elbow instead, taking him bodily with her. It’s unexpected, but not unwelcome, even, when she squeezes the inside of his elbow and smiles secretively up at him, as if they’re heading to a little world only they two know about — which, as it happens, is quite close to what ends up occurring that night, to Remus’ emotionally-entangled recollection.

Remus and Mary make their way out of the library. She lets go of them once they make it out into the halls, and he thinks he’s done something wrong, but she smiles up at him and bites her lip, and he wonders if it’s a nervous tic or if she’s, by god, flirting, because hell, he’s falling right for it.

He has to dodge a suit of armor because he’s staring at her so intently, so bewildered. To top it off, his voice comes out embarrassingly rough. “So, er, how do you like Arithmancy?”

Remus thanks his lucky stars Sirius doesn’t happen to be passing by at a most inopportune moment. Nah. Sirius Black in the hallways before curfew? There had been nothing to worry about.

Mary shrugs, twists her cloak into a tighter ball in her hands. “It’s difficult,” she says. “I don’t like it that much, really. Me mum’s a maths professor. She convinced me to take it, but I think it’s just because she wants me to teach it to her.”

How does one small talk? Remus panics. “A professor? That’s — wow. She’s probably brilliant.”

Mary nods. “She does all sorts of research at a uni. About… combinatorics? I can’t understand a bloody thing, of course.”

“Very few can,” Remus murmurs, which makes Mary smile a bit. “I’ve considered, er. Becoming a professor one day, too. Of magic, though. Not of maths.”

“I think you’d make a great professor, Remus.”

“I haven’t even helped you with your Arithmancy yet. You can’t possibly know that.”

“Just take the compliment.”

Remus seems to find himself rather often in the Astronomy Tower, powerless to the will of another being. As he sits down on the sun-warmed stone — it’s still holding onto the dregs of heat from pre-sunrise — and sets down the Arithmancy textbook and a few clattering quills that roll in all directions, Mary sits down across from him. She methodically folds her rumpled cloak and places it beside her. It’s chilly, Remus thinks, and he thought she’d brought it specifically for the raw bite of the air, but they’re not studying, clearly, so he’s not sure how it’ll help and, oh.

Mary proceeds to gather Remus’ books and shove them out of the way. She shifts onto her knees and then settles back down again, hands on her thighs, just... staring at him.

“Seems I’ve forgotten my Arithmancy work,” she murmurs coyly, mock-innocently.

“Have you?” Remus’ voice comes out as a high-pitched croak. When Mary laughs in a gentle, girlish way, he smiles sheepishly, too, but heat continues to prickle at his skin, sweat continues to bead at his hairline.

“Sorry. Silly me. I’d meant to do it yesterday, too, but, well. Sundays are meant to be enjoyed.”

Remus nods vaguely. He’d also enjoyed his Sunday, simultaneously evading and thinking nonstop about the best mate he’s yet to speak to since he’d knocked him upside the head on Saturday.

“Remus,” Mary says, and Remus doesn’t believe he’s ever felt velvet with his own fingers, but that’s how her voice sounds — like velvet, warm after that drying spell his Da always uses on their clothes at home.

Remus clears his throat, realizes he’s been staring at Mary’s folded cloak, and tugs mindlessly on the collar of his jumper. “Yes?”

She raises her brows at him. He looks away. “Sirius told me that you told him that Lily liked me,” he says, barely audible but like a complete buffoon.

Mary’s head appears in his field of vision, because she’s ducked down in front of his now apparently immovable gaze. “I did say that. It’s what I thought. And perhaps I was spreading it around because I was a bit jealous. But… look, Remus, Lily told me that you’d like to… But if you don’t, then you can just —”

When Remus kisses her, it’s tentative and chaste and dry and oh-so virginal, and that’s perhaps why Mary bubbles out a giggle when their lips part. Remus just looks at her with wide, unblinking eyes as her own squint with mirth, their faces mere inches apart. When did he last kiss a girl? He nearly had, over the summer, when his mother’s Muggle friends had been invited for dinner one warm, humid night. They’d had a lovely, straw-haired daughter, a year older than Remus, but he’d not been nearly brave enough. The last time, then, had likely been the kiss orchestrated by Sirius on one of the last nights of the term when he’d been manically obsessed with getting every sixth-year Gryffindor on board with hallucinogenic potions and having a year-wide orgy. It’d not been much of an orgy, nor had it been nearly as psychedelic as Sirius had desired — just spiked pumpkin juice and some deeply-regretted, messy snogging sessions with girls who had thankfully graduated since then.

Remus blinks out of his daze. Mary is laughing. “Why’re you —?” he begins to ask, but then Mary just chuckles once more.

“You’re just in your own world, aren’t you, Remus?” she mutters, and now she’s fingering the front of his jumper, right over his fluttering heart. He can feel it. The cloying scent of her perfume has made it to his brain, and it’s giving him something of a reverse-headache, that’s making his brain feel like it’s been lined with thick fuzz, pillowed against the inside of his skull. Her eyes, round and brown, are lidded with pink, soft veins and her lips are full and a little pale, possibly because of the impending chill in the air, and he bets her face is as soft, softer than her mouth had been. His stomach knots itself up. “And I’m laughing because that was just rather pathetic, wasn’t it?“ She wrinkles her nose, teasingly paws at his jumper again. “That kiss. I paid eight sickles yesterday for Sirius Black to kiss me like that, and even he —”

Remus absolutely doesn’t want to hear the end of that sentence. His hands seize the supple sides of Mary’s face as he rises up onto his knees, mouth finding mouth, and when her arms find their way around his neck, he lowers her back onto her waiting cloak with a hand on the back of her head and another cradling the delicate arch of the small of her back. He snorts when she wiggles under him to kick off her shoes, and she smells like lavender and tastes like the vague traces of that evening’s dessert. Her hair doesn’t feel like Sirius’ does under his fingertips, the several times he’s felt it, and there are breasts, fuck, there are breasts pressing into his chest when he looms close enough and brackets her thighs with his knees, and that’s normal — it’s not unfamiliar but it still feels new. Mary’s fingers curl into his jumper at the back of his neck and tug urgently, and that’s when he really tastes her, when her tongue slides against his own. It isn’t unpleasant, either, when she guides his palm up to her right breast, and Remus’ breath goes all shaky against hers, and Mary laughs that gleeful, girly cry again, and it’s okay. It’s good. She’s all black moles in funny places and thick eyelashes that tickle Remus’ cheeks and two feet of thick, brunette hair that falls through his fingers like sand and her bra, under her conservative school-sanctioned clothes, is white and laced with little daisies. She’s nothing like he’d imagine Sirius, no, but at least their differences are so conspicuous that he can’t fall into that hole of pretending. He can take her as she is and bloody enjoy it.

***

Remus sinks into the pool of a tub in the prefects’ bathroom.

He lowers himself all the way in at first, stays under as long as he can hold his breath, and then bobs to the surface, hair dripping eager rivulets into his eyes. As he scoots himself onto the bench that runs along the tub’s perimeter, he turns on the closest tap. The water floods with a light violet color as foam forms around him. Remus hasn’t the slightest idea what each tap triggers, and he probably will not before leaving Hogwarts, but at this point, if he emerges from the bathroom later that night smelling like an artificial flower garden, he won’t be too bothered.

He rolls out his neck, draws his knees in toward his chest, settles his chin upon his knees. It’s been hardly twenty minutes since Remus and Mary had skittered out of the Astronomy Tower, bounding into the hall just in time to turn the corner and come across the Astronomy professor, Professor Alnair, guiding a sleepy-looking flock of first-years toward the Tower. Remus had barely had time to untuck the back of Mary’s skirt from her stockings before the pair and the group converged. Remus’ prefect’s badge, though chewed up and smelling of dog breath, had been in place on his chest. Professor Alnair had recognized him by face and smiled upon them kindly before proceeding along with her students. Mary had burst into laughter as soon as they round another corner, and Remus had just patted around for a wall he could sink down against, staring up at her beaming face with an equal amounts of amusement, relief, and stupefaction. She’d returned to Gryffindor Tower after walking Remus to the prefects’ bathroom.

The almost uncomfortably hot water sizzles satisfyingly against his post-full moon tender skin, rendering him slightly dizzy, which, Remus thinks as he closes the tap with a metallic squeak, is a fine mindset for him to be at. He’s still unable to fully wrap his mind around what he’d found it in himself to do — with Mary’s urging encouragement, that is. He lifts his hands from the water — no pruning yet — and stares at his knobby, long fingers. His mother had always told wee, little Remus that he was like a puppy — with hands and feet much too big for his growing body. In hindsight, Remus finds this darkly humorous, but although the rest of his body has indeed grown to match, his hands still feel much too big. Or perhaps it’s just that they don’t feel very much like his own at the moment.

He’d touched her. Beneath her knickers. And he would’ve never had Mary not directed him there herself. His eyes narrow in on his bitten fingernails as he swallows against a newly-forming lump in his throat, recalls her breathless noises, how endearing it had been to watch her squirm back into her stockings in a hurry, to watch the soft, bouncy skin of her thighs as she’d moved.

Remus hears the door open and drops his hands into the water with a splash that echoes in the cavernous bathroom. He stares with intent at the purpley surface of the water, hunches an inch lower into the bubbles around him. Given how few of them there are, it’s rare to run into another prefect in the bathroom, especially at this time of night. 

“James was right, then, the old bastard. Should start trusting him more,” says Sirius, and Remus whirls around on the slippery tile of the bench. Sirius strides toward the tub, robes hanging unfastened but still on his shoulders. Remus doesn’t notice it at first — the sconces in the bathroom dim to a calm candlelit quality in the evenings — but when he gets close enough, Sirius’ black eye is a hell of a sight to take in — dappled purple, scabbed, some parts yellowing, his eye just shy of swollen shut. Sirius’ lips quirk up at the corners, and Remus simply knows he’s going to be called out for staring, so he speaks up first.

“How did you — how’d you get in here?” Remus mutters. “Did James tell you the password?”

Sirius chuckles. “I don’t need anyone to tell me the password, Moony.” His thumbs hook over the outsides of his robe pockets. He’s about five feet away, but Remus isn’t really looking at him. “For all you prefects are awful smart, you’re also terribly predictable. September’s password was minty fresh — much to my shock, they hadn’t changed it since the Spring — and they —  the all-knowing password choosers, the powers that be — kept up the pattern, too, that’d been easy enough to figure out last year. Rotate the herb’s first letter backward once — mint to lavender, though I’ll admit I tried lemongrass first — and then rotate the vowel in the adjective forward once — it was fresh, so e goes to i, and that’s just a bit of guesswork, but Dumbledore isn’t all that creative. Lavender crisp sounds like something he’d either eat or douse himself in.”

Remus, despite feeling cold inside, eaten alive by guilt, still takes a moment to marvel at Sirius’ ingenuity. “I don’t understand you sometimes,” he says, quiet, unable to suppress a smile.

Sirius shrugs out of his outer robes, drops them in a haphazard pile to the floor. The steam from the tub must be making him hot. “I have to get into this bathroom, Moony. They’ve got this lotion in here that smells of whipped cream, but only for you privileged fucks. And as for not understanding me, I could say the very same about you.” Remus’ eyes track Sirius as he traipses decidedly toward the tub and toes out of his shoes, peels off his socks. Steps right in so he’s standing on the bench Remus sits on. He’s still in his white button-up and school trousers, which are growing even blacker with saturation.

“What are you doing?” Remus blanches.

“Nobody likes wet socks, Remus,” Sirius offers, and then he cannon-balls into the water, sending foam flying into the air. Remus panics momentarily, because he’s naked, he’s fucking naked, and Sirius still hasn’t surfaced, but when he does, it’s with a sopping curtain of black hair across his eyes, and his hands grip tightly onto Remus’ knees, the knees that Remus has still got held up against his body. Sirius breathes out a heavy exhale, wipes the hair from his eyes, which sparkle with peaked, darkened lashes when they flash at Remus. He feels faint for an entirely different reason now. Sirius’ eye — the swollen one — is bloodshot and puffy. He wants to interrogate Sirius on his capricious decision-making skills, why the hell are you fully-clothed and in the same tub as I am, but instead Remus’ damp fingers brush against the wounded skin, draw a C-shape from eyebrow to under eye.

“Agh!” Sirius seethes through a wince that jerks at all the muscles in his face. Remus whips his hand away, but when Sirius cracks his eyes open again, a grin takes hold of his countenance. “Just kidding. Can’t feel a thing after Pomfrey’s magic.”

Remus breathes out a disbelieving chuckle. “You wanker,” he whispers, ignores the insistent pressure of Sirius’ fingers on his knees, the anchors keeping him afloat.

Sirius just shrugs, shirt-clad shoulders sloshing against the water, and then he settles his arms against Remus’ knees so he can rest his chin against them. He seems to detect some sort of discomfort in Remus’ face because he huffs out a laugh and says, “Relax, Moony. I’ve seen all of you.” And then, as his eyes canvas Remus’ face with an unreadable expression, he sighs. “You’ve been hiding from me.”

Remus’ brows crease, then soften. “Maybe.”

“Look, mate, about Lily... I’m sorry. I didn’t think she’d, y’know. Do that. So I just kind of went for it. And I didn’t know you fancied her that much.“ 

“Sirius,” Remus mumbles, arms folded tightly to his chest. It’s strange, having Sirius so close again after a couple of days apart, and he feels like he needs to hold himself together in the circle of his arms. Sirius has entered his center of gravity, weighing against his legs. “Fuck, don’t — why are you apologizing? Fucking, don’t... don’t fucking apologize.”

Sirius watches him, blinks. “That was a lot of fucks.”

Remus snorts pathetically, smushes his hand over his face. “Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you about the snogging booth.”

“You — what?” Remus lowers his hand. “Sirius, I hit you. I hurt you! And you — you hardly provoked me. You didn’t deserve that. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m the one apologizing.”

Sirius’ mouth tilts in that lopsided, unnervingly charming smirk. “Easy, Moony. You’re alright. I can take a hit. I’m not made of glass.” He lifts his chin so he can reach out, clap a hand onto Remus’ bare shoulder. Remus pictures it, what Sirius looks like with his legs splayed underwater, clothes billowing at the whim of the unmoving current, held afloat only by Remus himself. “I was just worried about you. How was the moon? I figured you didn’t want to see me.”

Remus resists the burning desire of an urge to tuck Sirius’ hair behind his ear. “I didn’t,” he says weakly, laughs faintly. “But I was being stubborn. It was unreasonable.”

“Everyone’s an idiot when in love,” Sirius supplies, his grin growing. “Y’know, I’d never even thought about it, you and Evans, but it makes a hell of a lot more sense than her and Prongs, so —”

“Sirius,” Remus deadpans. “I’m not in love.” Not with Lily, at least. He’s spot on about the idiot part, though.

“No?” Sirius’ fingers walk up his shoulder, leaving goosebumps in their wake, before he tucks his arm back underneath his chin. “Mm. Not in love. Not with Lily. Fine.” He trails his fingertips in the water, if only to flick them at Remus’ face so minuscule droplets go flying into his eyes. “I believe you.” His lips twist into a maniacal grin.

Remus sighs. “If it’s cold, hard proof you need — or living and breathing, rather, I was just —” He cuts himself off. Where in hell did that come from?

Sirius perks up instantly. “You were just what?”

Remus attempts to avoid Sirius’ eyes. Hmmms faintly long enough to scan all the walls, all the stained glass mermaids the windows have to offer. “Er… Mary,” he mutters under his breath.

“Mary,” echoes Sirius, and shit, Remus hadn’t thought he’d heard. “Mary. Come to think of it, I did see Mary Macdonald on my walk here. So it was Mary who was returning from a turbulent evening of werewolf-lovin’?”

Remus is positive all the blood from even the extremities of his body has rushed to his face. Sirius’ smirk is on the edge of crazed.

“Merlin, Moony!” He laughs, a bright, echoing chime in the cavernous bathroom, and smacks his palm against Remus’ knee. Remus plows on, ardently avoiding Sirius’ eyes. Sirius whistles lowly, makes an obscene gesture with his fingers that he puts far too much theatrical effort into, and Remus rapidly shakes his head.

“No! No. Not that. I just... I don’t know. I touched her,” he says, voice meek, and good God, is this what it’s like when James and Sirius talk alone? If it is, Remus is certain they’ve both got dignities of stone not having slithered into their respective graves yet.

Sirius’ expression is softer when he looks up. “It was good?”

Remus thinks, watches Sirius’ silvery irises, the swollen hood of his left eye, and bites the inside of his lip. “Yeah.”

Sirius pats his knee, nods, clearly giddy. “Okay.” A hand finds Remus’ underwater, and Sirius lifts it above the surface, examining it. “You touched Mary Macdonald with these fingers,” he whispers conspiratorially. “These fingers, once so pure, once only ever marred by ink, chocolate stains, and the alcoholic sweat of James Potter on a bender using his tallest friend as a wall against which to lean, now deflowered...”

“Shut up,” Remus whispers, lips twitching subtly, and that’s enough to encourage Sirius, who then pushes Remus’ legs apart abruptly and wraps his arms around his neck, sagging into him in a warm, wet hug.

Initially, Remus doesn’t even move. “We’re really going to hug while I’m naked?”

“What kind of reunion would this be if we didn’t hug?” Sirius mutters, and right into his ear, too. “Oh, come on. Ease up. It’s not gay if I’ve my clothes on, though... we’ve both snogged Mary Macdonald, which pretty much means we’ve snogged each other.”

“She didn't pay you enough for it to have been a snog.” Remus stares at the far end of the bathtub, rigid against the hard tile of the bench. He’s got his naked groin against Sirius’ body, and he anticipates it will take all the willpower in him to remain levelheaded. He can’t, though, because, “You’re such a knob,” he whispers and latches onto Sirius’ middle. Sirius, content with this response, moulds himself against Remus’ body, breathes even and warm against his ear. Remus shuts his eyes, his nose tucked into the hair just above Sirius’ ear, and he squeezes him tight — tight enough to feel muscles contract, to feel the dig of ribs against his arms, and if asked if he could stay like that forever, he’d probably utter a proper loopy yes. One of his palms feels it way up between Sirius’ shoulder blades, clutching onto his wet shirt, and Merlin, this boy is fucking insane, and Remus is mad about him. In no way does holding him like this help.

Remus isn’t sure how long has passed when Sirius shifts against him and Remus loses contact, that repetitive compression of Sirius’ tummy against his own because he breathes into his stomach like no one else does but everyone should. Sirius shifts so he’s seated beside Remus on the bench, and while Remus himself sits there at a loss, Sirius lifts Remus’ arm and hooks it over his own shoulders, tucking himself into Remus’ side with that damp hair pillowing the corner of Remus’ jaw. Remus adjusts his arm around Sirius until it rests comfortably, and he moves his head, so, so cautiously, until his lips brush against the top of Sirius’ head. He exhales a trembling breath against it.

“How’s Emmeline Vance?” he asks, fingers brushing Sirius’ collarbone. Sirius hums.

“She’s alright.” He pauses. “Think she got bored of me.”

“You? Boring?” Remus smiles to himself. “I’d pay to see that.”

“No, you wouldn’t, you fucking cheapskate.”

“Three knuts, maybe.”

“Knuts’ll get you nothing, my friend. Tongue alone is a galleon.”

Remus’ fingers sink into Sirius’ skin when he laughs quietly. “Tongue’s not very boring.”

Sirius makes a thoughtful sound. “I suppose it’s not.”

“Is it worth a galleon, though?” The heat has Remus going soft, pliant. He nudges his nose into Sirius’ temple, sniffles against it. “The likelihood of syphilis transmission is high.”

Sirius hoots at that. “Moony, you little bitch. I don’t have syphilis. I can’t even spell that. Take it back,” he demands, expression comically serious, and Remus has to retract his neck when Sirius’ head turns suddenly to face him.

Remus’ eyebrow piques. “You can absolutely spell syphilis.”

Sirius squints at him accusingly. “S, Y… U, R, A prick.” He lets Remus’ arm slip from his shoulders when he rises to his feet, dripping from head to toe, clothes glued to his skin with the weight of the water. Remus doesn’t look at the faint outlines of his abdomen while he’s stepping out. “Take it back.” As stellar as Sirius is at poker faces, he’s decided to regress in talent for this very moment in which he’s grinning wryly at Remus.

“Syphilis... or maybe herpes,” Remus murmurs softly, settling his elbows against the edge of the bath behind him. The bubbles have all deflated and he’s rather sure his cock is on display through the minor distortion the water offers, but Sirius wouldn’t care, so he doesn’t. Tries not to.

“Listen, whatever I’ve got, you’ve now got, too. Mine and Macdonald’s tongues became well-acquainted, I assure you,” Sirius says as he slips against his own trail of water and steadies himself mid-air with his arms out to the sides. He lifts his head, eyes on Remus, and exhales outwardly a shred of relief.

Remus turns and folds his arms over the edge of the bath like the widely-accepted cliché of a lovesick schoolgirl. “Goddammit,” he whispers, muffling his laugh against his wrists.

Sirius nods knowingly, and then right before Remus’ eyes, transforms into Padfoot. Remus knows what’s coming before he even twitches, and just barely has time to drop his face below the wall of the bath as Sirius shakes off, water spraying in all directions. He feels it hit the skin of his arms like pinpricks, and, seconds later, the drag of a hot, warm tongue across his arm, and not the sexy kind, but the doggy kind. Is there a sexy kind of licking? Remus would imagine there is, but he’s never been on the receiving end of it, and… this certainly isn’t it. Remus lifts his head hesitantly, faced with Padfoot’s black, bottomless eyes, one of them red and veiny.

“Go on,” Remus mutters, waving his hand in the direction of the door. “Before Filch starts roaming the halls. I’ll catch up.”

Sirius just looks at him as a dog would, never truly understanding but still unconditionally loyal, and then rises from his good-boy seated position to trot to the door, tail held high.

Remus watches him go, sinks down underwater one last time. His fingers have pruned, and he can still feel the weight of Sirius against his body, Sirius caressing his fingers, that devious look in his eyes once he’d come to know what Remus and Mary had done. I know things, Remus thinks, remembers from an hour ago how it’d felt to bring that sort of strange euphoria to someone’s face. He’d felt powerful, yet in the face of Sirius, he’s instantly powerless, and, Merlin, if he begins to picture his best friend in Mary’s place, he feels everything from boneless, knee-weakening longing to Remus John Lupin you are such a fucking pervert. He reaches out and turns a tap that instantly spells the water cold, sits there with gooseflesh until he feels like pure ice, and then groaningly hoists himself from the tub. He takes Sirius’ abandoned robe, shoes, and socks with him when he leaves.

Chapter Text

When Remus returns from nightly hall patrol, the shame shift James had worked the evening prior, it’s to a hotboxed room. He can tell before he’s inside — the door sticks with the remnants of an airtight charm when he attempts to force his way in — and once he’s finished coughing against the smoke that fills his vision and his nose, shutting the door and recasting the charm, he stumbles toward the windows to force one open, then another. Clutching onto the windowsill, he sucks in a few lungfuls of fresh night air to a resounding chorus of “Moonyyy!” “Moony, what the fuck, mate?” As the smoke escapes, he can finally see far enough in the room to make out the limp silhouettes of his friends. It’s clear that the complaints came from Peter and James, who, with their legs extended in front of them and bottoms on the floor, are leaned up against James’ bed and glaring his way with red, glassy eyes. 

“You have no idea how much work went into that, Moony,” James tells him around the butt of a joint.

“Look what Sirius did!” Peter exclaims like a small child to his mother, flinging his wrist into the air. Remus conducts a brief scan of the room, and Sirius isn’t anywhere to be found, so he tentatively approaches the two of them, tugging the prefect cap from his head and squatting before the two of them. On the inside of Peter’s arm, skin red and raw, is the outline of a cartoonish rat. James forces his arm, too, into Remus’ field of view, presents him with a doodle of a Snitch with slightly off-kilter wings.

Remus’ eyes flutter with a series of disbelieving blinks. “You — are those real? How did you — Sirius did that?”

“The absolute madman,” James confirms winningly.

“You’re next, Moony,” calls Sirius from awfully close by, and when Remus rises, catching a final glimpse of James staring proudly at the drawing on his arm, he spots Sirius on the floor between his James’ beds. The setup before him is simple; an inkwell, a towel, his wand, and a strange contraption formed by string, a Muggle pencil, and a sewing needle. He’s — stabbing his left arm with this instrument, is what it looks like. Remus slips on James’ underwear as he rushes to circle the bed.

“What in fresh hell are you doing?” Remus demands. Sirius, with his tongue between his teeth, looks upward. His eyes aren’t raw like James and Pete’s, which brings Remus momentary relief before he decides that’s all the more reason to question Sirius’ sanity.

“I know what I’m doing,” Sirius says straightforwardly, which helps in no way at all to elucidate his activities to Remus. Remus sinks down to his knees in front of him, surveys the damage. Sirius has already got several dark bands circling a few of his fingers, inky shapes criss-crossing the back of his hand, the fleshy parts of his fingers. He’s in the midst of prodding a Merlin-knows-how-many-eth star onto his forearm. At the speed at which that’s happening, careful prods puncturing his skin, Remus can only imagine how long he’s been at it, but perhaps magic has played some part in that. Then again, Sirius shows enormous amounts of patience at the strangest of times.

“Is this —?”

“Yes, it’s safe, Moony. Disinfected it between each of us, I promise. Not even one of my shitty cleaning spells, but I went and burnt the needle and everything. McKinnon showed me how. And I’ve been using the same numbing and healing magic Pomfrey used on my eye. They work like a charm. Hah, get it? Charms.” Sirius’ eyes flash at him from beneath a thick frame of dark lashes, and his lips curve into the shape of a waxing crescent.

Remus shakes his head slowly, and he scoots closer on his knees, touches just the tip of Sirius’ middle finger. The skin around the black markings ebbs from tender pink to the cool tone of Sirius’ natural skin color. “What is it? It looks like…”

“A protection sigil,” answers Sirius, dipping his instrument into the ink again. “It doesn’t mean anything to anyone other than me, I suppose.” He returns to dotting at another star. “I will protect. That was my… desire, the change I want, as they say, those olde witches who came up with the art. That’s what it means. In these times, Moony, I’d say it’s, like…” He chuckles quietly, lifts his gaze. “Opportune.”

Remus meets his eyes, swallows against the lump in his throat. Sometimes he feels like Sirius, with those watery but indisputable blood ties to that darker force raging beyond the walls of Hogwarts, feels the climate of the waging war like none of them do; as if the heinous but distant murder of a Muggleborn somewhere miles away will make his hairs stand on end, the aftershock of near-death screams will ripple across his scalp like something akin to echolocation, though Sirius himself won’t realize it until he reads the Daily Prophet over breakfast the following morning. He takes in the protective sigil once more. Do me one, he’s close to begging, use me as your canvas, I really don’t give a shit what you draw on me as long as it’s by your hands. James, an unlikely savior he’ll come to appreciate the next morning when he wakes up to the stale stench of pot but also to skin unmarked despite the weight of his enormous crush and shameful desperation, pops up on the other side of his bed.

“Wormtail’s out,” he announces, worming his way up onto the mattress so he’s perpendicular to the length of it, arms and head dangling down on Remus and Sirius’ side. And it’s been at least a week since this has been settled by way of their first group breakfast in days, but still James smiles down at the two of them, eyes squinty behind his glasses, as he pats out a beat against the mattress. “Look at you two, all civil. Warms my heart.”

Sirius has returned to tattooing himself — That’s permanent, you know, Remus has yet to mechanically say, though he thinks Sirius may have already read his mind on that count — so Remus just sighs, gets a good look at him. The bruise is nothing but an unpleasant yellow now, and he’s got a burst blood vessel in his eye that’s rather jarring to look at, but on a face like Sirius’, the injuries only look intriguing, prompting questions like Who would dare hurt you? or What mischief hides beneath that tantalizing smile?

“Your heart must be burning, then, Jamesy, because Moony and I are better than ever. He’s even going to let me tattoo Canis Major on his arse,” Sirius says distractedly as he starts out on another star.

“I almost let him get at my arse,” murmurs James with utter seriousness and a head tilt toward Remus, who stifles a snort against his knee, which he’s pulled up close to his chest. “Instead, I got this.” He turns his arm over, examines the pinkish Snitch. “Looks shittier the more sober I get.”

Remus smirks sympathetically. “The wing is a bit wonky.”

“That was the intention,” Sirius snaps, and Remus thinks they’ve genuinely offended him until his stern expression dissolves into a smile. “Go on, then, Remus. Drop those trousers. I can make it sexy, right above the arse and all.” Remus observes as he waves his wand over the stars now dotting his arm and their irritation fades as the ink blackens. “Or I can give you Snivellus’ face on the bottom of your foot, so you’re smashing his head in each time you take a step.”

“Sounds painful,” Remus says warily.

“Only for little Snivelly. That’d be one ugly tattoo, though.” Sirius grins.

“Remus does like smashing in heads,” James contributes thoughtfully, at which point Remus grabs him by the back of his jumper with the intent of hauling him to the floor from his precarious perch, but James’ squawk of protest is so jarring he releases him.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” James wheezes, holding fast to the mattress and unclenching when he realizes Remus poses no immediate threat.

“Scared of him now, are you, Prongs?” Sirius inquires anything-but-innocuously as he caps his inkwell.

“No!” James huffs, then looks at Remus, who’s watching him cautiously. “Well, yes. Only because Beauxbatons and Ilvermorny are coming this week, and I can’t let Moony give me a shiner. The girls’ll think I’m some sort of pansy.”

Sirius chuckles, but Remus gets an uneasy feeling in his stomach, and not because of the imminent tournament. He runs his hands up and down his own thighs, skin stretching against his knuckles, pulling against scabbed-over cuts and old scars.

“Not to worry, dearest. You’ll look like enough of a pansy if they draw you for Hogwarts champion and you go running for the cover of the Scottish hills,” says Sirius with a consoling pat to James’ unkempt hair. When James goes to retaliate with a swatting hand, Sirius gracefully steps out of range and flashes his McKinnon-made tattoo-shiv-gone-pseudo-weapon. “Watch yourself. I’ve got a line of defense.”

James rolls his eyes. “When they draw me for Hogwarts champion, the only thing I’ll be running toward is the thousand-galleon prize, which I’ll use for charitable purposes: to buy you a quality haircut.”

Sirius doesn’t speak to James for the rest of the night.

***

Although it is the respective houses’ prefects’ duty to attend to the jittering bundles of excitement that are the first, second, and some particularly naughty third-years further from the doors of the castle, Sirius’ voice from the seventh-years’ section carries all the way to where Remus stands with the first-year Gryffindors. With Marlene McKinnon on Sirius’ one side and Peter on the other, they’d form an impressive height-order display if it weren’t for Dorcas on Marlene’s end. Remus watches with veiled interest as their knuckles brush together through the long sleeves of their robes. Even Marlene, who attempts to skimp out on wearing their uniforms as often as possible, has got her robes on for the occasion of the impending arrival of the two visiting schools. Remus has a feeling McGonagall’s stern eye had something to do with that.

They’re all in the Viaduct Courtyard, ready to receive; at the very apex of the semi-organized huddles of students the prefects are attempting to rein in are the Heads of Houses, the Headmaster, as well as Lily and James. They stand stiffly beside Professor McGonagall, not speaking, succumbing to their individual nervous tics — James is scrubbing at his uncontrollable hair, Lily is chewing the ends of her fingers off. Remus thinks they wouldn’t make the worst couple.

“When are they coming?” whines Sirius, drawing Remus’ attention back to his line of sight leading straight to said boy above a sea of short heads.

Peter checks his watch. “It’s only about thirty seconds past five, they’re not yet late.”

“If you ask that one more time, Black, I’ll do your eyes in with my wand so you can’t see it when they do come,” gripes Marlene.

Sirius scowls, but his shoulders slump in obstinate, impatient surrender. “Harsh.”

It all starts with a scream of “Look!”. Heads turn in all directions until their focus becomes impossible to miss; a powder-blue, shining carriage, soaring across the sky, drawn by giant-hooved pegasi, white as snow, braided manes flapping against the wind. Remus holds his arms out to the sides as the enthralled first-years threateningly press forth, his own eyes blown wide at the thunder of a noise produced by the carriage and heavy hooves as they touch down. Dumbledore steps forward, smile calm and warm as ever, and opens the door to the carriage himself. It’s magnificent as it glints in the fading evening light, adorned with subtle, fleur-de-lis patterns and framed by delicate metal that appears naturally that haunting color of blue. A petite — incredibly small, really — woman steps out, sporting a crisp, blue suit and a matching beret topped with a floating bobble. She grasps Dumbledore’s hand and scurries down the steps of the carriage.

“I really sought zey would stick ze landing,” she says as she straightens out her blazer and glares in the direction of the horses. But her face is the picture of a doll’s — rosy-cheeked and untarnished by time but for the inviting crows’ feet at the corners of her eyes — when she turns to smile at Dumbledore and opens her arms. “Eet is a pleasure again, Albus.” When they hug, Remus dearly hopes that Dumbledore crouches enough, because she is rather small and Remus doesn’t know what’s hidden in the depths of Dumbledore’s purple skirts.

“Welcome to Hogwarts,” he says, and Remus anticipates the moment his voice will naturally begin to boom. And it happens. “Please join me,” he begins, waving with a grand arm to the crowd of Hogwarts students, “in welcoming Mademoiselle Céleste Maxime and the students of Beauxbatons Academy of Magic.”

As the students around Remus erupt into polite applause, from the carriage behind the tiny woman exits pair after pair of girls and boys clad in light blue whose steps are soft as ballet dancers’ and whose hands are joined at the wrist between every pair. No one holds hands, though; the contact is impersonal, with one student’s palm resting atop the back of the other’s hand. Their cloaks swish around their ankles, rich and thick and hooded. There are six pairs, and at their lead walks a tall, lanky boy with green eyes, sharp, hollowed features, and brown curls peeking from beneath the charming swirl of his blue hat beside a girl of remarkable resemblance to him, though she’s over a foot shorter and her face is all soft curves.

“Siblings?” Remus mumbles to himself.

This boy, whoever he is, is clearly a crowd favorite, because as the Headmaster escorts Mademoiselle Maxime and her trailing students to the entrance doors of Hogwarts — from where they will be directed to the Great Hall by James and Lily — a mere glance in either direction, a wave or a wink, even, amplifies the applause. Remus doesn’t see the wink himself until the troupe passes by Peter, Sirius, and Marlene, and the boy bows his head marginally with a rather coquettish wink. Marlene’s cackle at this echoes through the clapping — “Who does this bloke think he is?” she scoffs — but Sirius doesn’t respond with a snarky comment like Remus expects him to. A pompous, French boy with even half as much confidence in his swagger as Sirius would’ve usually been a glaring, red flag, but Sirius looks on in silence. There’s no “That bloke walks like he’s got a royal scepter up his arse,” no nothing.

The word “lake” echoes in waves from mouth to mouth until even Remus is forced to tear his eyes away from the retreating backs of the Beauxbatons students. The usually still water of the Great Lake quakes with strange, rippling waves, and Remus is in the midst of wondering if the giant squid is concerned about this behavior when, from the gray, clouded sky, barreling directly toward the lake emerges a Muggle airplane. The first-years at Remus’ sides clutch onto him and he lays his hands on their heads, hoping he doesn’t twist them right off in his own fright, and he catches a look of concern even on the Headmaster’s face as the plane hurtles through the sky, twists in a circle on its center axis, and then crash-lands, belly down to the water, in the Great Lake. It remains afloat, but the impact sends a colossal splash into the air that everyone cowers from — it must be a sight, every student at Hogwarts huddling into one another like penguins to escape the expected tidal wave — but it never comes. When Remus cracks open his eyes to the feeling of cool mist on his face, the lakewater appears to be sprinkling uniformly over the students like crystal ice that melts on contact with the skin.

“Whoa,” breathes one of the first-years at Remus’ side. He concurs with the sentiment, blinks against the cool droplets on his eyelids and lashes.

A hush has fallen over the Hogwarts crowd as the plane rests, unmoving, on the water. The door on the side of the plane is kicked open, and they look on as a bright yellow inflatable raft puffs up speedily before the door. Though the size of mere ants from this distance, there are indeed people climbing from the plane and hopping into the raft, one by one. Dumbledore’s laugh is reverberant, then, as he announces, “Headmaster Chaz Cassady and the students of Ilvermorny School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

“Hello!” comes a distant shout. One of the figures on the raft waves in their direction.

The applause takes a moment longer to come that time, likely because the raft floats rather slowly, and Dumbledore stands there as if he expects the group to apparate to his side. He hesitates, and when the raft separates from the plane to float serenely and anticlimactically toward the castle, he glances at Professor McGonagall. She receives the look with a sigh and turns to address the students, who all wait with bated breath. “We shall meet them in the Great Hall to dine. As we are now host to our international guests, I implore you to please, in an orderly fashion, enter the castle by ascending year, and follow the instructions of your —“

The seventh-years closest to the doors, however, have already made a run for it, provoking the other students to follow their example in a tumultuous race into the Entrance Hall.

Remus, jostled by rushing first-years, stays rooted to his spot until McGonagall finishes her sentence.

She pinches the bridge of her nose and exhales witheringly. “— Prefects.”

***

Remus is one of the last people to enter the Great Hall, right behind a very weary Professor McGonagall and a sparkly-eyed, jolly Dumbledore. The elders go to join the other professors, as well as Mademoiselle Maxime and one very damp man with slightly shabby clothes underneath his cloak, at the High Table.

“Chaz Cassady, ma’am,” says the man whose turquoise cloak drips water onto the table over which he leans. He’s introducing himself to Professor McGonagall before she’s even taken a seat, his arm extended across the table to greet her before she can get too far. His long hair, tied back in a ponytail, is luckily mostly dry, as is the slightly overgrown, neglected goatee below his friendly eyes. “Recent friend of Albus’. We met at the International Confederation of Wizards summit.” He and McGonagall shake hands, and then he smiles bashfully down at himself. “Yeah, took a bit of a plunge into that lake of yours. Nice squid, though.”

The students of Beauxbatons are clustered at one end of the Ravenclaw table. Remus assumes that the students with cloaks identical to Chaz Cassady’s — though theirs are dry — are the American students from Ilvermorny. They’re scattered in pairs all about the Hall.

Remus, in his reflection on the room, suddenly feels a hand close over his wrist. He’s nearly wandered past his friends at the Gryffindor table, apparently, because James tugs him down onto the bench beside him without further adieu.

Though there are soft murmurs of conversation from all around them, across the table, neither Peter nor Sirius is speaking. James gives Remus a faint smile as he settles onto the bench, looks at each of them in turn, and then clears his throat.

“Well, this is bloody weird, innit?” James mutters through a tense chuckle. Remus scratches at the back of his neck and reaches for the bread.

Sirius says nothing, still, and Peter nods. “They seem… nice,” Peter says, though his tone is doubtful.

“You see the bums on those Beauxbatons girls?” James tries to joke, and that’s when Sirius sits up, fingers tented where they’re pressed to his lips.

“All of this is ridiculous,” Sirius says. He rubs his star-studded hand against the angle of his jaw. Remus isn’t used to it yet, not really, and to everyone else, it must just look like doodles on his skin. “Yes, alright, perhaps we’ll get to enjoy some perky French tail, but they’re going to be living here. McKinnon said they’ll be in class with us. So — what? We’ve got students from two schools of magic vacationing here at Hogwarts, our school, our safe place while all hell breaks loose out there? Is Dumbledore trying to draw more attention to us? The wizarding world’s gonna want to know when the champions are chosen, and they will, and then everyone will know that in the midst of a burgeoning war, Albus Bumblefuck’ll have kids from three massive, internationally-known wizarding schools glamorously battling it out for a cash prize, rather than, say, that three Muggles were mysteriously killed in Sheffield yesterday?” His voice has risen in volume and pitch since he’d first begun to speak. Remus cranes his arm out across the table to try and grab at Sirius’ wrist.

“Sirius,” he warns softly. Sirius swipes his hand out of reach.

“Think of it as a welcome distraction,” Peter tries, which earns him a cold stare from Sirius.

“Wormy’s right,” agrees James. “That’s — like, that shit’s hard to hear, Pads, and scary, but what could we do about it anyway? There’s people out there whose job it is to combat the… the Death Eaters. That’s why the Ministry exists. We’re still in school. We don’t know shit. And… like Pete said, it’s a welcome distraction, mate. I know you’re concerned about the war — everyone is — but isn’t it better this way? We’ll be in even closer cahoots with Beauxbatons and the French wizards, and I guess the Americans, too. This is a good thing, Pads. Don’t make a giant’s cave out of a snake’s den.”

Sirius smiles sourly. “This isn’t going to bring us closer. It’s a competition. These schools didn’t come here to make friends, they came to rewrite history to say their school’s the very best.” His gaze is fixed somewhere past Remus’ shoulder, and then it moves to Remus’ face. “Moony agrees with me. Don’t you, Moony?”

Remus opens his mouth to respond, but Dumbledore rescues him from stuttering out something nonsensical and nervous. He agrees, of course he does; nobody should be elevating the importance of an inter-school game above the murders that continue to bend the Statute of Secrecy to the point of snapping. But he thinks, sometimes, that Sirius’ conscience can only bear so much of a load.

“Once more, I would like to give a warm welcome to our new friends, the headmasters and students of Beauxbatons and Ilvermorny,” Dumbledore gabs from his perch behind the podium. “I trust that you will find Hogwarts to be your second home away from home, that our students will treat you like our own, but also that you will enjoy a fair amount of healthy competition along the way.” There’s a sly glint to his eyes that has Remus’ heart skipping a beat.

The doors to the Great Hall pound open as Filch hobbles in, rolling before him what looks like a coffin on wheels up the aisle between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. Dumbledore blinks at this interruption, then smiles genially.

“Right on time, Mr. Filch. I know you’re all quaking in your boots —”

“Just kill me now,” whispers Sirius, who lays his forehead down on the table.

“— so I hope that you all will find it a relief to join your judges, Mademoiselle Maxime, Headmaster Cassady, and myself, in officially beginning this year’s Triwizard Tournament.”

To Sirius’ chagrin, it’s James who pointedly goes about leading the room in applause that time. Remus thinks he claps his hands together once, but he’s too distracted by the vessel Filch is busy hoisting from the rolling coffin. It’s a large goblet — banged up, almost rusted, it seems — that he uncovers from folds of black silk and extends toward a pedestal that Professor McGonagall conjures for it at the epicenter of the Great Hall, just a few steps down from Dumbledore’s podium.

“As you all know, one champion shall be selected to represent each school. Beauxbatons, Ilvermorny, you have brought with you the absolute best your school has to offer, but your judges alone cannot be the ones to decide whose fate it shall be to face the mental and physical challenges of this legendary tournament. This is why,” Dumbledore watches above his half-moon glasses as Filch centers the goblet on the pedestal. Remus frowns at it. The goblet itself is dull, like it hasn’t been shined for years, and the light from all sources in the Great Hall only amplifies its imperfections. Dumbledore resumes his speech to a background of gasps when the bowl of the goblet roars into flame at once — electric blue licks at the air above it, smoking and bright and fervent, until it calms to a humming, blue fire contained within the goblet itself. “This is why,” he says again, “we turn to the Goblet of Fire.” Pausing for the oohs, the ahhs, Dumbledore nods and steeples his fingers, pleased. “The Goblet of Fire, the historically unbiased selector. Starting now and ending before our Hallowe’en dinner tomorrow evening, all hopeful entrants may write their name on a slip of parchment and drop it into the goblet. But beware; an entry into the goblet is the equivalent of a signed magical contract to see the tournament through should you be chosen as a champion. I ask you, therefore, to think before you act. The goblet will announce the champions at tomorrow’s dinner. Last but not least of all: for you students under the age of seventeen, you may enter your name as many times as you may wish into the goblet, but know that this will merely be a waste of your parchment, as your name will not be chosen.” Dumbledore smiles mirthfully. “Once you have finished with your dinners, if the Beauxbatons and Ilvermorny students could please wait to be escorted by our Head Boy and Girl to your quarters on the first floor. Good evening to you all, and a happy All Hallow’s Eve Eve.”

***

Lily, robes billowing in her huffy wake, meets James Potter outside of the doors to the Great Hall. Hordes of Hogwarts students file out past them on their way to their respective dormitories. When he spots her, James pats at his chest to check that his Head Boy badge is still in place. However much Lily wishes she could deride him over the fact that it’s gone missing, it’s very much there, just simply off kilter.

“Evening, Evans,” James says curtly to her as she moves to stand by his side, facing the outpouring students rather than him head-on. She rolls her eyes, breathes in heavily to puff up her chest. She’d seen him down the table at dinner, ogling at the Beauxbatons birds at the next table over, and when is he not arguing with Sirius Black? Either way, his hair is an egregious mess, and she wonders how it’s not disgustingly oily if he’s constantly faffing with it. It’s long, falls into his eyes a bit, grazing the frames of his glasses and the brown skin above. Merlin, could he possibly stand out any more?

“I’m losing my shit,” she mutters as she folds her arms over her chest.

James frowns, or she thinks he does. “Dare I ask why?”

Her lips twitch at a pout. “Professor Dumbledore said to take them to the guest quarters on the first floor,” she states, glancing at James from the corner of her eye. When he merely stares back, she exhales out her mouth. “I don’t know where that is. This whole castle is a bloody maze. How am I to know where the guest quarters are? I’m only ever in the library, in class, or in Gryffindor Tower! The only places I’m allowed to be!”

James gasps, going stiff, and it’s convincing as hell at first. “Evans — you don’t know where the guest quarters are?”

Lily shakes her head rapidly, holds her arms out to the sides. “No! And if I don’t know, you can’t possibly know, so we’re basically fucked.”

James suddenly appears much too relaxed for her liking. He scratches his head, then sticks his hands into the pockets of his robes. “Hmm. Ask McGonagall?”

Lily gives him a scathing look. “Minnie can’t find out I don’t know how to follow her instructions!”

James’ cool expression twists into a wry smile at a moment’s notice. “I’m telling her you called her ‘Minnie.’”

“You are not. You’re a child,” Lily hisses, eyeing a pair of young Slytherins play-fighting as they stumble out of the Great Hall together. “Shut up. What are we going to do? I don’t know where to take them. And as much as I’d like to, we can’t just stick them in the Dungeon.”

James whistles lowly. “Dungeon, huh? Bad blood with our guests already, Evans?” He shakes his head slowly, tauntingly. “Minnie would love to hear that.”

Lily bites the tip of her tongue.

“But, as it happens, I know where the guest quarters are,” James says then, voice lofty.

Lily looks at him blankly. “What?”

“I know every corner and nook and cranny of this castle, Evans. Better than the back of my hand. Ask me where the speck of dust is by the statue of the humpbacked witch on your left as you walk down the third-floor corridor and I’d know.”

Lily internally fights against stomping her foot into the floor with impatience. “How do you —? Well, where are they? Out with it, then.”

James Potter smiles like a menace. Through the doors of the Great Hall traipse Professors McGonagall and Dumbledore alongside Cassady and Mademoiselle Maxime, all followed by the orderly twelve Beauxbatons students and then the twelve from Ilvermorny.

“Ah, yes, here we are. You may have met them earlier on your way inside, but let me introduce our Head Girl and Head Boy, Lily Evans and James Potter. Two of our most outstanding students,” Dumbledore says amicably, and Lily finds herself forcing a strained smile. To her right, James salutes Dumbledore like some military underling. “They will lead you to your quarters for the remainder of the year, which I do think you will find very comfortable indeed. As for me, I think I’ll be off to enjoy a nice hot toddy before bed.” The old man smiles with squinting eyes, gives Cassady a pat on the shoulder, and wanders off from the group with McGonagall following close behind. She gives Lily a reassuring smile over her shoulder, but this doesn’t help her feel any better at the mercy of James Potter.

“Right,” says James, arms linked in front of his body as he swivels to face Lily. “Where to, Evans?”

She feels warmth rise to the apples of her cheeks as she says nothing but a croaked “Er,” eyes flickering between James’ patronizing face and those of the awaiting guests, and even if Mademoiselle Maxime’s eyes are friendly and patient and Chaz Cassady’s eyes are wandering the ceilings and walls as if he could indeed use another few minutes to take it all in, she still feels like a fool.

“I’m just teasing. She does all the work anyway. It ought to be my turn for once,” James says. He grins at the twenty-six individuals before him — the Beauxbatons students look unimpressed — and gestures with both arms as he turns on his heel to lead them toward a nearby hallway Lily hasn’t walked down once in her over six years at this school. “Off we go! Please keep up, and don’t mind the poltergeist if he decides to join us on our journey. Maybe leave a trail of crumbs, or something, so you can find your way back to the Great Hall for breakfast in the morning, because as much as I adore all of you already, I don’t think you’ll want to see my face that many times a day.”

Lily follows briskly at James’ side — she’s not much shorter than him, but her legs most certainly are — and she narrows her eyes at him. It’s only when a few giggles from the golden-haired Beauxbatons girls echo in the hall that she feels like a fire has been lit under her feet. James looks at her briefly, but otherwise continues to lead like an alpha dog.

“Breakfast is served seven-thirty until nine,” she chimes in.

“Ah, yes. Thanks, Evans. Right. Mealtimes! Those are important,” James says, and now he’s walking backwards, good God. Lily tries to do the same. “To reiterate, breakfast from seven-thirty to nine, lunch from twelve to one, and dinner… How long is dinner, Evans?”

Lily blinks at the faces of their followers, and then at James. “Six to eight,” she responds.

“Six to eight!” James hollers. As they step onto a runner rug, she nearly trips backwards onto her bum, but James catches her by her elbow. “Six to eight, don’t be late. And we’ll take a left here!” Lily doesn’t exactly thank him for the offhanded rescue, because James brushes it off like he hadn’t even seen it happen, but she does turn around to walk like a normal person.

“I hear you’re vying for the title of Hogwarts champion,” she murmurs when it feels appropriate against the soft side conversations of their visitors. She tucks her hair behind her ears.

“That’s right,” James replies, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Next best thing to Quidditch captain, as I see it.”

She regards him in silence, fingers digging into her own arms where they’re folded across her chest again. James is Head Boy, was a talented Quidditch player, does decently well in his classes — Godric knows how, he’s foolish as a flobberworm when he’s not, apparently, saving Lily’s arse in front of the headmasters of two of the world’s most well-known wizarding schools. It’s not unfitting, really, the idea of him as champion… though she’d told Remus otherwise.

“Did you say Triwizard champion?” A boy speaking in the Queen’s English, cupping his swirled, blue hat to his chest, extricates himself from the rest of the Beauxbatons students to join James and Lily at the head of the group. Lily recognizes him as the awfully smug one who’d stepped from the carriage with who must’ve been his sister on his arm.

James turns to glance at him. “Well, I technically said Hogwarts champion, but —”

“Jules Verlaine,” says the boy. He offers his hand to James, who takes it hesitantly and gives it a weak shake. When Lily, out of politeness, offers her hand, Jules takes it and presses a kiss to her knuckles, his brown curls nearly grazing her skin. If she hadn’t previously been blushing about her carpet stumble, she certainly is now. Her robes feel hot and heavy, and she warily withdraws her hand after the antiquated greeting. “It’s a pleasure. I figured I should make a point of scoping out my competition early on.”

James arches a brow. “You think you’ll be champion, then?”

Jules smiles shrewdly. “They say I’m a favorite for Beauxbatons champion, yes.”

“A favorite. That’s something,” James echoes with a chuckle. Lily doesn’t like where this is going.

“Yes,” Jules says, unfazed but clearly aware that James is unamused. They’ve stopped at a three-way intersection in the hallway.

“Er, Potter, which way do we —?” Lily begins, which spurs James to look somewhere but the angular face of Jules Verlaine, about five inches above his own, for the first time in minutes.

“Right through here.” James turns to the wooden double doors behind them, taps his wand against his thigh, thinking. “Er… Right.” He clears his throat. “Lily lit le livre dans le lit,” he says, for the most part without fumbling the pronunciation. The doors creak, then slowly draw open to a marbled foyer, beyond which two arches leading to identical, lavish guest rooms are visible. James scratches the back of his neck, turns to face the crowd. “That’s the… the password. I… Yeah, I don’t know. Professor Dumbledore seemed to think it was a laugh.”

A girl from Ilvermorny nudges Chaz Cassady aside like he’s some ragdoll, staring James down with a look of incredulity. “Could you repeat whatever the hell that was?”

James opens his mouth, but it’s a second before words come out. “Lily lit le — it’s French. It’s French for Lily reads the book in the bed — just — I’ll see about getting it changed,” he settles on, which has the Ilvermorny girl rolling her eyes. “Until then, ask your new French suitemates. Anyway, here we are.” He gestures through the entryway, and Lily steps to the opposite side of it to allow the students and their headmasters to parade in. “In you go. Good night. Bonne nuit.”

Once the last of them has stepped inside, the doors close slowly, leaving Lily and James alone in the hallway lit up only by the weak, flickering glow of a nearby torch. She leans against the wall, sighing deeply, and rests her face against her palms.

“Come on, then,” says James, intruding on the peaceful darkness beneath her hands. 

“I…” she starts, then shakes her head. “I can’t. I’ve got…”

“You and I both had hall patrol last night. I know you haven’t got it tonight,” is James’ reply, and it sounds like he’s already a mile away. Despite her keen sense of direction, Lily believes she just might get lost in this part of the castle if James leaves her behind. She drops her hands, jogs to catch up to him.

“You’re the worst,” she says, matter-of-fact.

James snorts. “Why?”

Lily gazes straight ahead. “That password?”

James’ hands fly up in surrender as he laughs. “That was all old man Dumbledore! And some pronunciation workshopping, courtesy of Sirius.”

Lily looks over at him quizzically. “Sirius can speak French?”

James nods, lips quirked up at the corners. “Are you kidding me? Every Pureblood is fluent in at least the three most commonly-spoken romance languages, if not more.”

Lily falls silent at this, and only once they’ve reached the Great Hall again and must begin ascending interminable stairs does she speak again. “Potter, how did you know where the visitors’ quarters were?”

James shrugs, hands in his pockets again. “If I told you, I’d either have to kill you or trust you with my life.” He sighs tiredly, their offbeat steps soft against the stone of the stairs. “Murder is such a hassle.”

“I’m trustworthy,” Lily refutes. “You, on the other hand —”

“Whoa, hey, don’t go turning this on me! You literally asked!” James’ yelp is indignant.

Lily tries to grasp for words that are out of reach, and it’s pure embarrassment when she can’t come up with an argument otherwise. Why should he trust her? All she’s ever done is rebuff his advances while expecting them to never end. Perhaps it would’ve been better if he’d just taken ‘no’ for an answer for the very first time. Perhaps if that’d happened, she wouldn’t be in this deep. “Would you just — Merlin, would you quit following me?” She takes two stairs at a time, avoiding James’ eyes, hugging her dignity to her chest, to her heart.

“We live in the same Tower,” grumbles James from half a flight below.

***

Since Sirius left home, mentions of Regulus had tapered down to nothing. At first, their interactions had been all concerned check-ins in the hallways, strongly-worded advice that was often spat back in the other’s face, misunderstandings at the hands of bitterness and sorrow, then diminished to just cold looks. Now, it’s a rare occasion that Sirius acknowledges Regulus in the halls when they pass by as a group. He bristles as if he’s in dog form, hairs on the back of his neck rising, and he looks at his brother as if he yearns for some sort of confrontation, but no words come. Regulus never even spares a glance in their direction, however, and Remus has a feeling it’s because he’s well aware of Sirius’ presence.

In summary, Regulus Black isn’t a subject they touch upon on the regular. Sirius will make every joke at his mother’s expense if need be, shit on his cousins, but never his brother. Remus sees him watching his brother across the Great Hall when Regulus receives packages and letters from home. Remus knows, too, that Sirius wants to take care of him, advise him, show him the light, so to speak, and likely not even so deep down it’s unconscious. But he’s given up on him, like he has on his whole family, and that’s not something Remus can blame him for.

This is why it comes as such a shock when Sirius, over breakfast the following morning, squints through tired eyes toward the front of the Hall and says, “What is that wanker doing now?”

Remus never actively partakes in Sirius, James, and Peter’s gossipy conversations, preferring to overhear and absorb. His eyes remain trained on his Muggle Studies textbook as he reads the same sentence for the fourth time.

James snorts. “Just wasting his time. Dumbledore’d said the goblet can tell if you’re underage…” A hesitation, as if considering the creepiness factor of a sentient goblet. “Or something. Anyway, waste of time.”

“Must he be so obnoxious about it?” Sirius mutters, now almost livid, and that’s when Remus lifts his head in confusion. A peek past the bulky form of Kingsley Shacklebolt reveals Regulus Black on the shoulders of another young Slytherin, showering the blue flame of the Goblet of Fire with parchment cranes. When the delicate, paper birds hit the fire, they seem to disintegrate at once, leaving behind ashes that float ephemerally before fluttering to the floor. 

“It’s too bad he can’t enter. Bet they’d love that, come to think of it, my old man and the harpy he calls a wife,” Sirius murmurs, his buttered toast now forgotten on his plate. “Reg, Pureblood boy wonder, as champion. All eyes on him. And if he won? Well, shit, they don’t need the money, and what they definitely don’t need is another excuse to encourage everyone to be more like him, pick up his ideals, because if he did win, it would indisputably be because he doesn’t associate with Muggleborn trash, because generations of success run in his blood — mmph.” Sirius furiously chews at and attempts to swallow the toast that James has stuffed into his mouth. “That was uncalled for,” he scolds, spewing crumbs that James has to flick off his dark arm hair.

“Thought I’d intervene before you went on a rampage,” James answers. Remus, seated opposite them and beside Peter, watches as Regulus laughingly lopes off with his friend. Sirius does, too, and he meets Remus’ eyes, presumably on accident, as he turns back around.

Remus frowns. “Sirius, are you —?”

“I’m fine,” he mutters.

“Bloody hell, not that pompous twat,” swears James.

Sirius’ hair whips James in the face when he goes to follow his line of sight. “What’s Reg doing now?”

“Not Regulus,” James huffs. “That Beauxbatons bloke.”

It’s not difficult to spot him — the lanky brunet clad in blue — as he makes his way up the aisle between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables and toward the goblet. Several other Beauxbatons students along the way nudge him in passing or holler in French.

“He seems like a knob,” says Peter inattentively. He’d yet to say a word all of breakfast, as he’s mostly been fiddling with something underneath his robes that Remus desperately hopes isn’t his dick.

“He is a knob. God, an utter tit. Jules Verlaine. I met him last night. Claims he’s to be their champion,” James murmurs. “And wanted to size up the competition, apparently.”

“Nice throaty ‘r,’ mate,” Sirius commends. Then he turns to James, now rashly grinning, and jabs a finger into his chest. “How did Evans like that password?”

James rolls his eyes. “You already know.”

Sirius chuckles, picks up his toast. “Dumbledore has his moments.” As he’s chewing, he peers over his shoulder in time to see so-called Jules Verlaine idle by the goblet, chat to his short, female doppelganger, a neatly-tied, tiny scroll of parchment in hand.

“Er, James, are you going to —?” Peter asks, producing from his robes a crumpled piece of parchment. Peter Pettigrew, it reads. Not his dick, then. Remus’ porridge drips from his spoon back into the bowl as he blinks at him. Peter notices this immediately and shrugs, meek. “Mum said I should try stepping outside of my comfort zone sometimes.”

Remus’ head tilts — “Here it comes,” Sirius whispers with a smirk — and he points at the slip of paper in Peter’s hand. “Pete, stepping out of your comfort zone means — means volunteering to answer a question in Transfiguration, which I know frightens you. Or talking to a girl — preferably one who likes boys and might welcome your attention — without using a script Sirius has rehearsed with you. Not —“ Remus never knows how he gets there, but he’s now gesticulating wildly. “Not entering yourself into a fucking tournament you can’t fucking back out of!”

Peter’s eyes grow wider at every mention of a daunting task — McGonagall, girls — and his lips part, but James claps his hand against the table to call them both to attention. He unrolls for them a little scroll with an angular James Potter written on a slant, tugging on its ends to make it snap crisply. “Ready when you are, Pete,” he says, and his eyebrows lift with purpose at Remus as he hops up from the bench. Peter scrambles up with a muttered apology that Remus supposes is directed at him before both he and James head toward the front of the Hall.

Sirius cups his hands around his mouth. “Godspeed, Prongs! Wormy!” he bellows, “Godspeed, you fucking idiots!” 

Remus rests his chin against his palm, smiles wryly at Sirius, because what follows are a “Watch your language, Black!” from Lily half a table down and a “Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Black!” from Professor McGonagall all the way up at the high table.

“What?!” Sirius hoots, hands flying to his hair as he sits ramrod straight. “Moony just —!” When his eyes flicker to Remus, find him stifling a bout of laughter, Sirius grins in surrender and slumps against the table.

Remus, scratching at the back of his neck, proceeds to say, “A lesson or two in subtlety…”

“Shut it, you.”

***

“Ah, James Potter. Come to put your name in the Goblet of Fire?” inquires Jules Verlaine, who James swears has been fiddling with his paper by the goblet for an hour. Or perhaps ten minutes, but it’s still far too long. “Oh, my apologies. This is my sister, Juliette.”

James, with Peter by his side, stops short with his hand extended toward the goblet. He curls his fingers back around his entry and recoils. “Hello,” he manages, and Juliette nods at him before twirling to ballet-step back to her Beauxbatons friends. Merlin, please fuck me raw with the Elder Wand if I ever name my children Jules and Juliette.

“I don’t think she likes me,” says James, then tosses his parchment into the goblet abruptly. It roars audibly, and the lowlights of its flames run a navy blue before returning to their cobalt hue.

“She’s shy,” says Jules. His gaze is unnerving. “Who’s your friend?”

“Oh,” James mutters. “Sorry.” He claps a hand onto Peter’s shoulder, forcing him forth. “This is my good mate, Peter.”

“I meant…” Jules chuckles, nods with uppity amusement down at Peter. “I mean, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Peter. I’m Jules, Jules Verlaine. But I meant your other friend.” Jules jerks his chin toward the Gryffindor table, apparently too polite to point, the courteous little fucker. “Your loud friend.”

James’ forehead scrunches up as a single eyebrow arches, but he absently touches his glasses and glances backwardly at Sirius and Remus. “I guess that’d be Sirius Black, then.” He pats Peter on the shoulder once more, nudges him forward. “In that goes, then, Pete.”

Peter drops his paper into the goblet, which swallows it up. “You gonna put that in?” he asks Jules, gesturing to the petite scroll still in Jules’ hand, right as James demands, “What do you want with Sirius?”

“Harmless curiosity,” Jules answers James first. Then, his eyes move pointedly to Peter, and he raises his palm with the roll of parchment pillowed in its center. When he blows on it, the parchment tears itself into a butterfly, flutters with grace into the goblet to be devoured by the flames.

“Impressive,” James deadpans, then turns away on the spot before he can start a fight. He, at least, has a modicum of self-control.

“Awe wasn’t my intention,” Jules says. “I’ll be seeing you.”

***

In Potions that day, they brew Volubilis. As if Remus isn’t already on edge about the tournament, Sirius takes a swig of his and James’ brew to test it out, mimes the voice of Professor Dumbledore. This Sirius-Dumbledore hybrid produces a slip of parchment reading Prongs supposedly from somewhere within his trousers, or, rather, the Knob-let of Fire, as he terms it. The two of them make a whole show of it before Slughorn can catch on, as he’s too busy chatting with Lily, whose shiny hair is pulled back from her face that day by a blue ribbon tied in a bow at the very top of her head. It’s not particularly Hallowe’eny, but it is lovely.

The next name Sirius-as-Dumbledore pulls from the Knob-let, after swearing colorfully when invisible blue flames scorch him — “I never do learn,” simpers Sirius theatrically in Dumbledore’s gentle tenor — is that of Jules Verlaine, on James’ request.

“Oh, this is me,” says James quickly before swallowing a gulp of the Volubilis. He clears his throat, obviously mentally preparing for his role as Jules, before he grins and blurts in a contemptuous, French accent, “I am not even surprised. Sank you for zis, Professeur Dumblysnore, now I can just ride my pegasus to zee feenish line.”

Peter rolls his eyes. He’s left Dorcas to handle the rest of their potion, it seems. “He doesn’t even have a French accent, mate.”

James blinks, rests his hands on hips. “Damn, you’re right.” He squints into a faraway, ambiguous distance so hard Remus actually looks to see if there’s something there. “Why the hell is that?”

“He’s London-born,” Dorcas answers disinterestedly from where she’s stoppering a vial of Volubilis Peter probably had no hand in making. “But his family’s French. Parents sent him and his sister to Beauxbatons.”

James’ eyes trail to her. “Why do you know this?”

“I’ve forgotten who we’re talking about,” Sirius says, his own voice creeping its way into Dumbledore’s.

“Jules Verlaine,” James says vehemently.

Though the paper with Jules’ name on it remains in Sirius’ hand, he scoffs. “Who?”

“I just do, alright, Potter? Calm yourself.” Dorcas heads to Slughorn’s desk with her vial.

“I am never calm,” says James ominously.

Sirius coughs violently and then his voice comes out normally. “Just forget about the Jules kid, Prongs. You’ll have enough trouble becoming the Hogwarts champion. Can’t be the Beauxbatons champion, too.”

“Can’t is not a word in my vocabulary.”

Sirius coughs again, but this time it’s for comedic effect as he mutters, “Can’t shag Lily Evans.”

Slughorn, who’s got his hand on Lily’s shoulder while the latter’s bones appear to be trying to break free of the skin cage holding them in place, halts mid-sentence and does a double-take when glancing in the direction of Sirius and James. Who are now on the floor. Together.

“I said I was done with her!” James cries, voice labored between exertion and laughter, because while a struggling Sirius has been successfully trapped beneath him, Sirius has nicked his glasses and continues to put up a fight.

Slughorn pats at his bald forehead with a handkerchief. “Oh, dear,” he wheezes, then trundles toward the commotion.

Remus, merely a silent observer, looks at Lily with a cringe of pity once he’s left.

Lily rolls her eyes, points her wand at her shoulder. “He sweated on me. His palm sweated on me.”

Remus leans against their lab bench. “Please don’t talk about Slughorn’s bodily fluids.”

“You’re not the one with fluid on your shoulder!” she protests, does something nifty to launder her robes.

“Recommendaaation letter,” Remus sing-songs softly, tauntingly. When Lily’s eyes shoot daggers at him, he smiles back. “Not that you’d even need one.”

“Sweet,” Lily huffs. She picks up their vial to carry it to Slughorn’s desk. “But totally untrue.”

It’s been several weeks since that evening in the Astronomy Tower with Mary. Remus had initially thought of it as a pivotal event, but when he truly thinks about it, nothing in his life has monumentally changed since then, and that night had repaired things between him and Sirius. Sure, it’d been a bit awkward the next time he’d seen her in the Gryffindor common room, knowing their lips had touched, their tongues, that he’d touched more of her than he had of anyone ever before, but like most things, it’d simply happened, and joined the cloud of accepted truths that floats eternally above his head. Yes, I’m a werewolf. Yes, I did snog a nice girl mainly at Lily Evans’ behest but also because I can’t quite get one on my own (nor can I get the one whom I truly want).

“Are you excited for the Hallowe’en feast tonight?” asks Lily, who hands Remus a flannel with which to wipe down their workstation.

“The what? Oh.” He casts a dubious glance in James’ direction, who is now on his feet beside Sirius, both poorly concealing grins as they are subjected to a talking-to that Slughorn clearly doesn’t want to give. “More nervous than anything, I think.” He scrubs at a sticky bit of Hellebore syrup on the table surface.

Lily eyes James, too, and then shrugs. “I think it’ll be interesting,” she says. “I’ve spoken to a few of the girls from Ilvermorny over mealtimes. They seem nice. If Kingsley isn’t chosen for Hogwarts and our champion is pathetic, I’d like for them to win instead. Something’s off about those Beauxbatons students.”

Remus has yet to meet any of them, and he’s hoping he won’t have to. It’s mostly out of concern for himself; the knowledge that his power of will is not very strong mixed with the chances of meeting a half-Veela seductress among them is enough reason for avoidance.

***

The four boys observe in silence as Slughorn, at the teachers’ table, sticks his fork directly into a generously-frosted cake without care for the serving knife on the cake stand.

McGonagall’s mouth moves as if to squawk “Horace!” as she swats at his wrist, but they can’t hear over the hubbub. They’ve been seated for ten minutes, and still all the talk around them is about the decor of the Great Hall. Remus thinks they’ve gone a bit overboard this year for the sake of their visitors, and the girl beside him from Beauxbatons had whispered to her friend that it’s tacky. Licorice bats swoop by every few minutes within arm’s reach, and the ceiling is like a cloudy, midnight sky, starless, the room illuminated by the dangerously round silhouette of a waxing gibbous and more floating, glowing jack-o-lanterns than Remus has seen in his life. Professor Sprout must have a secret secondary pumpkin patch for occasions such as this.

And by the podium, the Goblet of Fire casts its own hypnotic blue light.

“If Sluggy can do that, think anyone’ll mind if I stick my face in that cake?” Sirius inquires meditatively, eyeing the identical carrot cake before him.

“The only reason you two aren’t in detention right now is because Slughorn wanted to make the feast,” Remus reminds him. “You should be thankful for his gluttony.”

Sirius presses his palms together reverently, tilts his head back to peer up at the night sky. “All hail Horace and his sizable appetite.”

Remus narrows his eyes. James, who’s been folding and unfolding the arms of his glasses, finally sticks them back onto his face — twice, because he does it upside down the first time. “When will they announce the bloody champions?”

“Merlin’s pants!” Peter exclaims, and it’s like dark wave crawls through the Great Hall as heads turn toward the Goblet of Fire. Its flames, once warm and curling, have grown in height, streamlined and hissing intensely like an enlarged blowtorch. The blue flashes across the mirrors of every students’ eyes, holding each and every one of them prisoner to its splendor until the fire calms and returns to a softly crackling, modest size. Every breath is held.

There is a creak as Dumbledore stands, pushing back his chair and smiling — as always — as if everything is peachy and nothing ever comes as a surprise. He points his wand to his throat to amplify his voice as he circles the table to approach the podium. “Good evening,” he greets. “If I could have your attention, it seems that the goblet has come to a decision. I hope all with the desire to enter the Triwizard Tournament have been able to do so.” Both Mademoiselle Maxime and Chaz Cassady perk up in their seats. “The Goblet of Fire will produce exactly three names — a champion for every school. If your name is called, please do proceed to the High Table and through the doors by Professor Alnair into the chamber in which the champions shall receive the instructions for the very first task.”

Remus kicks Sirius’ ankle under the table, nods toward James, who’s rigid as a brick. Remus isn’t sure he’s breathed in five minutes. Sirius nods, drapes his arm around James’ shoulders, claps him against the shoulder.

Peter, with big eyes, turns reluctantly to look up at Remus. In a whisper, he starts to say, “Remus, I shouldn’t’ve —”

“You’ll be fine,” Remus interrupts, and when Peter remains doubtful, he nods.

High-pitched gasps. Remus missed the moment it’d happened, whatever it is that had happened, but what he does see is a smoking piece of parchment fluttering down into Dumbledore’s awaiting palm.

“The Beauxbatons champion,” he says, lowering the parchment, “is Jules Verlaine!”

The Ravenclaw table breaks out into cheers. The Beauxbatons girls beside Remus giggle with delight. Mademoiselle Maxime, whose feet wouldn’t touch the ground in the chair in which she’s seated, is now on her knees in the chair, clapping rapidly and nodding with parental approval to Jules, lanky Jules with his pristine blue robes and shiny cherub’s curls, waving to his devotees and striding into the back chamber.

“That bastard,” says James.

Sirius thumps his fist absently against James’ chest, and his eyes follow Jules until he’s gone. Then he blinks, clears his throat. “Er, yeah. That little bitch.”

Remus sees the goblet’s fire flare that time as it spits out another charred paper into the air. It swims through the air and into Dumbledore’s hands. “The champion for Ilvermorny is Winifred Reid!”

Lily, down by Marlene, Dorcas, and Alice, claps eagerly. The cluster of Ilvermorny students seated at the end of the Gryffindor table furthest from the teachers’ table all scream bloody murder — if there is a joyous kind of such a variety of scream, Remus thinks — as they nudge a strong-legged black girl off the bench and into the aisle. She’s all smiles — too busy hugging her friends, trying to escape the friends that won’t quit hugging her, kissing her cheeks — and the goblet chokes out the final slip before she’s made it away from her Ilvermorny posse.

Remus thinks his fork will soon meld with his bones if he grips it any harder.

When he catches the paper, Dumbledore reads it, chuckles, and lifts it high above his head. “And, lastly, our Hogwarts champion.” He pauses, playfully looks from table to table, until his eyes settled on that of Gryffindor. “The Hogwarts champion is Sirius Black!”

Remus releases the fork. If it clangs against the table, Remus will never know — it’s Schrödinger’s fork, is all he can stupidly think, noiseless and noisy, muted by the elated uproar of the Gryffindor table. He could’ve looked at the fork, watched it fall, known it’d hit the table, but he didn’t. He’s not taken his eyes off Dumbledore. A sixth year beside Sirius pats him on the shoulder in congratulations. Even Lily is smiling at him through the sheer shock written into her features. Peter whoops, though his celebratory noises are interspersed with hesitations, because his eyes keep flickering to James — James, who’s locked eyes with Sirius, and Remus thinks, for a moment, that they might also be caught in the same parallel dimension as him, where it’s unbearably loud but purely quiet, where everything moves, all overwhelming colors and figures in one’s periphery but nothing does in one’s direct vision, where he feels as if his anatomy’s been churned by a mixing spoon because his heart beats from the pit of his stomach and he breathes into his lungs, which have been stuffed, constricted, into his throat.

“No,” whispers Remus.

“Mate, I,” pants Sirius, his chest rising and falling visibly. His jaw is ajar, he’s looking right at James.

The girl by the name of Winifred Reid, marching up between the Hufflepuff and Gryffindor tables, stops behind Sirius. “He said Sirius Black, didn’t he? Isn’t that you? Come on,” she says. He barely has time to whip around and look at her before she’s dragging him up from the bench by the scruff of his neck. Sirius lands on his feet, stares with bewilderment at his attacker, who stares right back, pointing toward the chamber. “Go,” she urges, and when Sirius begins to walk, receiving laudatory smacks to his bum in passing from the Gryffindor Quidditch team, she turns to regard Remus, Peter, and James with a raised brow. Winifred then continues up the aisle, directly on Sirius’ heels, and Dumbledore smiles placidly upon them both as they pass him by to slip through the door and into the chamber.

The Headmaster opens his mouth to close out with a speech about support, pride, and inter-school cooperation. Remus hears none of it. He doesn’t even hear it when James says Moony for the nth time until Peter digs his finger sharply into Remus’ arm.

“Moony,” James says, wringing his napkin between his hands. Remus blinks, but nods to signal that he may elaborate. “Did you know that Sirius entered?”

Remus exhales shakily. “No,” he says again, quiet.

“Why would he have entered? He’s talked shit about the tournament for weeks,” Peter protests.

“Just be glad it wasn’t you, Pete,” says Remus tightly.

James, eyes murky and countenance wiped blank of all feeling, again watches the chamber to the door as in file Cassady, Mademoiselle Maxime, and Professor Dumbledore.

***

Sirius hesitates one step into the chamber. It sure is lucky that this Winifred girl is behind him to give him a healthy shove to propel him forward, because otherwise he might’ve stayed rooted to his spot for the rest of forever and beyond with the sudden scrutiny of fifty pairs of — albeit painted — eyes on him. The room is already rather small and the fact that there is no wall space not covered by a dusty but grand portrait of some witch or wizard makes it feel all the more claustrophobic, but still somehow cozy with the fire crackling in the fireplace across the room from him. The fire leaves the lithe silhouette of the Beauxbatons champion backlit where he’s elegantly leaned up agains the mantle, eyes trained on Sirius and only him as he and Winifred enter.

“Sirius Black,” says the French bloke — or English, he thinks, if he caught any of James’ rant in Potions.

Sirius, stepping onto the ornate rug spread out before the fireplace, tugs at the end of a lock of his own hair. “That’d be me.”

“So it is you? Damn, boy, I really thought I picked the wrong guy out there,” Winifred mutters from beside him. He warily glances at her, and when their gazes meet, she shrugs. “You weren’t at all keen on getting up.”

“No?” says Beauxbatons boy, smirking in a way that has Sirius sweating, which is an unusual circumstance in itself. Not the sweating in general, but the hysteria-induced variety. Then again, this is all rather unusual. “You’re a Triwizard champion, Sirius Black. You should’ve been running to that podium by the time they called your name… Your name, which, you must know by now, will go down in history.”

A crease forms between Sirius’ brows, and his eyes flit up and down the boy clad in light blue. It’s a color Sirius wouldn’t dare to wear himself but complements the boy’s hair annoyingly well. “Would you quit saying my full name?” he huffs, hands going to his hips. He peers over his shoulder at the door — Where are the headmasters? Can’t they just get this over with? — and sniffs as he scans the boy by the fireplace once again. “Who even are you?”

The boy smiles, pushing away from the brick so he can saunter toward the two of them. “Jules Verlaine,” he introduces, extending his hand out first to Winifred, who gives his hand as short as possible of a perfunctory shake. “You’re… Winifred Reid, if I heard right?”

“Winnie,” she corrects, already having withdrawn her hand. Jules’ gaze swivels to Sirius. Though the self-titled king of defiance, Sirius is much better at facing off people from a distance when he doesn’t feel as short as he does two feet from Jules. And he’s not even that short.

“Jules Verlaine?” he echoes, then snorts. He only accidentally ignores Jules’ handshake, but he’s not too fussed about it. “What, so you’re the bastard child of Jules Verne and Paul Verlaine?”

Jules laughs, undeterred by the snark, and slides his hands into the pockets of his blue robes. “He’s funny,” he murmurs, eyes flickering to Winnie. Sirius thinks he hears her mutter Good god as she turns away to go take a seat on a sofa nearby, leaving Jules and Sirius in the center of the room. “Very funny. In a way, yes. And you — you’re the brightest star in the night sky.”

Sirius drums his fingers against his hips, narrows his eyes. In a way, he almost says, but is interrupted when the door slams open against an adjacent wall and Mademoiselle Maxime strides in hurriedly, with Dumbledore and Cassady at her heels. Sirius registers her intended path and backpedals away from Jules before she can collide with him bodily on her way to give Jules’ cheek a rough pinch. It’s a surprise to Sirius that she can even reach it.

“Bien fait,” she whispers, patting the reddened splotch on his cheek with vigor. Jules half-smiles at her. By the sofa, Cassady fist-pounds Winnie. Sirius realizes Dumbledore is now approaching him.

“Sir,” he greets, hands linked behind his back. Dumbledore smiles and nods.

“Mr. Black. I can’t say that this isn’t a shock to me, but it isn’t a disappointment, either.”

Sirius blanches. “Thank you?”

“Congratulations to the three of you. This year — it will be a momentous, arduous one, but nonetheless exciting. To speak business for just a moment, you should expect that your new titles as respective champions of your schools may require you to put in extra time into this competition outside of your three tasks. The press, for one, will be in a frenzy to get at you. Next week, we will have a Weighing of the Wands to check that your wands are in working order. And hopefully, you will take some time to meditate on the clue for your first challenge, to take place in just over three weeks on the twenty-second of November,” murmurs Dumbledore. Winnie has joined Sirius’ side with arms folded over her chest, and Sirius doesn’t have to look to know that Jules is there on his opposite side.

Dumbledore, seemingly finished, peers over at Cassady, who returns his gaze with an easy smile until, “Oh! Right.” Cassady steps up beside the Headmaster, withdrawing three envelopes from the breast of his robes. They match Winnie’s in color but look worn and soft, like he’s slept in them as pajamas, and have peculiar homemade additions, such as dangling beads sewn into the hems of the sleeves and the robes themselves and patches and embroidery of all kinds — there’s one of the secular Muggle peace symbol by his heart that Sirius quite likes. For the occasion, he’s braided his long, orangey hair into a simple plait that falls down the center of his back. His mustache is scruffy as ever, though.

Sirius suddenly feels the strong urge to befriend him.

“Right, right,” says Cassady, waving the envelopes. “I have the privilege of bestowing upon you the clues for your first task. The task — it will test your ability to respond to changing circumstances, to the unexpected, to interact with those you might not otherwise in a place you otherwise wouldn’t. Is that vague enough?” He grins, then hands an envelope to Winnie, then Sirius and Jules. “That’s all for tonight, isn’t it, Professor Dumbledore?”

Sirius rubs his thumbs along the scratchy parchment of the envelope. Everything has yet to sink in.

Dumbledore, with tiny, creased eyes sparkling in the sheen of the fire, claps his hands together twice in approval. “Yes. I want to congratulate you one more time, as the next congratulations will only be in order at the completion of the first task. You now represent your school. For everyone you’ve yet to meet, your reputation will precede you. Your classmates will look to you for excellence, for bravery, for… exemplary behavior. Keep this in mind.”

Sirius swallows dryly. Mademoiselle Maxime officially concludes the meeting when she says, “I ‘ave some splendid Grand Marnier in ze visitors’ quarters.” She points a finger at Jules, trailing it across Sirius to Winnie. “Not for you kiddies.”

“Lovely,” declares Dumbledore. Chaz Cassady salutes the three of them as he follows suit and they clear out of the room.

Sirius counts to five in his head, glances at the stationary feet of Jules and Winnie to his right and left, and then starts toward the door.

“Aren’t you going to look at the clue?” asks Jules. Sirius halts mid-step, bites his lower lip.

“I was going to wait to look at it with my friends,” he explains, turning enough on the spot to at least look him in the eyes.

Winnie hums. “I like that idea,” she says. And then she brushes past Sirius on her way out.

Jules chuckles, slaps the envelope against the palm of his hand absentmindedly. “I was going to suggest that we look at it together. We’re friends now, after all. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other. It wouldn’t hurt to start now.”

Sirius, rubbing his hand against the back of his neck, looks down at the envelope he’s holding. Lifts an eyebrow. “You want to get to know me by looking at the clue,” he says slowly. With one arm, he hugs his middle, and with the other, he taps the corner of the crisply-folded envelope against his chin. He’s not quite had a hold of his own mental reins since the moment his name had flown from the goblet, but what his mind tells him to do in that very second is stay, to stand there, halfway between Jules and the door, to cock his hip. “I think I’ve caught you out, Frenchie.”

“I’m about as French as you are,” Jules points out and he tucks the clue somewhere into the flowing folds of his bluejay-blue robes. His lips curl into a smile. “You have caught me out, though, Sirius Black.”

Sirius tuts softly. “What did I say about my full name?”

“You called me Frenchie,” protests Jules, who takes two steps closer. 

“Irrelevant.” Sirius shrugs easily. He finds himself biting the corner of his envelope. He stops.

Jules moves toward him, the effortless waves of his brown curls bouncing slightly. “Well,” he says, stalling by Sirius’ motionless form, eyes scanning his face until he turns them ahead toward the door. “I suppose I’ll follow your lead, look at the clue with my… my friends.” He tucks a lock of hair hair behind his ear. “But I hope I’ll see you soon, Sirius.”

“You too, Jules Verne,” breathes Sirius, and wonders offhandedly where his voice has gone.

Jules smiles, stalks from the room. And Sirius, while he should really be grasping for his sanity, grabs onto the next best thing — an old bookshelf — to keep himself upright. Perfect, fantastic. Brilliant. He’s as sane as an old bookshelf, which could mean a number of things. It doesn’t have a conscience, after all. Or perhaps it does, like the prophetic goblet in the next room over.

He casts a wary look at the shelf, gathering dust, dust that’s now on his fingertips. “Are you mad?” he mutters from the corner of his mouth.

“You must be, if you’re conversing with an inanimate object,” says a pot-bellied, long-haired wizard in the portrait just above it. Sirius withdraws his hand, frowns at the wizard. “And the way that boy acts? Lewd. Simply lewd.”

“Jules?” asks Sirius, but yes, of course he’d meant Jules. Sirius’ defensiveness piques suddenly. “Yeah, well,“ he squints at the nameplate beneath the portrait, “Brutus Scrimgeour, you’re a dick. No wonder you…” He flaps the envelope in his general direction. “… Died.” There’s no time to regret the sorry comeback James would ruthlessly chastise him for, because James, James is precisely the person he needs to see right then, to explain this turn of events Sirius himself didn’t even anticipate until he’d thought of his parents that morning over breakfast. Brutus gasps overdramatically and the dame in the frame next to his gives Sirius a disapproving look, but all he can do is backtrack out of the chamber, careful not to stumble head over heels on the hems of his loosely-hanging robes. He’s now Sirius Black, Hogwarts Triwizard champion, and it just wouldn’t do to brain himself dead before he can make the front page of the Prophet.

Chapter Text

The tensions in the Gryffindor common room are palpable. It wasn’t long after the announcement of the champions that everyone had cleared the Great Hall — pockets stuffed with sweets — as if their collective giddiness for the holiday and the Tournament simply couldn’t be contained in one, albeit spacious, room.

James hasn’t spoken in anything but broken, unfinished thoughts — “Why did he —?” “What if —?” “Somebody could’ve…” “Is he —?” — and Peter, bless his heart, has tried to remain the calm, collected one of the three, patting James’ shoulder and forcing him to sit when he’d remained aimlessly upright in a catatonic state upon reaching the common room, because it seems that Remus temporarily isn’t fulfilling his role well enough. He’s unresponsive to James, unable to burst out of the walls of his mind, because it’s happening. Sirius is the Hogwarts champion. And Remus hopes in his heart of hearts that it’s for the right reasons, for logical or fateful reasons that this has happened, though he can’t for the life of him come up with said reasons.

Lily, Mary, Alice, Marlene, and Dorcas are all sat by the fire, speaking in hushed voices. Every square foot of flat surface in the common room is covered by someone’s bum — the higher years have reserved the right to sprawl across the armchairs and sofas, the eager first and second years sit criss-cross on the floor near the opening by the Fat Lady. He knows what they’re thinking; it’s an honor for the Triwizard champion to have been chosen from Gryffindor House, it’s just another reason to be prideful. If they were to root for anyone from Hogwarts, of course they’d want it to be one of their own. And Sirius is, isn’t he? He’s a Gryffindor through and through. Their House – their school – needs someone brave, bright, and bold to represent them.

The portrait door swings open. All heads turn, but Remus’ doesn’t need to. He’s been angled toward the doorway since he’d sat down a half hour ago.

Sirius steps in. He’s clutching a tawny envelope to his chest, and he freezes, glued to his spot, when one scan of the room means eye contact with every kid in Gryffindor House.

“Oh, shit,” whispers Sirius, but Remus can only read his lips, because at the very same moment James bounds up from the sofa and his soft but speedy footfalls cross the room.

“Sirius,” breathes James. He isn’t any less twitchy than he’d been when they’d first sat down. “Sirius. Did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?” He grabs onto Sirius’ shoulders, holding him at arm’s length.

Sirius’ dark brows furrow. He doesn’t move, doesn’t relax under James’ touch; his eyes circle the dead-silent room again, taking in his unintentionally captive audience. Then, he seems to register James’ question, blinking and locking eyes with his best friend. “I – of course I did. How the fuck else would it have picked me?”

“You put your name in,” repeats James.

Sirius stares, features wavering between neutral and what Remus reads as guilty. “Yes. Yes. But — James, I’m —”

James claps Sirius’ shoulders, interrupting him. “You’re a Triwizard champion.”

Sirius’ tongue gets tangled. “What?”

James laughs, shaking Sirius like the featherweight he is, back and forth so his hair falls into his eyes from where it’d been tucked behind his ears. “Get in, mate! You’re a fucking Triwizard champion!” James lets go only to twirl to face the room and swing his arm across Sirius’ shoulders. “Our fucking Triwizard champion!” he shouts, and when he drums his free hand against Sirius’ chest, the room bursts into life with color and noise and excitement. Someone conjures a sparkling, majestic Griffin that romps about the room above their heads, another shoots confetti from the end of their wand, and the first and second-years with their prime spots by the Fat Lady pour unto Sirius, jumping and hugging and wiggling about, shouting their gleeful chorus of hoorahs. Remus, still seated cross-legged on the arm of the couch like an owl on a perch, sees the dazzling grin on James’ face, watches it spread to Sirius’ as his hand is held up in the air by his best mate like he’s already gone and won the bloody tournament. Peter, who’d likely been just as initially floored as Remus, leaps onto the couch, launching into celebratory but almost bestial ululation and pounding his chest with his fists as he bounces up and down.

“Can you believe it, old man?” asks Marlene McKinnon, settling her elbow against Remus’ shoulder. He looks up, too foggy-headed to be startled, takes in the wry twist to her plum lips below the golden hoop hanging from her septum.

“No,” Remus says, just barely above a breath. His lips twitch at the corners, and when he looks down to his hands to find them shaking, he laughs a bewildered laugh that melds with the commotion and red and yellow swirling around them.

“I can, a bit.” Marlene tweaks his cheek. “Namesake of a star. Figures he’d become one.” When Remus looks Sirius’ way again, he’s attempting to evade a sloppy kiss that James is planting to his cheek while simultaneously wading through his fellow Gryffindors. Marlene raises her hand to point at him. “Someone get this fool a drink!” she hollers, and Sirius is close enough to hear now. He gives her a shit-eating grin, releasing James momentarily to squeeze her around the shoulders with one arm. With his other hand, he forces the envelope into Remus’ hands.

“Hold this, Moony, and don’t let go,” he mutters, and his face is close — when did that happen? And then he’s moved on to Marlene, who’s giving him a rough noogie to the hair. “No drinks. No drinks yet. Save it for Sunday night. The anniversary of your champion’s birth? Eighteen years ago on Monday.”

“Didn’t take long to get to your head,” says Marlene without heat, shoving Sirius away and into James’ waiting arms. Peter swings himself over the back of the couch and onto the dogpile, though the weight of him nearly pulls the three of them to the floor. James keeps them balanced.

“You’re not angry?” calls Sirius. Someone’s cranked on The Hobgoblins, so it’s even harder to hear.

“Why would I be angry?” asks Peter, his hand gripping at the shirt on Sirius’ back.

Sirius snorts. “Not you.” He leans into James, grasps onto Remus’ knee to stay upright as passersby jostle them all or congratulate him with some sort of bodily contact. “Prongs?”

“What?” James raises his voice. “Me? Oh.” James’ hair is wild as a bird’s nest when he shakes his head no. “I mean — I wanted to be champion, too, Sirius, but hell, I’m your biggest fucking fan, mate. If I’d known you’d wanted in, I would’ve jumped on the table in the Great Hall, mate, soon as I heard.” He smiles, exuberantly overwhelmed, but then suddenly unsure. “You do, don’t you?”

Sirius smiles back, almost watery. “Yeah.” He pats at Remus’ knee. “Didn’t know myself ’til a few hours ago, but yeah.”

James shrugs, tugging Peter into his side with an inadvertently rough grip and puffing up his chest so he and Sirius are marginally closer to being eye-to-eye. “Then, like I said, I’m your biggest fucking fan.”

“Mate, I could snog you,” says Sirius, brimming with ecstatic laughter, and when James puckers up, Sirius gives him the satisfaction of a fat, messy lick across the middle of his cheek.

“Foul,” says James, though clearly pleased.

Peter begins, “If Snivellus could see you two…” 

“He’d toss off, then go cry to Avery about it,” Sirius finishes. “Go on, Head Boy. Round up the young’uns, tell them to go to bed. McGonagall’s gonna be up here any minute now, I just know it.”

James withdraws from Sirius and Peter. “Are you kidding me? McG’s probably throwing her own party. Gryffindor Quidditch hasn’t won in years, but now a Gryffindor’s in the Triwizard Tournament. That’s better than five Quidditch Cups.” Nevertheless, he heads off to wave his arms about and shout aimlessly at the unruly underclassmen. Lily, who’s been trying to lower the aggregate volume of the room for five minutes, doesn’t look relieved.

“What’s that?” Peter points to the envelope in Remus’ hands.

“Pete, I love you, but fuck off for a bit. We’ll look at it up in our room.” Sirius grabs Peter by the shoulders and turns him manually to send him barreling into a passing Dorcas and Marlene, which Remus doesn’t think will end well. He doesn’t get a chance to observe the scene transpire, though, because Sirius soon occupies his entire vision.

“You haven’t said a word,” murmurs Sirius. He brushes his thumb lazily against Remus’ knee, then lifts his hand to tap his forefinger against the envelope. “That’s a clue, by the way. My first clue.”

Remus sighs, tilts his head upward, because Sirius is much taller than him like this, standing while Remus roosts on the armrest of the sofa. There’s a pair of sixth-years  snogging on it now beside him, but he and Sirius both are actively opting to ignore them. “You entered yourself into the tournament because of Regulus?” he asks, examining the wax seal on the envelope. He recognizes it as the Ilvermorny school crest.

“Are we playing a guessing game now?” Sirius says lowly, and Remus hates to be the killjoy, of all things. When the couple on the sofa rolls passionately over so they nudge Remus off balance, he’s forced to stick out a leg to catch himself. Sirius jabs the bloke in the side of the head, and the parting of their lips is like the suction of a squid’s tentacle. “Hey!” he says sternly, his gaze direct. “Get out of here. That’s what deserted classrooms are for.”

When they exchange brief looks and scuttle off, Remus exhales a helpless chuckle. Sirius’ smile is faint, but he sighs. “Well, no. Not entirely. I just… I started to picture it, Moony. My parents — ex-parents have the Prophet owl-delivered to them daily. Imagine the looks on their faces when they see my face there. When I blow the first task out of the water. When — if I win.” He wrinkles his nose. “I don’t mean to be petty —”

“You abso-fucking-lutely do,” says Remus.

Sirius smiles, guilty as charged. “You’re right.” He shuts his eyes, lets his shoulders go slack, his head tilt backward on his neck. “I adore being petty.” Remus wonders if he’s daydreaming about past contemptible acts, but Sirius soon pulls himself back down to Earth. “As I was saying… I know it doesn’t make sense to you, Remus. But if I have any say in it, I’ll never seen them again, and while that’s what I want — that’s all I want — I need to prove myself somehow. They think I’m scum, Remus, that I’ll amount to nothing, and maybe they’re fucking right, but I need to try. I at least need to try.”

Remus knows he could explain to Sirius that he needn’t try, that their opinions don’t matter, that he’s only seventeen, almost eighteen, that he needn’t have made anything of himself yet. But he also knows he wouldn’t listen. He sighs, eyes flickering over Sirius’ face, who’s watching him warily, awaiting a response. Remus punches weakly at Sirius’ hip, smiles faintly. “And this cosmopolitan, grandiose event that only further divides us is the stage you’ve chosen for your — your redemption?”

Sirius squats so he’s eye-level with Remus’ knee, produces a bent cigarette from somewhere within his robes. He rolls it around between his fingers. “Using my own words against me, are you, Remus John?” Sirius’ eyes flash up at him before he rests the warm plane of his forehead against Remus’ knee. “But, to answer your question, it seems to be so.”

Remus, half-holding his breath, trickles his fingers lightly through Sirius’ hair, not quite touching his scalp but enough to sift deeper canyons between the thick, dark locks. “I’m can’t say I’m not concerned.” Remus lays his palm flat on top of Sirius’ head, leaves it there. “But, frankly, Sirius, if anyone of us was to win this, somehow, someway, it would be you.”

When Sirius looks up, he’s got the fag between his teeth and he’s grinning around it. “‘eah?” he asks, brings the tip of his wand up to spark the cigarette alight. Then, he stands, and Remus, rolling his eyes, snatches the cigarette from between his lips.

“Put that out,” he mutters, but takes a quick drag of it himself only to cough it all out. Then he puts it out on the bottom of his shoe. Sirius huffs out a quiet laugh, and then glances over his shoulder when he follows Remus’ gaze to a first-year standing nearby, gazing curiously at the literal smoking gun in Remus’ hand.

Sirius offers him a fist to bump. “Alright, mate?”

The boy’s eyes widen at Sirius’ attention, and he briefly touches their fists together before legging it for the boys’ dormitory.

When Remus laughs, it’s a bodily laugh, a loud, cackling belly-laugh, and he finally collapses from his precarious spot to fall backwards against the sofa, still with his knees hooked over the armrest, calves dangling over the end. “You’ve got a title, now, Sirius. You’re intimidating to us commoners. Be gentle.”

“Oh, fuck you, Moony,” says Sirius, smacking the top of Remus’ shoe. Remus is perfectly content to lay there, fingers laced over his stomach, and watch as the common room empties out. Sirius idles by Remus’ feet as he’s showered with good-night well-wishes, brotherly congratulations and less-brotherly, more-flirtatious but subtle promises of fornication with their already-favorite Gryffindor prettyboy who’s now been stamped with a label that renders him all the more irresistible.

Remus’ eyes have been shut for a while, halfway to drifting off, by the time Sirius shakes at his ankle insistently.

“Now can we see what’s in the envelope?” Peter whinges.

Remus sleepily opens his eyes. Sirius has got his hips pressed up against the armrest, in between Remus’ slack legs, leaning over his prone form to pat Remus’ cheek. His hand halts in mid-air, though, when he finds Remus’ eyes already open, and instead lays his palm against the envelope resting on Remus’ stomach. “Turn your brain on, Moony. It’s clue time.” He smiles deviously. 

“Clue?!” gasps Peter, gaping at the envelope.

James comes up behind Peter, wrapping one arm around his shoulders and clamping a hand over his mouth. “Shut it, Wormtail. Jules Verlaine could have plants anywhere,” he whispers, eyes darting about the common room. The only people remaining are a few dozy, procrastinating fourth-years battling it out over Wizard’s chess and Lily hustling the last of the first-years up the stairs to the girls’ dormitory. “See that red-haired demon? Definitely the work of Jules Verlaine.”

“I’m sure every champion gets the same clue,” mutters Remus through a grunt as he heaves himself from the sofa.

“But not every champion has a close-knit team of mischief-makers and clue-solvers, diverse in their strengths and varieties of intellect,” says Sirius, urging Remus toward the boys’ dormitories with a hand on the small of his back. “We can’t let the competition overhear our course of action. For all we know, the clue could be hinting at the fact that my first challenge is to eat a bowl of toe jam and belly button lint, which Pete would give great advice on. Or it could be to cry and kick and scream like an infant until my mummy gives up trying to tame my hair and finally just lets me be a disgrace to the Sleekeazy family brand, and I know of someone who could help with that, too.”

Remus stifles a laugh. James, from somewhere behind, says, “Pete, I’ve been waiting for days to try that spell that supposedly sticks all your fingers together until the caster decides it’s been long enough.”

It’s completely unnecessary for Sirius to keep pushing Remus along like he is with that hand on the middle of his back, because he’s heading to their room, of course he is, but Sirius does it anyway. He feels the pressure increase, presumably when Sirius turns to look backward at James and requires a steadier balance. “Marvelous idea, Prongs. What if they have me swim for my life across the Great Lake? Sticking my fingers together… That’d be the closest I could get to doggy-paddling without transforming. And I’m a master doggy-paddler.”

It’s drafty in the room when they enter, and Remus crosses it to shut the window and slump down onto the window seat. He turns the envelope over in his palms once, twice, inspecting the impeccable shine of the wax seal. When he looks up, the others have all plopped themselves onto the floor in front of him, like they’re preparing for story time. So Remus clears his throat, smiles warmly upon them, wracks his brain for a bedtime story. “There was once a kindly old wizard who used his magic generously —“

Sirius boos him. James lets loose an equally impatient, “Oi! Get on with it.” 

Remus slides his thumb under the seal, breaking it gently. The only thing inside is a pure-white piece of paper, crisply folded along its edges to fit inside the envelope.

“What’s it say?” presses Peter.

Remus unfolds the paper, gazes at the neatly-typewritten letters.

“This is not meant to be a challenge you shall never forget,

but simply to test your versatility from the outset.

Leave your brooms and your aeroplanes, you cannot take to the air,

but bring your sense of direction, as you’ll need to know where

to go when there’s green as far as the eye can see,

and you’re left wandless for just this first of three.

As not to find your new surroundings too much to juggle,

you should welcome those unlike you to help in your struggle.

You’ll begin alone in the land of fen at the dawn of the day,

though if luck be on your side, company to you will find its way.”

James scrambles up from the floor and onto his feet, pointing at Remus with an eager sort of overconfidence, as if it’d been Remus whose riddle had been punched into that piece of paper. “They’re gonna chuck him in the middle of nowhere in the Forbidden Forest and leave him there to crawl his way out before sundown,” he exclaims, all in one breath. Remus raises an eyebrow, and his eyes flicker to Sirius, then Peter. “I’m sure of it,” protests James when he receives no validation.

“That would be the least original challenge in the history of history,” mutters Peter, “And I don’t even know what the past challenges’ve been.”

“They wouldn’t do that,” Sirius huffs. “Not after the cockatrice incident. They couldn’t ditch me wandless in that forest. There’s, like, giant spiders and shit.”

James deflates noticeably. “Loving this supportive environment, lads.”

Sirius reaches up to grab at the tail of James’ shirt and lovingly tug him back to the floor. He tosses an arm around him to drag him into his side. “This is my life we’re talking about here. There’s no room for mistakes,” Sirius tells him, tilting their heads close.

Remus’ eyes scan the clue one last time before he passes the slip of paper to Peter. “When is the challenge?”

“November the twenty-second,” Sirius recites from memory and worries his lower lip through his teeth. “It’s a bit soon, innit?”

“What in hell is the land of fen?” grumbles Peter.

“Fen is like… marshland,” Remus answers.

“Maybe you’ll have to fight a troll,” Peter suggests.

“With these?” Sirius lifts his fists woefully. He glances up at Remus. “Any ideas yet, Moony?”

Remus has that feeling where there’s something eating at him, tickling the front of his brain and the tip of his tongue. The issue is that he doesn’t know what. He shakes his head apologetically, eyes fixed on the floor as the rhyming words echo through his head. Air, where. See, three. Juggle, struggle.

“Sleep on it,” says Sirius.

“What do you think of that Ilvermorny bird? Their champion?” James throws in.

Sirius cackles. “Out of your league.” When James glares, Sirius lifts his hands innocently — one spotless, one inked. “Out of mine, too. That’s never stopped me. Or you, for that matter.”

“Juggle, struggle,” whispers Remus, drumming his fingertips together. “And… company…”

“I still think they’ll drop you in the Forbidden Forest.”

***

Over breakfast the following morning, Remus continues to ponder Sirius’ clue, as if he could find it between the lumps of his porridge should he dig through it hard enough. Nothing. He finds nothing. So he spoons a glob of raspberry jam in.

“Moony.”

Remus swirls the jam into the porridge. Welcome those unlike you to help in your struggle… “Hm?”

“Remus.”

He blinks, shuts his jaw when he realizes it’s been catching flies for Merlin knows how long, and glances up at Sirius, who’s across the table from him. “What?” He finds that James has left — meeting with the Headmaster — as has Peter — remedial Transfigurations session. Then his eyes settle upon Sirius again, spoon dropping into his bowl with a clank. “Oh.”

“I need to talk to you,” Sirius murmurs. He’s halfway on the table, fingers laced together, elbows propped up. Many of the tables in the Great Hall are sparse that morning. He suspects several hungry souls will have to wait until lunch for grub, or then they’re all sicking up their sweets binge last night.

“Since when do you need my permission to talk?” Remus smiles. He’s wholly focused on Sirius, so when he lifts his porridgey spoon, he misses his mouth by several inches and gropes instantly for a napkin. “Fuck,” he mutters, and wiping only smears mush across his skin. Lovely.

“It’s just this once.” Sirius shifts so he’s got his feet tucked up underneath him. “Er… Alright. So…” He drums the table with his palms a few times. “I think Jules Verlaine is into me.”

Remus crumples up his napkin, finally meets Sirius’ eyes. “How do you mean?” is what he asks absentmindedly.

“Listen, Moony, please,” Sirius whines, and he looks both ways as if he’s about to cross a street before he speaks again. “I think that Jules Verlaine, the Beauxbatons champion, the bloke, is into me. Like, into me.”

Remus, whose head this had somehow gone over the first time, swallows. His head feels vaguely fuzzy. He scratches at his throat, because it’s gone dry, and then reaches for his glass of pumpkin juice to guzzle down half. “What makes you think that?” he practically pants.

Sirius’ gaze is blank. “Moony, everyone, everyone but you can tell when someone’s into them. We just… have radars. I can tell. The way he's looked at me, the way he's spoken to me.” He shifts, exhaling shakily out his nose and picking up his fork to fiddle with. “I think he’s into me,” he says again. Remus suddenly regrets not paying enough attention to Jules Verlaine since his arrival. He’s at a loss for what to say. And because Sirius is apparently so brilliant at detecting interest aimed his way, he wonders how positively fucked he is.

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” Remus asks, quiet.

Sirius hesitates. Then shakes his head. “No.” He presses the prongs of the fork against his lower lip. There’s a metallic clang as they bump against his bottom row of teeth. “And it should, shouldn’t it?”

Remus rubs a hand over his jaw and back around to the nape of his neck. “No,” he tells Sirius slowly, elongating the vowel to give his brain time to process, for the metaphysical cogs to turn faster than they physically can.

“No?” Sirius settles his bum back against his heels. His eyes are still on Remus. “Okay. But I’m almost… See, Remus, I think I’m inviting it. And he can tell. He can tell I’m not… opposed.”

Remus’ fingers slip against the condensation on his glass. “You’re not?”

Sirius shakes his head. “I know it sounds ridiculous, because I’ve known him for — what, five minutes? — but I’m going mad, Moony, because he’s a bloke, he’s a boy, he’s got a cock, at least I think, and I… thinkIwanttohavesexwithhim.” Sirius sinks down against the table, palms covering his face from chin to forehead so all Remus sees are his bony knuckles, the black of the protection sigil on his skin, and his carelessly tressed hair.

Remus is astounded when he manages to choke on just air. Nothing but air. Is that talent or buffoonery? “You want to fuck the French bloke?” he whispers, shoving his porridge aside so he can lower himself to Sirius’ level, arms folded over the table.

Sirius’ fingers spread so he can peek at Remus between them. “He’s not French.” His voice is muffled. “But that’s the gist of it, yeah.”

Remus stares at Sirius, unblinking. Black is open-minded, Lily had said.

Sirius chuckles. It’s a weak noise. “I may or may not have shirtlifting tendencies and now I’ve scared off my best mate.” He sighs. “And all in one morning,” he half-whispers, half-sings, almost manic.

Remus fucking snaps out of it. “No!” he’s quick to implore softly, tries not to raise his voice as he reaches out to curl his fingers around Sirius’ forearm. “No. Sirius, that’s fine. That’s perfectly fine. And valid. I just… I can’t tell if you’re having a crisis because you want to fuck Jules Verlaine, or you want to fuck… men.”

Sirius shrugs, seems to ease up a bit as he clasps his hands together and drops them to the table between them. “Bit o’ both, maybe.” He tousles his fringe, brushes it from his eyes. “Can’t very well shag Jules if I don’t know how to shag a man.”

Remus’ very vanilla resumé fails him again. He tries to formulate a response, something akin to advice he’s not qualified to give.

Sirius winces suddenly, hands curling into fists until they aren’t anymore, until he’s simply holding his palms aloft, facing Remus. “I’m sorry. This is bloody weird now. I’m sorry, Remus. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”

Remus isn’t used to seeing Sirius like this, and he thinks that’s perhaps why the progression of this conversation is so choppy. He gets a hold of Sirius’ wrist, but that time he doesn’t release him, even when Sirius raises a challenging eyebrow. “Sirius,” he chuckles, pulling his arm down to the table, eyes earnest. His lips curl up at the corners. “I’ll punch you again if I have to.”

Sirius stops resisting his grip, and after a second of returning Remus’ gaze, he breathes out a soft laugh. “Hey, fuck you,” he mutters.

Remus’ head feels like it’s been filled with lead, his eyes watery and burning but dry when he blinks, his throat like he’s been choked by a harpy with razor-sharp claws but there’s nothing there. And yet, he thinks Sirius doesn’t realize any of this, because he’s only looking at Remus expectantly. So Remus clears his throat, gives a wobbly smile again. “I think,” he begins, “that you’re the very center of attention now, Sirius. And you’ve got a lot of people on your side. A lot. And I think it’s fine that you want to fuck a bloke, I think it’s fine if you do, I think it’s fine if… you do whatever you want. Really.” He lets his hold of Sirius’ wrist go a little gentler, just so he doesn’t block the blood to his fingers. It’s often that Remus underestimates his own strength. “Please do. Not, like, please fuck Jules, because, well, sure, if you want to, but.” Then Sirius is laughing at him, and Remus is rolling his eyes. “You know what I mean. But there are sick fucks here, and in the world, like Snape and Mulciber and Avery, and you know what they’d think about that should they hear. And unless you want them to know, then… I don’t know. Just rest assured, Sirius, that you’re fine. You’re the same person you were the minute before you decided you wanted to shag Jules Verlaine. Do whatever you want, I say. And it could be worse. It could be a lot worse. You could be a werewolf, for one.” Remus’ lips quirk. A queer werewolf, he doesn’t say. He releases Sirius’ hand to wipe his own palm against his robes, because his palm’s grown tremendously sweaty. “I just want you to be careful.”

Sirius internalizes this, or doesn’t, then waits a beat for a malicious grin to overcome his face. “While you’re on a roll, how do blokes have sex, O knowledgeable one?”

“I’m not having this conversation with you.” Remus scowls at him. 

Sirius watches him, and the flush in his cheeks comes and goes. Remus wonders if he’s imagined it. He sighs dreamily. “What would I do without you, Moony?”

Remus shrugs. “You’d probably have shagged Jules anyway.”

“Perhaps. But I would’ve gone into it without a heart-to-heart with Remus Lupin about shagging blokes.”

“Good god —”

“And to think, I might’ve died before hearing that.” Sirius exhales deeply, shakes his head, bats his eyes at Remus. “Tragic.”

Remus’ porridge is cold when he spoons a bit into his mouth. “You’re not dying,” he says around his mouthful.

“Just might. In the Forbidden Forest, maybe.”

“I’m fully convinced James is in the wrong,” states Remus. “Though I’ll admit I’m still at the drawing board myself.” When he swallows, it’s as if he can feel the porridge crawl down his throat, he swears, travel through his intestines, fall into his gut and sit there like a cold, heartless lump. Of course it’s heartless, you idiot, it’s inanimate, half of Remus’ brain tells him. And what makes you so sure you know the timeline of peristalsis? The other half, in a much tinnier voice, is screaming at full volume: Sirius wants a boy and it isn’t you! “What do you think that part about company — What?” Remus halts mid-question, because between furiously whisking jam into his porridge and debating with his inner selves, he hadn’t realized that Sirius had been eyeing him inquisitively.

“Search me,” says Sirius, and then, “Would you ever do it, Moony?”

Remus knows what, he thinks, but he still stuffs cold, disgusting porridge into his mouth just to give himself time to think. “Do what?”

“Shag a bloke.” Sirius’ gaze seems to penetrate into his soul, but Remus, at the moment, feels as if there’s nothing there but resentment and clumps of porridge. “You just knew exactly what to say to me, feels like.”

Remus’ lips pinch together. “Half of what I say isn’t to be trusted, Sirius. I don’t even know what I’m saying half the time. Your — your sense of reality and logic are drastically fucking skewed because your golden standard is me, when the only reason I even think things over twice is because I fret so often —“

“Moony,” Sirius pleads through a grin. “Just…” He laughs. “Never mind.”

“I may have thought about it,” divulges Remus abruptly for reasons that escape him. Now he feels like hiding behind his hands.

Sirius’ chin rests against the delicate bend of his wrist. “Yeah?”

Remus stares. “Must I say it twice?”

This prompts Sirius’ lips to twist upward wryly. “I mean, sure.”

“Well, I won’t.”

“Moony, I don’t want to lose my gay-virginity to a fit but complete stranger, least of all a stranger who may or may not lead a Julius-Caesar-style assassination plot against me in order to bring home to his iced-gem-hatted cult a victory in this tournament in which I’ve ensnared myself.”

Remus thinks he’s misheard, or at the very least completely misunderstood, because his heart drops out of his arse. “What?”

“Did you know my Uncle Alphard died over the summer?” is what Sirius responds with.

Remus can’t think of a figure of speech to explain what he’s mentally undergoing at that moment. It’s as if Sirius has just knocked him upside the head with a Beater’s bat, only to soon have a Bludger collide with the other side of his skull. “No,” he utters. Alphard Black? Remus attempts to jog his memory for the name, but nothing comes up. “I’m, Merlin, I’m sorry, Sirius.”

Sirius shakes his head. “It’s fine. Mother never let me see much of him. We weren’t close. I’m not sure I ever mentioned him to you, either. The only reason James knows is because he was there when I got the owl.”

Remus, who’s pressing his hand to his chest just to humor himself and measure just how fast his heart could be beating in the confused, disjointed time that is now, tries to disguise it as a scratch. “Was it about the news?”

“Not quite,” says Sirius, and when he rakes his fingers through his hair, Remus cannot help but marvel at the way it falls weightlessly back into place. “I don’t think I would’ve ever found out had he not named me in his will.” Sirius’ pale fingers tap rhythmically against the table. “He left me some gold. A good bit.”

Remus’ smile is tenuous, befuddled. He merely nods. Sirius, at that, smiles, too.

“He wasn’t well-liked by Mother nor Uncle Cygnus, which I suppose we had in common.” Remus watches him pick off a part of his cuticle, and then he cranes out his hand to bat Sirius’ hands apart before he can peel himself open like a satsuma. “When I get out of here, Remus, once the war’s done with and we’ve won, I’m going to take that gold and find myself a flat. Could be shitty, could be leaky, could sway like the Shrieking fucking Shack when the wind blows, but it’ll be somewhere as far from Mother and Father as I can get, someplace nobody will fucking judge me for anything but what I put into the world.”

Remus traces his fingertip along an arch of the black sigil on the back of Sirius’ hand, resting on the table. He smiles at him.

***

Sirius’ birthday is on Monday, and no matter how much Remus tries to convince James and Sirius that no one will entertain the thought of a party on a Sunday night, he’s disregarded. In fact, he’s proven wrong on oft an occasion when he realizes it’s far more than just Sirius, James, and Peter rigging the fete on Sunday afternoon. Remus isn’t sure when the recruiting had happened, though the longer he thinks about it, he’d spent part of Saturday revising with Lily for a Muggle Studies exam he didn’t really need to revise for and the other half laying out in the unseasonably warm mid-autumn sun by the lake with a non-academic book, mentally preparing for the Hunter’s Moon on Monday. On Sirius’ birthday. The only reason he’d given himself such a luxury had been because he’d begun to get surly with Lily cooped up in the library, bones and muscle aches aplenty, even when it was the last thing she’d deserved.

Clearly, Sirius and James had taken advantage of Remus’ absence to get everyone not just in Gryffindor House but across the school — schools plural, too, supposedly — on board to throw a dual-purpose rager: to celebrate both Sirius’ eighteenth birthday and his recent coronation as Hogwarts Triwizard champion. For it being so late into Fall term, it’s no wonder everyone is hopping on board — any excuse to go wild, after all. When Remus comes down to the common room that Sunday afternoon, it’s to a chaotic mess of red streamers swooping across the ceiling. It might’ve looked good, somewhere under the numerous layers, but whoever had been in charge had gone slightly beyond overboard. He halts at the bottom of the stairs, still clutching onto the hand railing as Marlene comes teetering down the steps from the girls’ dormitory, hugging to her chest a handle of firewhisky and clutching a handle of vodka in each hand.

“Forget you’re a prefect for one second, yeah, Lupin, and give me some help over here?” she says, and only upon registering the request does Remus rush over to relieve her of both bottles of vodka. Sirius chooses that moment to waltz in through the portrait hole. He freezes when he spots Marlene and Remus, arches an eyebrow at the overabundance of liquor, then points at the bottles.

“Moony, you —?”

“Oh, stop. Remus wouldn’t take credit for this even if he’d actually done it.” Marlene walks the firewhisky over to the tables that have been cleared of chess and books gone astray and pushed together to act as a makeshift bar. “It’s from me. Happy birthday, Black. I hope someone’s had the sense to get you a recovery potion, and if not, may your birthday morning feel like hell.” She smacks a kiss to Sirius’ cheek that leaves a dark smear over his cheekbone, shoves Remus in the direction of the alcohol, and then disappears into the girls’ dormitory again, short skirt swishing along her thighs.

“Whoa,” says Peter, whose presence Remus notices only then. He’s sat by the fireplace, unfilled Zonko’s balloons scattered across his lap, ogling Marlene’s behind. “I’m beginning to understand why Dorcas sees nothing in me.”

“Thanks, babe!” Sirius hollers after her.

“Shut up, Pettigrew.” Marlene reemerges from the stairwell enough to peek around the corner at Sirius. “I’ll see you at eight, yeah?” Then she’s gone for good.

“Wormtail, you can’t just say things like that at full volume,” Remus admonishes, setting the vodka down. While Marlene’s contributions are new and full, there are half-finished bottles scattered about the tabletop. Remus even spots a keg of butterbeer behind the table.

“She must see something in you, Pete. It’s just not what she wants,” Sirius says as he swings himself over the back of the sofa onto the cushions. Remus thinks it’s his attempt at comfort.

“What’s at eight?” Remus asks absently, momentarily wigging out when he turns around to walk right into a dangling, red streamer that’s come loose from the ceiling.

“She’s helping me get ready,” Sirius says. How vague.

“Okay, okay, okay,” James is chanting, to himself, Remus thinks, as he comes down from the boys’ dormitory in socked feet. He’s got something held behind his back as he approaches the three of them. Remus moves to stand behind the sofa that Sirius sits on. He’s fast to fend off the typical questionable thoughts; those about running his fingers through Sirius’ hair, or laying his hand on his shoulder, even. Aside from the time he’d spent outside the day prior, Remus doesn’t think he’s had a clear mind for a full hour since Saturday at breakfast when Sirius, seemingly very deliberately, had told him he didn’t want Jules Verlaine to be his first… boy. He hasn’t mentioned it since, which leads Remus to instantly believe that it’s because he regrets ever bringing it up, or that it’d come off vastly different from how he’d intended. Remus’ fingers drum against the tops of the sofa cushions, and Sirius mindlessly glances over his shoulder at them, though James demands his full attention shortly.

“So, I was going to wait ’til tomorrow to give you your present.” Such a statement is guaranteed to have Sirius on the edge of his seat, and it does. James grins smugly. “Yes, I know. Extra points for generosity, double points for best mateness. Anyway, I thought it’d be stupid to wait until the party was over, so.” He plops down onto the couch beside Sirius, presents him with the glass jar he’s been holding behind his back. On top is a small, colorful piece of paper.

“Did you make me a card? That’s a fucking tiny card,” Sirius mutters, though he’s soon distracted by the contents of the jar, which he brings up close to his eyes, turns over in his hands delicately. “Oh, hell. Oh, shit. Would you look at that.”

“The very finest a Potter allowance can buy,” says James, self-satisfied.

“It’s so green,” Peter goggles. “I think I even see some pink.”

Sirius is starry-eyed. He goes to open it, but James smacks his hand away. “Not yet. It’s charmed shut. It’ll stink up the whole room.”

Sirius looks like he’s aching. “I just wanna smell it, goddammit,” he whimpers, holding the jar up to the light in awe. Remus watches, doesn’t comment, his chin held in his hand. It’s a jar of pot, is what it is. He’s not sure if he should ashamed or not that a cured plant is so revered by his closest friends, but he loves them all the same. Weed… weed makes Remus feel stupid.

He doesn’t like to feel stupid.

“Where’d you get it?” asks Peter, mystified.

“Took my cloak out for hall duty last night. It’s from this sketchy guy at the Hog’s Head. Trip ended up taking much longer than I anticipated… Needless to say Evans was pissed off.”

“You’ll roll me one tonight, yeah, Jamesy?” Sirius pleads. “You’re the best at it. Can’t have Butterfingers Pettigrew over ‘ere messing with the grade-A stock.”

Peter folds his arms over the sofa cushion beside Sirius’ thighs, rests his chin down sulkily. “It’s almost your birthday, so I’ll let that slip.”

Sirius hugs the jar to his chest, grips James by the back of his neck fondly. “Thanks, mate,” he mutters, voice gravelly-soft.

James starts to smile, but then sits upright at lightning speed. “Wait! That’s the high-effort part of my gift, but it’s not all. Those,” he points to the brilliantly-colored paper taped to the jar, “those are tabs, mate. Only a couple, though. Can’t have our Head Boy being caught nicking blotter from Chaz Cassady’s personal stash.”

Remus is positive his lower jaw drops right off. He smacks James on the back of the head, which knocks his glasses just slightly askew.

“What the hell, Moony?!” James yelps, shoves his specs up his nose.

“You nicked LSD from the fucking Headmaster of Ilvermorny?” Remus whisper-shouts, gripping fast to the back of the sofa.

Sirius and Peter, silently observing the tiff, exchange looks and concurrently burst into laughter.

“The man leaves it out for everyone to see!” James argues heatedly. “The Beauxbatons twats had requested hot, damp towels to open up their pores or some ripe load of crap like that, and Minnie must think I’m an elf ‘cos she had me do the honors of delivery. And it was — it was just there, alright?” James’ eyes flicker warily over Remus’ face. “It’s not like I can return it now.”

Sirius, loose with giggles, sags against the cushions around which Remus’ fingers are clenched. “I need to get to know these Americans, mate. Or at least Cassady. He’s mad.”

“Don’t be angry, Moony. If Pads wants to trip, I swear I’ll make sure he doesn’t try to fly broomless out our window.” James’ spirits seem to have sunken significantly. Remus frowns.

“It’s not that I’m worried about,” Remus sighs, rubs at his eyes. Laughs in disbelief. “It’s just — you do realize what you’ve done, yeah? You’ve stolen incredibly illegal drugs from one of the most important people in Wizarding education at the moment.”

“When you put it that way, it just sounds like a gloat,” says James.

“That’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” Sirius dry-sobs. “Beats even my quasi-adoption and letting me stay at your house when I’m homeless.”

“This’ll be a night to remember,” Peter murmurs, eyes fixed on the weed.

“Can’t blow it all in one night,” Sirius notes rationally. “We need something to look forward to.”

James snorts. “Something other than the three Triwizard challenges ahead of you?”

***

Remus Lupin isn’t averse to parties, per se. He doesn’t like the quiet, awkward beginnings when the sun has yet to set and it feels as if all the lights in the world are still on, when there’s too few people dawdling about and the music is loud enough to make polite conversation impossible but not loud enough to lose oneself in. He can’t say he enjoys them just past their peak, either, when everyone is overly inebriated and he’s got to catch up if he’s stone-cold sober, when everyone’s going on hour three of a conversation Remus is joining much too late, when the floor is wet and sticky and there are couples frotting on every open spot as if there aren’t eleven year-olds attempting to keep their mouths shut about the festivities a mere wall and several silencing spells away. He tries to time his arrival somewhere in between, even if he’s already wasted an hour studying to the steady heartbeat of the bass in the common room where the charmed turntable is blasting all of Sirius’ favorites. It’s been the Stones for a while, but Killer Queen is on when Remus finally peers into the common room. Sometimes he questions just how very in sync he and Lily are, because a few feet away, she’s also peeking out from the archway to the girls’ dormitory, tucking her long, loose hair behind her ears.

“Pssst,” Remus hisses. Much to his surprise, she glances over, and the next thing he knows, Lily is by his side. She looks good but mildly uncomfortable, tugging down on the hem of her floral skirt.

“Circe, Remus, I’ve never been happier to see you,” she says into his ear, because it’s the only way he’ll catch even a word with the erratic soundwaves bouncing about.

He chuckles, scrubs a hand through his hair. The room is dark but for the faint glow of red through the ceiling of streamers. Remus commends the spellwork of whoever had managed to rig it; it drenches the room in a glow that’s gentle but dangerous, subtle enough to leave certain corners dark like blindspots.

“I’m surprised you came,” Remus says. He feels like he’s yelling. He probably is. “Tomorrow’s a Monday.”

Lily shrugs. “Well, now that I’ve secured myself a wingman…” Her elbow nudges into Remus’ side.

Remus smiles — he can’t help it. He feels vaguely high already off the fumes circling the room. James has no doubt cracked open the top-galleon jar. “I’ve heard terrible reviews,” he says, and when Lily’s brows crinkle, he laughs, soft. Her eyes are lined with white kohl. “About your wingman. You look nice, though.”

“Oh, thank you,” Lily murmurs, pulls again on her skirt. “You, too,” she adds, but she’s looking out at the common room, at the gyrating silhouettes, and Remus is only in a faded pair of jeans he’s worn far too often since his mum had bought them post-growth spurt and a long-sleeve that’s piling if one looks closely enough.

“Where’s our champion, hm?” asks Lily, and Remus flinches when she pinches his side, though he follows her further into the daunting space as she begins to stray.

Their champion isn’t difficult to find.

To absolutely drive you wiiiiiild, wiiiiiild has never felt like a more appropriate line on which to enter a party.

Sirius is on a table, sandwiching Marlene between himself in the front and Dorcas Meadowes in the back. He’s attempting to match Mercury’s high tenor, though it comes out as more of a tone-deaf hoot. Sirius’ eyelids are smudged with black to match Marlene’s, and he’s in an absolutely ridiculous top Remus undoubtedly has never laid eyes on in his life. It’s got puffy sleeves that cinch at the wrists and it tapers at the waist, scattered with a bold flower print. It’s a bit too small, too. His low-slung trousers don’t help Remus’ situation at all, especially not from this vantage point.

Lily storms toward the table, and Remus can’t hear what she shouts at first, so he trails closer. Lily’s caught Sirius’ attention; he holds onto Marlene’s hand to stay on his feet, but bends over to speak directly to Lily.

“What was that, Evans?” asks Sirius, voice raised.

“That’s my shirt!” squawks Lily.

“What?” Sirius laughs in delight. It’s a melodious, lilting sound that flicks Remus’ heart to life. “McKinnon lent it to me.”

“And I lent it to Marlene. To borrow. For tonight,” gripes Lily, who fixes Marlene with an accusatory look.

Marlene tunes in at the mention of her name. Her chin is now on Sirius’ shoulder, her arm wrapped around his waist, though the lower half of her body still undulates with a practiced rhythm against Dorcas. Remus might feel jealous had Marlene not established five years ago that she would never feel anything but sisterly companionship toward Sirius Black.

“Lils,” Marlene deadpans. “You really thought I would wear that?” She doesn’t even have to gesture to the black garb she’s clad in.

Lily reassesses the shirt, winces at the sight of Sirius’ navel. “Well, not in hindsight,” she responds lividly. “My — my great aunt Libby gave that to me!”

“Libby, what a woman! Give her my best!” Sirius sings nonsensically, then pries himself from Marlene’s grasp the moment he shortsightedly notices Remus a few steps behind. “But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Remus is the moon!” cries Sirius, stumbling off the table and using Lily’s shoulder to catch and eventually launch himself in Remus’ direction.

“You’d better not spill anything on that,” says Lily as she pushes Sirius away. Remus catches him by the elbows, simply because Sirius has gone and planted his palms against Remus’ chest.

“Don’t worry, Evans. It’s coming off within the hour,” calls Sirius over his shoulder. Then he whips his head to face Remus, whose nose is tickled by flying strands of black hair. Through the material of Lily’s top, Sirius’ skin is hot and damp with sweat, as is the hair by his hairline, plastered to his pale, flushed skin. The eye pigment has smudged on his left lid, his lips are chapped and dry, likely from hollering and blabbing for the past hour.

“You sozzled?” says Remus, because he can’t quite think straight.

This draws a chuckle out of Sirius. “Sozzled,” he echoes, patting Remus’ chest. “No, no. I’m not. I’ve not had one drink.” When Remus raises an eyebrow skeptically, Sirius fights back by rising onto his tiptoes defiantly. “I’ve not! Now come fucking toke up with me, Moony, I’ve been waiting. You’d better’ve been doing somethin’ worthwhile up there like wanking, ‘cos I’ve been waiting.” His hand latches onto the crook of Remus’ arm, towing him in his wake through a sea of Gryffindors who’ve all overindulged in Marlene’s contributions to the party, based just on their smell.

Sirius collapses onto the sofa beside Emmeline Vance. He directs Remus to sit on the other side of him. With a vague wave at her — as Remus sits, he thinks he hears Sirius call greet her with the name Fancy Vance — Sirius then crosses his legs, spreads his arms along the back of the couch, one behind Remus’ shoulders, the other behind Emmeline’s. Behind Sirius’ head, she gives Remus a little wave. Remus manages a smile before Sirius kicks up his feet onto the coffee table and yells, “Where’s Prongs?”

“Right here, goddammit,” mutters James, edging past a bulky Kingsley to reach them. When Kingsley moves to make room, Remus catches a glimpse of Peter behind the ‘bar.’ He’s sloshing various alcohols of dubious measurement into one cup, giving it a sniff, and then handing it off to a blonde from Beauxbatons. When another girl joins her side, he does the same for her, though he spills something violently pink onto his shirt this iteration. Someone stop him, Remus’ brain screams, and then James is jostling Remus himself, but only to get at a throw pillow that’s stuck under his arse. He lifts his bum and doesn’t question it, and he doesn’t need to once he watches James balance the cushion on his hand and onto that place a joint that’s as thick as one of Remus’ fingers on the fatter end. James hesitates for a moment to make sure it doesn’t roll off before sinking to one knee and proffering it to Sirius with his head bowed.

Sirius’ head tips back against the sofa with a throaty laugh, and eventually his cheek lolls to his own shoulder on Emmeline’s side. “I’ve never loved you more.”

“My most redeeming quality, I know. Just fucking take it already. My knee hurts,” says James despite his grin.

“Moony, grab it,” Sirius commands as he shifts the way his legs are crossed at the ankles. So Remus does, of course. James staggers to his feet — he seems oddly sober, as well — and as Remus digs for his wand, he sees the moment that James notices Lily in the crowd. James swipes his palms against the thighs of his trousers, checks that the collar of his expensive jumper is centered, adjusts his glasses.

“Evans looks nice,” says James, sounding breathless. Remus’ lips curve helplessly even around the soft Incendio that he mutters, twisting the joint between his fingers in the small flame.

“No, Prongs. No. You stay away from that woman,” states Sirius emphatically. He jabs his finger at James, carelessly shaking Emmeline, who’s now tucked against the bend of Sirius’ elbow.

“You should go talk to her,” Remus proposes innocently.

Sirius turns dark eyes on Remus. “We shan’t set one another up for failure,” he insists loudly, and the next thing Remus knows, Sirius’ fingers are curled into the back of Remus’ shirt at the top of his spine. “He’s done chasing her.”

James sighs, hands in his pockets. “You’re right, Sirius.”

“Big party,” Remus remarks intelligently, dropping his wand to the sofa so he can pinch the joint to his lips. “Head Boy, Head Girl. Only makes sense to be keeping everyone under control.” He pointedly does not look at Sirius, but instead lets his eyes cross to observe the glow of the cherry as he sucks on the joint. He draws it away, frown etched across his features, breath held.

“Moony’s right,” James says suddenly. From that moment on, he’s nearly unstoppable in his beeline across the room, though he has to slow down to help a Beauxbatons girl clean up when he knocks her Pettigrew-special down the front of her dress.

When Remus exhales the smoke, the premature, full-moon-ache in his bones is no more, and he finds it very funny that even when faced with a detour of alcohol-drenched tits, James continues to frantically glance over every five seconds to check that Lily is indeed where he’d last seen her.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Sirius scolds. Remus slumps lower against the sofa cushions, not guilty whatsoever, because he knows something that Sirius doesn’t. For once. “Sadistic bastard. Shotgun me, yeah?”

Remus blinks at Sirius. Sirius and Emmeline, rather, because they look one minute from melting into each other at the hip. She peers at him, too, around Sirius’ curtain of black hair. “Excuse me?”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “The backwards thing, Moony!” he contends restlessly, and, ah, right. Remus scoots closer along the sofa, eyes on Sirius’ mouth as he cautiously puts the lit end between his lips, absolutely sure he’s bound to burn himself one way or another. Sirius’ eyes are then level with his own, so, so close, just barely enough that their noses don’t brush, and when Remus blows softly, Sirius purses his lips to suck in the smoke and, Merlin, if he had any guts at all and no regard for his six-year-long friendship with this boy, he might have kissed him right then. It’s almost amusing, though, because Remus’ conscience is all kiss, kiss, kiss, and Sirius doesn’t blow out the smoke back out immediately. Instead, he draws Emmeline in by the back of the head — her hand grasps for purchase at the front of Sirius’ flowery shirt — and she inhales as he breathes right into her mouth. Remus feels transparent, like his heart is a book in a glass case, open to be read though no one in the room at the moment cares enough to even take a look, read the back cover or the title. When he catches a slip of Emmeline’s tongue, Remus turns away quickly and draws his knees up to his chest. He doesn’t even care that he’s got shoes on and that he’s likely soiling the perfectly good sofa, something young boys with good manners would never do. Young boys with good manners would never smoke all of their friend’s birthday weed, either, but seeing as Sirius is a tad busy, Remus won’t let the joint go to waste. The back of his neck burns with spiteful, jealous heat, as he puffs on the joint, he considers every other place he could be right then; attempting to chat up Kingsley Shacklebolt on Lily’s behalf, chatting up someone with whom he might have an actual chance. He’d say Mary, but he can’t be sure his and Mary’s evening together wasn’t meant to be just a one-off. He could even be up in his room, blanketed by silencing charms, or out on the grounds by the lake. It’s probably below freezing outside, but Remus doesn’t get cold easily.

Fingers grapple at the back of Remus’ neck again. From the corners of his eyes, Remus can see that Sirius has still got his tongue down Emmeline’s throat, but they are his fingers, the ones he can feel fiddling with the tag on his jumper. His skin prickles all the way down to the bone, and because he can barely breathe on his own, he pats for his wand to cast a stasis charm so the joint doesn’t burn itself out. And no matter how hard Remus tries to lose himself in Bowie, or in watching Peter make a fool of himself, it’s only when Sirius releases both him and Emmeline that Remus thinks he takes his first real breath in actual minutes. Wordlessly, he passes the joint to Sirius, lifts the charm. His shoulders are stiff.

“Seen your French boyfriend yet?” asks Remus.

Sirius has taken the joint and is already looking his way when Remus checks. Mary Macdonald is by Emmeline’s end of the couch and they’ve got their heads close, giggling to one another about something, though Sirius’ hand remains on her bare upper back, as her jumper’s got a massive cutout in it. Remus sourly questions the point of wearing a warm jumper if you’ve got your whole back exposed. He doesn’t think he’d be as pissy about it, though, had it been Sirius in such a jumper. He’s always got to be the fucking exception, hasn’t he?

“He’s not French,” Sirius says. Remus feigns surprise — it’s a dramatic little move, hands in the air and all. Sirius’ eyes narrow. It only draws Remus’ attention to his smudged eyelid, so he slides over to where he’d sat five minutes prior before the snogging had commenced. He makes a show of licking his thumb and with his free hand he takes Sirius’ chin to hold him steady while he wipes at the stray black pigment.

“What’re you doing?” asks Sirius, barely moving his mouth. Remus evades his gaze, focused entirely on that one eyelid.

“Either someone thwacked you in the eye or your makeup was shit to begin with,” he says, so quiet it’s likely that Sirius wouldn’t hear if he wasn’t so close.

Sirius responds, but it’s not to address this point. “I haven’t seen him.” He pushes Remus’ hands away when he’s had enough. “Might be ‘round, though.” Sirius sits up, scans the room without really looking. The joint has been smoking freely between his knuckles for a short while now. Remus says nothing, gazes at the black now on his thumb.

Then, after a silence, Remus huffs, “You should go look —”

“I already told you why I wouldn’t,” Sirius interrupts him.

Remus tries to swallow those words, and they roll down his esophagus until they get stuck.

“Hey, Pete!” calls Sirius, peering around Remus’ shoulder. “Come and get a load of this, mate.” He lifts the joint into the air. Before Remus can turn to look, Peter is there by his side with a breath of “Finally,” eyes expressing eternal gratitude as he accepts Sirius’ gift, unaware that it’s in fact a parting gift. He’s got his lips wrapped around the joint when Sirius nods toward the bar again. “Alright, fuck off now. Sorry, I mean — you’re doing a brilliant job over there, so. Fuck off now. Rest is yours.”

Remus blinks when the smoke from Peter’s lungs is suddenly tickling his eyes. “Right,” Peter says, mellow, then twirls on his heel to walk off.

“You’re the worst with him sometimes,” Remus murmurs.

“He knows I love him,” Sirius says, and he smiles a bit that time. When the silence stretches between them, Sirius moves to touch his hand to Remus’ knee. His head tilts to the side. “What did I do, Remus?”

Remus shifts so he’s not angled toward Sirius any longer and he can lean with his back on the cushions. “What do you mean?”

“You know what. What did I do?”

Remus sighs. He wonders if everything he’s said until now is weed-stupid and he doesn’t even realize. When he drags his thumb against his jeans, the black rubs off. He’d already managed to forget about that. Then he wonders if Sirius had even noticed, if he’d forgotten it was Remus he’d had his hand on, if he’s now riled up over nothing, if he’s reading too deeply into everything like he always, always does.

Sirius swings his feet off the coffee table, heaves himself up from the sofa. “Okay. Come on,” he says, and the small distance he’s put between himself and Remus already means he’s got to yell. With his eyes on Remus, Sirius takes a step backwards just to collide with the solid form of Kingsley, who’s passing by again. At the fright in Sirius’ eyes, Remus can’t help the smirk that breaks out on his face, and really, who is he kidding? There’s a room full of wonderful, beautiful people around them, some new and foreign, others old and friendly-faced, and yet Sirius has chosen Remus to accompany him on whatever’s now plaguing his mind, something that won’t stop or shut up until Sirius acquiesces to it. It must be inevitable.

When Remus rises, Sirius smiles at him loosely and runs ahead. It’d be more difficult to lose him than not; Lily’s top makes him a standout even in the dark. And Remus, as he drifts past faceless bodies, feels for a second like he’s dipped past that familiar gray veil dividing his conscience and the wolf’s bestial half-conscience. The bodies are nothing but dark blobs, tall and short, thick and thin and sprawling, like trees reaching for the ceiling or roots crawling along the ground, and it’s a forest he’s moving through, monochromatic with flashes of color he’s not so sure are as much color as sparks of his own human conscience. Feelings. And he’s going, same as always. Going after the same black dog. Black as the night is black, though Remus could smell him and see him from miles away, even if he wasn’t donning the rainbow polyester he is on this particular occasion.

Sirius is waiting at the foot of the stairs to the boys’ dormitory. Remus, when he tears himself from the crowd, stops in his tracks, too. Their eye contact holds. Sirius raises his eyebrows, a hand on both of the handrails that line the enclosing walls, and for a second, he holds himself up between them so his toes hover a few inches from the ground. Remus just watches, and then he fakes a step forth with all the intention of running at him, and it works, it works exactly like he’d figured in his head — Sirius’ eyes go wide and he drops to his feet to scramble up the stairs, except in his mind he hadn’t stumbled along the way like he does.

“Don’t scare me like that,” Sirius is grumbling when Remus gets closer.

Remus breathes out a laugh from the stair below, casts one last look over his shoulder at the party he’s apparently abandoning now. “Get up.” He nudges his toe against Sirius’ bum.

Sirius doesn’t take his eyes off Remus as he gets to his feet. “If you chase me, I’m going to run,” he murmurs calmly. His eyes flit over Remus, up and down.

“I’m not going to chase you,” he promises. It’s easier to talk at a sensible volume in the cover of the stairwell. Sirius’ makeup is smeared again. Remus, without thinking, bites at the end of his black-smudged thumb.

Sirius blinks. “Fair enough.”

Remus steps onto the same stair, and he notices, or, rather, feels the smile on his face examining the floral print of Lily’s top up close. Where are we going? he wants to ask, but he’s rather sure he already knows, and possibly even knows why. “You’re sure you don’t want to wait for Jules to show? He could still be —“

Sirius marches up the stairs past him without words but with certainty, so Remus, after a moment’s hesitation, decides to follow.

Remus steps into their room hesitantly. He hears Sirius before he sees him, hears him close the door behind Remus’ entrance, hears him exhale deep, so Remus turns to face him. When he does, Sirius is close already, a mere step away but just looking at him, and Remus stumbles back at least two steps’ worth at the shock of it.

Sirius smiles wryly. “Sorry.”

Remus’ hand flies to the back of his neck, rubs at the heat there. “Warn a bloke, would you?” he whispers, heart thrumming out of his chest. If there wasn’t a ribcage there to hinder it, disregarding other particulars of anatomy, Remus firmly believes his heart would force its way out of his body, flop, saturated with blood, onto the floor between them.

“Consider this a warning, then,” says Sirius steadily, and he doesn’t look nervous at all at first but for the way he’s holding his hands, as if he doesn’t quite know what to do with them and he’s left them to float there in the air before him.

“Warning for…?” Remus queries, and then Sirius moves forth, laughs, and steps on his toe. Remus feels fingers brush at his wrist and a fan of warm, musky breath on his face, and he should be embarrassed for reeling backward a second bloody time, but embarrassment will have to come after the fact. He puts another few feet between him and Sirius — soon he’ll run out of floorspace, and he’s never tried undetectable extension charms. “What are you doing?” he asks, a bit shrill.

Sirius’ countenance remains unchanged except for the little crease that forms between his brows. “Trying to kiss you, obviously.”

Remus’ eyes flit to the floor, expecting to find his heart there. It isn’t yet.

“A good snog is, like, guaranteed to get me randy. And Emmeline’s a great girl and all, but, Moony, I’m still limp as that Screechsnap that Prongs accidentally killed in fifth year Herbology,” Sirius intones.

The first noise that Remus makes isn’t exactly a word, but more of a choke, probably nowhere to be found in the Oxford dictionary. “Er — Sirius, you can’t kiss me.”

Sirius snorts as if that’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard, next to Sirius, you can’t climb the Quidditch goal hoop naked at midday without getting caught, a challenge set by Peter. “Sure I can.”

Remus shakes his head, and when he’d raised his forefinger, he’s not sure. “Er… No.”

Sirius sighs in exasperation. “Yes, I can. The doing-it-up-the-arse stuff is what I was worried about, but snogging? How is snogging a boy any different than snogging a girl? Except, of course, for the poorly-shaven upper lips, but I can’t think of anything else.”

Remus’ whole head is hot. In fact, he feels dangerously close to passing out. “My — my shaving charms are impeccable!” he says indignantly, though it’s utterly beside the point.

“I was talking about myself, dickhead.” Sirius rubs at his chin, as if to check.

“You —“ Remus falters mid-sentence to chuckle, because he feels like he’s straddling the line between insanity and normal, extremely-platonic reality. He points at Sirius. “You still can’t kiss me.”

Sirius takes steps forward until his chest is flush with Remus’ fingertip. “Why?”

“Because… we’re friends. That’s not in the definition for a reason.”

“Always so by-the-book,” Sirius mutters, and now he’s got his chin tilted up, peering upward at Remus through squinted eyes. When Remus’ throat bobs as he swallows, he knows Sirius has watched it happen. They’re bathed in darkness still, and he just knows that after kissing Sirius, he’d never be the same. It’s not an I’m queer, you’re queer, let’s do queer together sort of thing. It’s not a test he wants to ace, a hoop he must jump through to be suave enough for Jules Verlaine, but that’s not quite Sirius’ style, either. The hoops usually make way for him.

Remus is determined to remain unperturbed, immovable. “You know what else isn’t by-the-book?” he whispers, heaving a shaky breath. “Holding — holding onto me like that, Sirius, like I’m a fucking bedpost or something, while you’ve got your hand on someone else’s tit and her lip between your teeth!”

Remus almost flinches out of reach that time, but Sirius is too fast for him. His palms bracket Remus’ waist, stroking warmly back and forth along his sides. His lower lip juts out. “I didn’t bite her,” he mumbles like that’s of utmost importance, shrugging one shoulder. “I’m sorry.” Remus’ arms lift unconsciously to make way when Sirius’ circle fully around him, and they’re chest to chest. Remus doesn’t know what to do with himself. And it’s warm, Sirius is so warm, and his eyes are big and apologetic and Remus thinks he’s putting on an act to get them back on good terms, but Remus is not even sure he minds. “But — yesterday at breakfast, Moony, you said you’d thought about it, which brings me to think you’ve also never tried.”

They’re not the words that Remus has heard in countless a dream, the sudden, unrealistic realizations, the grand gestures, and yet, they’re better, because this is real. No, it’s not by the book, but nothing ever is, and if he turns this down, would he regret it for the rest of his life? Or would he instead regret taking this step, breaking something fragile and beautiful and so close to his heart?

“Moony, I’m still here,” murmurs Sirius, and he’s just hugging him, arms snug around Remus’ waist, black makeup as out-of-sorts as his hair, sweat intoxicatingly pungent on his skin. “I let you sometimes get away with retreating to that impermeable bubble in your mind that blocks me out, but this isn’t the time.” Remus’ hands, which hang unfeeling at his sides, come to life and drag up Sirius’ sleeves, bunching them up. Remus looks on, the tip of his tongue between his teeth, as he sifts his fingers up into Sirius’ hair at both sides of his skull as he rubs at the smudged eyeshadow once more. He feels disembodied. These cannot possibly be his own hands. And yet, isn’t it absurd for there to exist someone he can’t quite believe he’s touching? They’re all human, some magical, some not, and even the magic is normal to some degree. Sirius is both, and he is both, too. But Sirius — he’s got power, a power over Remus that transcends humanity and magic, even.

“Impermeable bubble,” Remus whispers, and he laughs, because it’s fucking ridiculous that there should exist such a bubble in his head, because there isn’t, there never has been. Laughs because Sirius has got his eyes on him, expectant but amused, impatient, too, because he always is. Remus moves his thumb, which pulls gently at Sirius’ eyelid. It’s awkward, oh, it’s terribly awkward, when neither of their eyes close and Remus initiates it, when he touches his lips dryly to Sirius’ and all he feels is the chapped skin and all he sees are Sirius’ gray eyes, almost black in the dark, and the sheen of sweat on the highs of his cheekbones. There isn’t even a noise when their mouths part. Sirius shoves him back with two palms to his chest, which physically hurts, and throws his hands into the air.

“Alright, alright. That’s enough. Worst kiss I’ve ever had. Let’s pretend this never happened, shall we? I’m straight as an arrow — tough luck, Jules Verne. I’ll just be off now, then, to go see if Emmeline is free!” Sirius says, comical and loud and campy, voice dissolving at intervals into laughter, saluting Remus goodbye, but by the time his back hits the door with a sudden thud he’s reclining against it and watching Remus with lidded eyes. Remus, who’s followed him to the door, shaking his head all the while.

Sirius’ voice is muffled, then, because he’s tugged at Lily’s shirt at the back of his neck to get it off, but Remus doesn’t think girls’ tops are meant to come off that way, nor are they meant to be worn as small as this. Remus thinks he hears, “Love a good limp-dick snog with a pretty witch,” but he’s preoccupied with locking the door. When the shirt hits the floor, Remus’ eyes meet Sirius’. He leans into his hands — each against the door just above Sirius’ shoulders — as he touches their foreheads together, gazes downward into the gap between their bodies at Sirius’ bare chest, a chest he’s seen a million and one times. But now he’s allowed to touch it, and he hasn’t yet. It’s thrilling. “Shame. I liked that top,” says Remus, sounding rather like his voice has been stolen.

“I can put it back on,” offers Sirius. He’s usually so good at playing games, too, but then he pushes away from the door and into Remus — “Moony, please” — and Remus knows he’s won, from this vantage point he’s won it in every fucking way. His fingers curl around the back of Sirius’ head, and he’s in him, he’s all around, his scent is in Remus’ nose and his brain, it’s twisting up his guts in anticipation. This is the first one, the real one, when their mouths brush this second time and he feels Sirius’ tongue against his lower lip already. There’s something immensely satisfying about clutching at handfuls of Sirius’ hair as their lips meet, as many times as he could want, like it’ll never end if he doesn’t want it to. They’re quick at first, but Sirius reins him in by the front of his shirt, so Remus stays close enough to taste him and he doesn’t leave, barely getting in a breath, and he tastes weed and stale cigarettes and Sirius hadn’t been lying so there’s no alcohol, and his teeth are sharp and his lip so sensitive when Remus nips at it that he gets a smack in the arse out of punishment. Remus doesn’t know how to balance all he’s been thinking of for so long — does he take it all at once? Savor the moments individually? Does he card his fingers through Sirius’ hair for long enough to memorize the feeling before he moves onto how the lean muscles of his shoulders feel rippling under his fingertips?

Sirius decides for him. He breathes through his nose into Remus’ cheek and locks his arms around Remus’ neck, and that’s something Remus must feel — the curves of Sirius’ deltoids, the dig of bony elbows on his shoulders, which is an endearing, dull pain. Sirius pitches forward and Remus stumbles with the seesaw of weight, and he’s able to laugh out into the hot, hot air of their room that time because Sirius’ mouth is elsewhere, it’s kitten-licking the corner of Remus’ lips and his jaw and his ear. He’s never held a girl like this, never had the audacity to touch without asking for explicit permission, so he wonders if it’s something that crosses into his mind through that gray veil when he reaches low, low to grab at Sirius’ bum through his trousers in an effort to hoist him up, hoist him closer, and his middle finger presses apparently just so that Sirius makes this noise against his cheek, this clipped, barely-audible keen. Remus feels blind, just for a moment, dizzy with colorful dots everywhere and then just black, and between moments of half-awareness he finds himself kissing Sirius again, but insistent, a hand on his upper back, the other down below.

They’ve fumbled toward the bed, Remus’ bed, and Remus is the one moving backwards so he ponders whether that’d been Sirius’ intended destination. Remus’ shirt is damp with sweat where Sirius’ arms rest against it, and high on his back, too.

“Can we,” mutters Sirius, withdrawing, no, don’t go, and Remus blinks, brushing his hair out of his own eyes. He watches as Sirius hops onto the end of Remus’ bed, runs his palms along the cool sheets, or then he’s just wiping off the sweat. His hair is tangled already, his legs dangle over the edge, and he’s perspiring off his eye pigment, but his lips are swollen and bitten already. Despite appearing momentarily frazzled, as if only then existentially discovering that he’s snogging Remus, a werewolf, his mate of six years, Sirius stares into the distant corner of the room. Then he pulls out his wand — his actual wand, yes — and directs it to that corner. Remus moves faster, because he realizes then that the target isn’t a vague corner, but instead the turntable where James and Sirius’ records are stashed. And he wins, again.

Sirius drops his wand to the mattress, eyes glued to the corner, and when the drumbeat starts up, the dips and the hills of a whining, haunting guitar, Sirius positively rolls his eyes toward Remus. He sets his hands against the bed behind him, leans into them, and Remus thanks him for it. While Sirius speaks, he’s able to scan down Sirius’ pale chest, his softly defined stomach, the sparse patches of black hair between his pecs and the trail starting right at his navel, growing thicker as it descends into his trousers. While Sirius speaks. He’s done this while Sirius speaks, so nothing gets through to him. Remus clears his throat, dawdles a bit closer to the bed. Stevie Nicks croons softly. He loves her. The look on Sirius’ face tells him what he needs to know before he even asks.

“Sorry, what was that?” Remus mumbles, and he touches Sirius’ knee with his middle and his forefinger. “Sorry.” His smile is sheepish.

“I said,” Sirius chuckles, straightening and concavely arching his spine at the lumbar so he’s a tad closer to eye-level, “I said I’m not having sex to Dreams.”

Sex. Sex. What? Remus slides those two fingers further up the middle of Sirius’ thigh, like he’s drawing a stripe from knee to hip. “No?”

“It’s depressing. If it gets out that I’m,” Sirius says, eyes fixated on Remus’ grinning mouth, which he then proceeds to cover with his fingers and push away, “Shut up, if it gets out that I’m having sex to music — that I’m fucking you to fucking Fleetwood Mac, it’ll —“

“I love Stevie,” Remus says. There’s that pot-born stupidity he’d mentioned.

“Fuck you,” Sirius whispers around a smirk, and then he runs his tongue over his lower lip in a way that’s terribly, terribly tantalizing. “This is all Hope’s fault.”

Remus lifts his hands clean off Sirius’ body. “Don’t bring my mum —”

“I’m not fucking you to Dreams.”

“Good thing it'll be you getting fucked to Dreams.”

Sirius gapes for half a second, and then he’s got Remus by the wrists, hauling him in again. Remus complies, but Sirius’ only intent is to get him close enough to nab his wand — despite his own, perfectly good wand lying right there beside him — to spell off the music. “I’m putting it in your arse,” he argues.

Remus’ lips curve fondly. “But I so badly would like the opposite,” he whispers. He lays his palms on Sirius’ knees, squeezes at them gently.

“But,” Sirius starts, eyes moving in a number of directions before finally settling in the middle of Remus’ chest. “I — But I haven’t even —,” he lowers his voice to a whisper, though vehement, “I haven’t even cleaned out my arse or anything.”

The words take so long to come out that Remus flat out cackles when they do. Naturally, Sirius pouts and kicks him hard in the knee. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m sorry.” Remus rubs at his eye, though he isn’t actually tearing up. It’s just to jive Sirius further. “Do you — feel like you must?”

Sirius wrinkles his nose at that question. “Well, no. Maybe. I don’t know.” His arms cross over his bare chest. “I don’t know how this works.”

Despite the valid fear that Sirius might just push him away, Remus leans over to kiss the middle of his cheek. “There are spells for that, babe, if you’d really like. You’re fine.” Another kiss to the cheek, though it’s mainly just Remus smiling into Sirius’ skin, because Merlin, does he adore this boy.

Sirius pulls away so he can look Remus in the eye. His hands are behind him on the bed again. “We’re shagging, then?”

Remus glances downward. His fingers have found the belt loops of Sirius’ trousers. “Yeah, if you’d like,” he says, again with too little oxygen. It makes him wonder how much is actually making it up to his brain. When he looks back up, Sirius’ eyes are great, black holes in the dark, but Remus receives a squeeze to each wrist — one from a starry hand, another from one bare. It’s when his heart picks up racing again, as if it hadn’t been already. Perhaps he’s just adjusted to the insanity of the now.

“Go on,” whispers Sirius.

Remus nods. His fingers shake just slightly as he undoes the button and the zip on Sirius’ trousers. Remus’ brows lift. He turns his back to Sirius, then, both of his palms glued to his face.

“What?” Sirius squawks, smacking Remus’ shoulder.

“You’ve not been wearing pants this entire night?” Remus sputters, and the he turns, gawping at Sirius.

“Well, clearly not.” Sirius lays back so he can, without Remus’ help, squirm to shuck his uniform trousers over his bum and off. He kicks them off the rest of the way until they land by Remus’ feet. “Don’t be such a prude. Come and touch me.” Sirius sits up. He’s half-hard, pink cock against his right thigh, and Remus rubs a palm over the lower half of his face, flushing red to the very tips of his ears. When Remus doesn’t move fast enough, Sirius, with mild hesitation, grips the base of his dick. Remus has seen it a million times post-full moon — not the touching part — and each time he’s kept his eyes down in shame. But this is an invitation, not only to look, but to touch.

“Please don’t let this be the moment you decide you’re not queer anymore,” Sirius mutters, and Remus smiles in such a silly way that when he approaches him again, so tentative, as if the electrons buzzing on the surface of his skin are wont to zap him at any moment, he tucks his face into the crook of Sirius’ neck as he replaces his hand with his own. This must be a fever dream, because the weight of him, warm, dry, pulsing, has Remus swearing incoherently.

“Oh,” says Sirius softly. But all Remus is doing is touching him, squeezing at his balls a bit experimentally. It’s too dry to do anything else. “Remus — just. We’re supposed to be — we’ve snogged, and now we’re gonna shag, yeah? I can’t, bloody… can’t take it. Can’t take more.”

Remus doesn’t say that Sirius is already asking for his absolute most, but he nods, breathless and wordless against his neck, tugs at the sweat-drenched shirt on his back. While he wrestles with it, he feels Sirius cup him through his jeans, dig the heel of his hand in, and his mind reels. The colors, those colorful, dizzying dots of near-vertigo blur his vision as Sirius helps him undo his jeans, and Remus has barely been touched but he’s not sure he’s been this hard since… Well. Since when?

Sirius’ eyes are round. “Moony, that won’t fit.”

“What?” Remus breathes, laughing through his confusion. He drops his jeans, his pants. He strokes at Sirius’ bare thigh, feels the bristle of the dark hairs on his skin, just to remind himself he’s here.

“That’s not going to… No. It won’t.” Sirius traces his warm, soft palms down Remus’ stomach, and then they both nudge at his dick. “You’ll split me in half.”

“I’ll make sure you’re ready —”

“It’ll hurt, hm?” Sirius mutters. He lifts his legs onto the mattress, and Remus watches him retreat backwards in a crabwalk with a frown.

“The first time, Sirius, I think it’s likely it will,” says Remus, careful. “I’ll try to — I’ll be gentle as I can.” He leans his elbows onto the mattress, wraps fingers around Sirius’ ankle. “Tell me if you don’t want to.”

Sirius lays down. His head is on Remus’ pillow, black hair fanned about his head like hell’s halo. Remus watches, entranced, as Sirius’ fingers, those of both hands, rub through the coarse hairs at the base of his cock. The tatted hand, dark with rings, takes it in a fist. “I want to,” he affirms, faint but sure. He’s yet to meet Remus’ eyes, though, because Sirius’ own line of sight is directed between his legs. “Fuck, you’re big,” he whispers, then squeezes his eyes shut so they crinkle at the corners with a high laugh. “Sounds like I’m in a porno, but it’s just an observation.”

“Shut up,” Remus mumbles. The creaks of the bed are familiar when he climbs on — it’s his own, after all, and while he could count on his fingers how long it’s been since his tongue has been in Sirius’ mouth, it feels foreign to kneel before him, so utterly naked from his skin down to his heart.

“I’ll venture to guess that now’s the dick-in-arse part,” Sirius states. He draws his feet in close together until Remus can feel his ankle bones nudge into the sides of Remus’ thighs.

“Almost,” says Remus, as if he’s got any more knowledge than an utter novice. “If this hurts, we’ll stop. Won’t go through with it.”

“What?!” Sirius says, aghast. “I didn’t strip down and lay on your bed, Moony, to turn back around now.”

“Shh,” hushes Remus, smiling to himself. When he reaches behind himself to find a wand, it’s Sirius’ that he picks up first and uses to summon the petroleum jelly from his nightstand drawer.

Sirius sits up on his elbows. “What’s that?”

“Just relax.” Remus uncaps the jar, scoops a generous amount onto his fingers. He shifts off his knees onto all fours, and when he leans forward, Sirius’ thighs spread with the pressure of his knees, and he presses one hand into the mattress behind Sirius’ shoulder. Just a finger, then. Remus wants to ravish him, is what he wants; kiss over the soft part of his stomach, over his thighs, taste his cock, wet the hair around it. But that’s not what this is about. He strokes his fingers first against Sirius’ perineum, then further back. He’s so focused on it, focused on touching him right, that he doesn’t realize he’s simply been staring into the middle of Sirius’ chest, avoiding the eyes that are right there in front of him. They’re close again, so close, and he’d missed the contact, though their only points of touching, really, are where Remus’ hand is between Sirius’ legs and where their breaths mingle between their mouths.

“Fingers?” Sirius mutters, very close.

“Mm.” Remus tries for one, massaging, gentle.

“Hh — Oh.” 

The tip of his nose brushes Sirius’. He’s to the first knuckle. Slow, so slow. “Tell me this is real, Sirius.”

“Oh, it’s — it’s bloody real. Fuck. Fuck, that’s weird.”

Remus listens for the quiver of his breath. It all goes straight to his dick, and he’s aching, every part of him is aching for this boy. “You’ll tell me if it’s too much.”

“I can take it.” Sirius’ voice is labored but looser, airier. He shifts his legs against Remus’ knees. His finger moves easier.

“Shut up, Sirius. You have to tell me.”

Sirius lowers himself off his elbows then, distractedly rubs his palms up Remus’ chest and back down, feels at his pebbled nipples. “I know, I know,” he stops to breathe, to dig his heels into the backs of Remus’ knees, “It’s good. I’m good. Come on, please.”

Remus’ head swims with the headiest feeling, blood like sludge, synapses firing simultaneously too many at once yet all achingly slow, drawing out every sensation. “You’re so good,” is what his mouth, independent from his brain, decides to whisper against Sirius’ parted lips. He’s arched over him, his elbow now on the blankets. He spreads Sirius with two fingers.

“Don’t say that, Moony,” Sirius mutters through an inhale, voice octaves higher.

“Why?” Remus pauses. Sirius’ hands snake up the sides of Remus’ neck, and he laughs, a shrill, frantic sound as his nails bite into Remus’ neck.

“Because I’m so fucking hard. Keep — I’ll fucking die if you stop.”

Remus thinks he should go to three, so he does. Sirius squirms, keens, sweats — when Remus’ wrist, the achey one supporting him, makes contact with Sirius’ skin, it slides against it. Inside, Sirius is warm, a bit waxy with the jelly, velvety, and Remus wants to coo, to express the ludicrous things he feels, the leaps of his heart, the jerks of his cock when Sirius clenches involuntarily around him.

“This is torture,” mutters Sirius. Hisses when Remus draws out his fingers. Remus rubs some of the jelly onto Sirius’ dick, then, to bring him some relief.

Remus thinks he’s half-conscious himself. “Touch yourself, then,” he mutters. He doesn’t believe himself capable of forming full, coherent sentences. “Get on… easier on hands and knees.”

“You’ve always had a way with words, Moony.” As Sirius sits up to roll over, they knock heads and it’s terribly unsexy, that shooting pain through Remus’ skull, though Sirius seems to find it outrageously hilarious, especially as he sticks his arse into the air.

“I feel like a fucking idiot,” Sirius admits, head hanging between his shoulders, shoulder blades protruding like those of a prowling lioness. He has to stifle another giggle. Remus sits behind him, paralyzed with disbelief, which really shouldn’t be happening during their snog-and-shag that’s already stretched beyond the feasible limits of time. Remus licks his lips. Sirius’ balls twitch as he tugs at his dick. “Next time you feel like an idiot, Moony, wait ’til you’ve got your arse in the air like this.”

“Shut it,” Remus mutters. He knows Sirius can hear the smile in his voice. He doesn’t kiss his tailbone, the base of his spine, doesn’t smack his sweet, pale arse. He doesn’t worship him with everything he’s got like he wants to. He wrings the meaning out of every move he makes, lets it dribble onto the sheets instead of onto Sirius, where it’ll be soaked up by the mattress so when Remus lays there next, alone, it’ll be all he’ll be able to think about, those what ifs and those touches that were so lovely and caring yet incomplete. And then he feels ungrateful, because Sirius has given him this, has given him him already... to an extent. 

Remus spreads more of the lubricant onto his cock, wand in his non-dominant hand as he rattles off every precautionary spell he can think of off the top of his head, muttered under his breath as not to ruin the romantic moment that doesn’t exist and never did or will for anyone but him.

“The apotheosis. Finally,” croaks Sirius hoarsely when he hears the shift of Remus’ knees on the mattress. Sirius is down on one elbow, forehead planted against the mattress, pulling on his cock with a feverish desperation.

“Mm. Moment you’ve been waiting for.”

“Don’t split me in two.”

You look amazing. “Not humanly possible.”

“If anyone could do it, a werewolf could. That’s you.”

“Fucking —” Remus laughs, only half-sane, falls silent just to breathe, in and out. “God. I’m gonna fuck you now.”

“Yes, sir.”

Remus shakes his head, simply because Sirius can’t see. If you only knew. His hand slides up his back, dragging over pale, freckle-less skin, over the ridge of his spine. He counts the little bumps. Memorizes the number. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

“Yeah,” Sirius whispers.

It’s a lot. The pressure, sinking into Sirius. Remus’ jaw is left ajar, gasping, and he thinks he can hear Sirius, too, even over the mad heartbeat in his own ears and his own chest.

“Hurts, Moony,” Sirius wheezes, clutching at the blankets with both hands now. Remus stops moving, bends over Sirius’ form carefully, pets at the back of his hair even if it feels wrong to do so.

“Out?” asks Remus, soft.

“No,” Sirius says swiftly. He pushes up so he’s on his palms, so his arms are straight. He clenches tight around Remus, then relaxes. The smell of Sirius on the back of his neck pervades Remus’ senses, makes the room spin. “No. Please.” Silence, just for half a minute. “Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Remus.”

Remus swears to hell and back internally. As he presses in further, arches his back convex, he’s careful as he lowers himself down, his body covering Sirius’. It’s a nice fit, which he absolutely doesn’t think about; the proportions of their torsos, how Sirius’ sigil-inked hand looks beside his own on the mattress. Sirius moans gutturally, for real that time, when Remus bottoms out, and his own breath is hot against the back of Sirius’ neck.

“That all you got?” Sirius jokes, voice broken.

Remus lays his head against the nape of Sirius’ neck in response. So tight. Your first.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’, Moony.”

When Remus gathers his wits, he responds, “God, trying so hard not to come.”

Sirius breathes out deep. Then he chuckles, louder. “Holy fuck.”

“Language,” Remus whispers.

“Fuck,” Sirius chokes out through another bubbling laugh. “Says you? Oh — fuck.” Sirius’ arse presses flush to his hipbones. Sweat, sweat all over, and then Sirius practically begs, “Just — Remus, please.”

It’s a blur. That gray veil slips over and off of Remus’ brain sporadically. He hugs Sirius around his little waist, he goes slow, bucking so he hits deep, pulling out enough to feel the mixture of resistance and acceptance as he fucks back in. When it’s too much, too much to be so bloody close and not to bite the word love right into his upper back, so Remus straightens his spine vertical. His fingers curve around Sirius’ hips, around the soft skin just above his hipbones, and he watches, eyes intent, as Sirius’ dark hair bounces with every movement he controls. He’d grab it if he could. Physically, he could. But he can’t bring himself to. The rhythm — at times it’s sloppy, and Sirius tells him so, evidently an expert. At this, Remus smiles when he doesn’t moan in low, smothered tones. What will stick with him, he thinks, if anything, is the oxymoron of cacophony and euphony that are the disjoint sounds of skin slapping skin and Sirius panting in soft, eager huffs, threaded with notes of his voice that Remus recognizes, the notes that give him the theatrical edge that no one can quite match.

Remus had forgotten entirely to even consider asking, but of course he won’t, he won’t go right ahead and come inside him. That’s etiquette with girls, too, isn’t it? And this is no different. Sirius had reached down for his cock again at some point, and when he comes, noise hissed through clenched teeth, spunk across his belly and Remus’ sheets, Remus begins to profusely apologize. Sirius’ muscles turn to gelatine, and he wobbles to hold himself up.

“Why’re you — why’re you sorry?” Sirius breathes, close to a whisper into the mattress, onto which he’s slowly collapsing. Remus pets at his hip as he pulls out, easy. “Oh.” Sirius’ legs dip and he flops against the mattress.

It takes Remus six jerks to come. He doesn’t register how it sounds, and he can only hope Sirius doesn’t, either. It’s a mess on his hand. He wipes it on his sheets. To Remus’ surprise, after several long, heavy moments in the dark, Sirius rolls onto his back to make room for Remus beside him.

He joins him. They lay, side by side, arms plastered together by virtue of cramped space and perspiration. Remus peeks every now and then to check that Sirius hasn’t drifted off, and he hasn’t. He doesn’t even look tired. 

“Damn,” says Sirius into the silence laconically.

Remus nods. They’re so close, heads on opposite ends of the pillow, that he thinks Sirius can feel it. “Are you alright?”

“I’m alright.” Sirius forces out a breath that puffs his cheeks. “You?”

“Almost.” Remus blinks his eyes lazily. “Will be.”

“Good.”

Remus thinks he just might fall asleep himself, but then Sirius shifts, rolling off the bed and onto his feet. When Remus looks, he thinks Sirius smiles at him, or in his vague direction. He’s gathering his clothes from the floor, then hopping back into his trousers. “Might head back down to the party.”

Remus’ brows arch. “Oh?”

“Mm.”

Remus’ hand coils into a fist around the sheets. “Okay.”

Sirius only needs to tug Lily’s top on, trip back into his shoes, shuffle the sheets in search of his wand. Then he says, “Night, Moony,” which is a dismissal if Remus has ever heard one. Red light pours in ephemerally through the archway as Sirius, walking anything but normally, slips out of the room.

The first thing Remus does is spell the windows open. And then his bed drapes shut.

Chapter Text

Lily stands alone by what Marlene had earlier referred to as the ‘bar.’ What’s worse than the fact that she’s alone — her friends are scattered about the room, fraternizing with the students from Beauxbatons who’d felt brave enough to head up to the Tower that night — is that she has now several times made deliberate, steamy, seemingly significant eye contact with Kingsley, yet he’s made no moves to come over and talk to her. Boys — she will never understand them. This is where Remus is supposed to come in, be her linkage to that mysterious, masculine world she both loathes and can’t help but begrudgingly adore, but he’s busy getting high with Sirius Black, and, knowing what she knows, Lily can’t interrupt that.

Speaking of the mysterious, masculine world, she locks eyes with James Potter, who’s using his wand to frantically dry the alcohol off the dress of some poor girl from Beauxbatons. This goes on for a while, and when James' done all he possibly can, he meanders through the crowd, heading straight for Lily. No, not Lily — Peter Pettigrew at the bar. She exhales her relief, sags to sit on a table that’s been crammed up against a bookcase to make room for dancing, and folds her arms over her chest.

There’s a voice in her ear approximately a minute later.

“Evans,” James says cordially. Whatever is in the cup he’s holding smells foul, somehow able to overpower the overwhelming scents of perspiration and alcohol already in the air.

“Hi,” she says tightly, tucks her hair behind both her ears. She hadn’t been prepared for this. James stands awkwardly adjacent to her, so their shoulders almost touch and they’re both facing the room. It excuses her from making eye contact, at least. She glances downward to check that her skirt hasn’t completely ridden up her legs. When Potter doesn’t respond, she looks up to find him regarding her with a raised eyebrow and suddenly feels overly self-conscious for all her fiddling. “Is there something you wanted to tell me?” She snorts, and then, “Is my standing here too much of a buzzkill for you?”

“You’re fine,” James answers, and the plastic of the cup crinkles beneath his fingers as he squeezes it. Then he smiles faintly, shrugs his shoulders. “Bit of a buzzkill, though, maybe. That’s why I brought you… this.” He holds up the cup.

Lily doesn’t take the cup. “It’s not for yourself?”

James chuckles. “Fuck no. I can’t get shit-faced, not tonight. If Sirius dies, it’ll be on my watch.”

Lily blinks in surprise. “How… responsible of you.”

“Is that a complim —?”

“Then again, being Head Boy and having had such a heavy hand in arranging this kind of chaos, one might expect that you already choose to be sober for precisely that reason.”

James' lips flicker wryly at the corners. “I knew it was too good to be true.” There’s a silence, not in the room, obviously, but between them, during which Lily bites at her lower lip and gazes resolutely in the opposite direction of Potter, hoping simultaneously, frustratingly that perhaps he’ll tire of her and leave but also that he’ll stay, even if their inane conversation makes her spine go rigid with a mixture of nerves and annoyance.

“Anyway. Take it,” says James, holding the cup out toward her again.

Lily frowns, peers inside though it’s too dark to truly see anything but murky liquid. “You think you’re doing me a favor, huh, offering me a Pettigrew special?”

James smiles, good-natured. “It’s just a vodka cran.” Then he lifts the cup to sniff at it. “Er. I think.”

“There’s no way I’m drinking that.”

“Just take it, Evans. Being Head Girl doesn’t make you Head — Head Nanny.” James proffers the cup again. “You’re allowed to have some fun. Maybe it’ll lubricate the outward path of that stick up your arse a bit.”

Lily’s grateful that the red glow of the ceiling disguises the tomatoes undoubtedly blooming on her cheeks. “I can’t believe you just said that to me,” she grits out without looking his way, and she thinks that she sees that damn cup enter her peripheral vision, and doesn’t anticipate at all that shoving her hand out to swat James away will result in such disaster.

The Pettigrew special — definitely not a vodka cran — spills down the front of James' shirt. He gapes down at it, at the upended cup that’s now on the floor, and Lily has it in mind to make some comment about karma coming around, that James' only received his just desserts, but then he’s getting out his wand again, preparing to ruin his blatantly expensive shirt the same way he just had the poor girl’s dress.

“Don’t,” Lily says quickly, grabbing onto his wrist. It’s warm. James glances up, his dark, full brows furrowed.

“I know I’m not your favorite person, Evans, but this isn’t particularly comfortable. And spare a thought for my mum, who’ll flay me alive if she finds out I’ve ruined this shirt.”

Lily rolls her eyes. “I just — I know you’re going to first siphon off the moisture, which won’t do anything for the stain itself. And then you’ll use a warming charm to dry it, but that’ll not only embed that horrid smell into the fabric, but also the color.”

James isn’t shocked that she’s just Seen the future, but he does helplessly hold his arms out to his sides. He looks expectant when she doesn’t say anything else. “This is where you tell me whatever alternative’s on your mind.”

Lily hesitates, but with reason. “Fine.” Taking James by the hand would be simply daft, so she grabs him by the elbow instead. He resists initially, and it takes a look over her shoulder to have him moving two steps behind her through the crowd. She’s uttered ten Excuse mes by the time they make it to the foot of the stairs to the girls’ dormitory, and he’s already in the staircase by the time he starts hollering nonsense. Lily sighs, plows onward.

“Why aren’t the stairs disappearing from beneath my feet? Shouldn’t they turn into a slide? Why’s my hair staying on my head?” he’s jabbering. “I thought —!”

“You’re Head Boy, Potter. You’re exempt from the protective jinxes. If some first-year girl set her doll on fire attempting to heat-charm its hair into curls and I wasn’t present but you were, you couldn’t possibly be forced to just sit there and wait for McGonagall to come running. It only makes sense.”

James is silent but for the thumping of his footsteps behind her. Then, “Oh.”

Lily shoves open the door to her and her friends’ room. Her bed is closest to the door, and when she releases James, her palm is sweaty.

She kneels by her nightstand, rifling through the drawers for a glass bottle she knows she’s got tucked away in there somewhere. Once her fingers have closed around it, she turns to Potter, finding him staring openly at the room.

“It looks… the same,” he says, “as ours.”

Lily moves closer to him, eyeing the daunting stain on his shirt. “Well, what did you expect?”

James clears his throat, and then he’s looking at Lily. “I’m thinking ‘more pink’ would not be an answer in my favor.”

“The whole point of thinking before you speak is to not reveal the stupid thoughts you intend to filter out.” She grasps at her wand to summon a washcloth that comes flying at her from the crown of one of the posters on her bed.

“What’s that?” James is asking, pointing to the bottle in Lily’s hand, and she’s not entirely sure what she’s about to do, looking between her hands and the lurid stain on James' shirt.

“Don’t laugh,” she starts, “but I’m going to need you to take that off.”

“What? The shirt?”

“I’d rather not get bleach on your skin.”

James blinks, then proceeds to unbutton his shirt. She can tell she’s not standing in one of her loathsome dreams because she’s positively bricking it, eyes transfixed on the floor. Everything is easier, more natural in a dream.

“You gonna let me borrow one of your tops now?” is James' next wry remark.

“If I’d known it’d end up on Black’s back, I’d’ve never loaned it to Marlene. You can sit,” she tells Potter when she accepts the shirt from him, which she then lays across her bedsheets. James, unsurprisingly, accepts the invitation without further adieu and hops up to sit beside what has now become Lily’s workstation. She’s yet to look at him or any of his bronze skin, and she thinks it’s for the best. There’s no ambient, red glow in the girls’ dormitory to hide her flushed face, however, and that may just prove to be problematic. Potter laces his fingers together in his lap.

“What is that you’re using?” he asks.

She’s drenched the washcloth in some of the mixture from the bottle, which she’s proceeded to dab into the massive stain. “Don’t worry about it. It’s a Muggle thing.”

“That doesn’t make me any less curious.”

Lily stops. Her gaze flits to James, whose shoulders are hunched until she properly looks his way. Then, he’s suddenly sat upright, teen-muscled shoulders set and all, nipples dark and a patch of wiry hair on his chest, and he’s —

Lily frowns, bemused. “Are you flexing?”

James chokes, presumably on nothing. “No!” he protests. One of his pecs twitches. Lily spots it from the corner of her eye, and laughingly, she gives her attention once more to James' shirt.

“It’s a natural stain remover. Lemon juice, vinegar, household things like that. My mum makes it, sends me off to school with some every year. It’s much better at handling stains than any cleaning charm is.”

“Sick,” says James, and when Lily raises a brow at him, he clears his throat. “I mean — yeah. Sick.” He tucks his thumbs up against his armpits so his palms cover his nipples, as if Lily sees any less. It’s awfully amusing, though Lily doesn’t have the audacity to look at him for more than two seconds at a time. For all that he is only a couple inches taller than her, his form is everything she’d pictured underneath the amorphous robes that are the Quidditch uniform. Toned, boyish on the verge of manly. She tucks her hair behind her ears again, as it’s all managed to escape.

James clears his throat. “What now?”

“Now you soak it,” Lily explains, “which I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of handling on your own.”

“Oh. Okay. Here goes nothing.” James hops off the bed. Lily instinctively takes a step back. He tugs his wand from his back pocket, and with an easy flick of his wrist and a muttered Wingardium Leviosa, the shirt shifts off the bed to levitate above both of their heads. Lily is fast, but not quite fast enough to anticipate what he’s about to do, and that’s when he — concurrent spells? Potter can cast concurrently? — shoots a powerful Aguamenti directly at his hovering shirt.

Lily yelps, because just as the shirt is now soaked through, so is her floor and her entire being, mascara running onto her cheeks as her blown-wide eyes track the droplets of water running down her bare legs. Gaping, she glances up at James, who breaks the spell when he hurriedly shoves his wand back into his pocket, causing the shirt to plummet to the floor with a squelch.

“I didn’t mean for it to go like that,” says Potter, a little breathless.

Lily, on the verge of seething, tensely shakes off her hands, if only to rub her thumbs along her undereyes and wipe off the blackness there. “Of course not. I’m the idiot here,” she mutters. Lily only hopes her clothes aren’t going transparent. “Why I ever thought a coddled snob like you would know what soaking a shirt means escapes me.”

James flinches at first. Then, his eyes flicker over Lily, and the worst smile she’s ever seen begins to tug at his lips, the smug kind that means James has made a goal for Gryffindor or slipped something into Severus’ porridge.

“Yeah, Evans. Seriously. Idiot move,” he admonishes huffily. Warily, he approaches his shirt, which he picks up between two fingers — posh twat — and then blasts the floor with a warming charm over his shoulder that evaporates the remnants of his overzealous Aguamenti. He’s over by Lily, who’s still drenched, and while she appreciates his effort, she can only stare at the puddle forming beneath the shirt dangling from Potter’s fingers. She tries to step back, but the bed poster is there to stop her. “Er, sorry about this. Really. I’m sorry.” He gestures at Lily head-to-toe with his wand. The insufferable smile has faded at the edges, and Lily thinks she’s being presented with authenticity. Merlin, he’s still shirtless. She thinks she can feel the heat radiating in waves from him, but it might just be the fact that she’s already chilled to the bone from his ingenious charm.

“Fine.” Her eyes flicker up to meet his. The light from the rounding moon out the window glares off the lenses of his glasses. “We’re done here, I think, so if you’re finished tracking water across my floor —”

“How d’you soak a shirt, then?” asks James, thumbing at the wet material.

Lily exhales out her nose, and she makes sure that Potter sees the whites of her eyes when they roll back into her head. “Find a bucket, fill it with water, stick the shirt in. That’s all.” When she opens her eyes again, Potter’s watching her thoughtfully.

“The more you know.”

Lily says nothing, turns to get toward her wardrobe. Dry clothes would be nice. But Potter catches her by the shoulder, hounds her back before she can slip away. “What?” she demands, and the flurry of blinks on James' part that follow are undeniably amusing.

“I swear I’m leaving,” James says. “In a bit, I mean. Just. You’re brilliant, Evans, and we’re — Sirius is pretty much fucked, as we haven’t got the faintest idea what his Triwizard clue means. And I — I know this has already put me in debt to you, but if you were to take a look at it sometime, his clue, and just — mull over it, maybe, that would… It’s like a riddle, right? It could be fun. You know. You might find it fun. And I’d be even more indebted to you. And when you decide to cash in that debt, it could be for anything. Like, I’d Polyjuice into you and go to your classes for you — which, on second thought, I think you’d find a terrible deal — or I’d do all your papers for a month, with actual effort put in, or.” He scrubs at his unruly hair. “You get the point.”

Lily’s stopped shivering. It could be the warmth of satisfaction spreading from her chest outward. “Sure, I’ll have a look at the clue.”

“Oh, yeah, I totally understand — wait, you will?”

Lily nods through a blank look.

“Oh, sick. Sick. Thanks.” James grins, makes the mistake of wringing out his shirt between his hands. His dragonleather shoes are rained upon. “Right — right now?”

Lily scoffs. “No. I’d like to get some dry clothes on, if you don’t mind. That might interest you, too, actually.”

James' eyes flicker down to his bare chest, which he touches as if to make sure it’s real. He swallows, or tries to. “Could do,” he responds. He then eyes Lily, nodding absently. Smiling.

Lily points her wand at the door. “Go.”

James' gaze has to physically follow the line of her wand to deduce its destination. “Fuck, right. I should, yes, most definitely. Go. Yeah, alright. Thanks for the lemon juice, Evans.” He waves a wet palm at her, walks backwards out the door, all without tripping. Lily, teeth digging into her bottom lip, sprints to the door of her room, aims a jinx into the darkness of the stairwell that James has disappeared into through which she can still hear the pulsing thrum of music. There’s a curse that echoes its way up to her, and a whoop that’s rather like the noise Marlene had made the first time she’d ridden a broom back in first year and promptly fallen fifty feet from the sky.

“There’s your slide for you, Potter!” she calls. And though she’s drenched, water seeping into the soles of her shoes, she’s ultimately rather pleased with herself.

***

Remus wakes feeling like death warmed over. This is rather ironic, because as Remus will find out, of the four of them, Peter was the only one to imbibe on that celebratory night prior. Excessively imbibe. While his bed drapes are still drawn shut, James and Sirius’ beds are deserted. One glance at the clock reveals they’ve missed most of breakfast and have got Defence in less than half an hour. Once Remus has washed his face, cleaned his teeth, and feels no less rumpled than he had rolling out of bed, he ambles down to the common room. It’s then that he realizes, the lowest stair creaking under his weight, that the last time he’d clambered up this staircase had been nothing short of ten hours ago. With Sirius.

In a trance, Remus wonders how long it’s been since he’d grabbed onto the handrail and wilted against it, staring into the void of the wall opposite, when Benjy Fenwick comes down the stairs and attempts to edge past him with an, “Alright, Lupin?” that he doesn’t seem to expect a response to.

Benjy’s gone by then, but Remus breathes, “Definitely not,” anyway. He’s really done it now, hasn’t he? Unless James’ weed had been laced with ridiculously intense hallucinogens, Remus spent a decent bit of last night shagging one of his best mates. His best mate, who’d walked out on him afterward. Remus can’t even be sure Sirius had been satisfied with the… transaction.

No, he doesn’t want to call it that.

Merlin. He can’t call himself a virgin any longer, can he?

The ringing, infectious bark of James’ laughter echoes through the common room. Remus — either deciding to be realistic and acknowledge the fact that he can’t avoid his friends forever, or simply just being a masochistic piece of shit, always accidentally plunging himself into unnecessarily traumatizing situations — steps out of the staircase and pads into the common room.

James is busy correcting the angles of the portraits on the walls, which have all been deserted by their painted occupants. The Sirius-Black-Gryffindor-common-room-extravaganza had certainly not been a welcoming environment for stuffy, old witches and wizards in breeches and corsets. The furniture has been pushed back into place, and Sirius lounges on the sofa with a roll-up dangling from the corner of his mouth, transfiguring the red, now rather dilapidated streamers from the ceiling into robins, each of which tweet as they flutter out the nearby open window. Remus really ought to tell him to put the cigarette out before Lily or a younger, priggish prefect enters and barks the inevitable No fags in the common room, Black. In a moment of dark relief from his internal hysteria, Remus thinks that it’s easily also something he might overhear Severus Snape say.

Sirius spots him first. He relaxes his arms to fold them behind his head.

“Well, well. If it isn’t Remus Monster-Cock Lupin.”

James looks over his shoulder, squints, unfazed, and then moves on to the next portrait, one that’s been knocked over. It’s of a pasture — the poor, fluffy sheep in it bleat and roll about as he turns it right-side up. “Morning, Moony.”

Remus can’t be positive he won’t be violently ill all over the floor. He blinks at Sirius, face pale, and marches toward him. Sirius doesn’t move, nor does the peaceable smile on his face. Remus, feeling overly dramatic suddenly, freezes at the foot of the sofa. “Happy birthday,” he says slowly. All traces of the night before are gone — Sirius’ face has been washed clean, he’s back in his uniform button-up, clunky, black boots on his feet crossed just about where Remus’ hands are.

“Thank you,” hums Sirius. When Sirius’ gaze lingers, Remus thinks for a second it’s meant to be meaningful, like meaningful meaningful, but then Sirius bats his eyelashes and says, “Well? Aren’t you going to spoil me rotten? Where’s my gift?”

Remus’ brows rise. “Oh, shit. I forgot —”

“You forgot about me?!” Sirius mock-bawls, his face crumpling, hands pressed to his heart, and Remus doesn’t bother correcting his misconception until Sirius has completed his charade. “I’m kidding, Moony. I didn’t expect you —“

Remus smiles, though uneasy around the edges. “Forgot to wrap it.” The grandfather clock, thankfully, wasn’t displaced in the process of the party. T-minus fifteen to Defence. He decides it’s enough time. “Would you… like to see it?”

Sirius is on his feet, giddy. “Would I ever.”

Up in their room, Peter’s still passed out. Sirius laughs at the sound of an especially throaty snore. Remus strides to his trunk at the foot of his bed to root through it with determination. Sirius leans up against the bedpost. Remus can feel his eyes on him.

“I hope you haven’t got a dead, smashed-up daisy chain in there somewhere for me from Hope,” murmurs Sirius. When Remus snorts, continues to rifle through layers of jumpers, Sirius says, “Moony, I hope you know you didn’t have to…”

“Here we are.” It’s wrinkled, but it’s been in the mix with Remus’ own clothes for months now, so that’s no surprise. He feels silly, suddenly, giving this to Sirius, something to which he’d so obviously given thought months in advance, but it would be a waste to leave it to rot in the bottom of his trunk.

He holds apart the lapels of the leather jacket, a silent invitation for Sirius to slip it on. At first glance, it’s a bit big, but Remus knows that means there’s room for Sirius to grow, for his shoulders to fill out even still. The pulls on the silver zips are banged up, there are rough patches on the elbows and wrists where the leather’s been scratched at, but it’s buttery, black, worn comfortably, reeking of old cigarettes. He’d have washed it out somehow, spelled it clean, perhaps, but he didn’t want to ruin the material. And… he’d have asked his mum to help him out with that, but the last thing he’d wanted to confess is that he’d gone out and spent his pocket money for the sake of pleasing his big, flaming crush.

Sirius, tapping the ashes off the end of his cigarette, licks his lips slowly. “Hold this,” he says to Remus, but Remus hasn’t got a third arm, so he sticks the butt of the cigarette between Remus’ teeth — who, idiotically, complies — and then turns around to shrug his way into the jacket. Once it’s settled on his shoulders, Remus hesitantly removes his hands, plucks the fag from his mouth.

“It’s… nothing special. There’s this consignment shop in my town, and when I saw it there over the summer, my first thought was, er, Johnny Ramone.” Remus slides his free hand into the pocket of his trousers, watches the cigarette burn. “Second was you. Third, Sid Vicious.”

Sirius holds his arms out in front of him, then tests out how it rests when he, too, pockets his hands. “You thought of me before Sid Vicious?” he asks, cracking a smile and freeing Remus of the cigarette. “God, Moony.”

He’s quite a sight. Remus’ shoulders tense — probably hike up toward his ears in that way he can never detect is happening until his mother is forcing them down with a fond tut — with the effort not to fucking swoon. Hair mussed from a sleepless night, crisp school shirt underneath, wisps of smoke rising from his fingertips toward the ceiling. Sirius smiles wider, warmer, and Remus exhales out an embarrassed chuckle.

“I’ll have you know that I’ve never wanted more to break the dress code, Mr. Prefect,” Sirius says, soft and quiet, and with the fag now between his lips again, he claps his hands onto Remus’ cheeks, shakes him back and forth gently by that hold on his face. “Thank you.”

“Mmh,” is Remus’ creative reply, though he’s able to contort his mouth into something resembling a smile.

The gray of Sirius’ irises is dark in the dimly-lit room — they really ought to open the drapes, else Peter will be floundering to get to Defence last minute — and when he releases Remus with a shaky laugh and takes a step back, Remus knows just what he’s thinking.

“Whew,” Sirius trills, eyes on the floor. “Talk about déjà vu.”

Remus nearly swallows his tongue, if that’s humanly possible. “Sirius, I think we should —”

“Talk, yes. Talk.” Sirius drags his teeth over his lower lip, settles his hands on his hips. Remus can practically hear him thinking.

“We don’t have to right this moment,” Remus says, but it comes too late, because Sirius has finished processing the events of the night before and can no longer be stopped.

“Moony,” begins Sirius with a pure-white puff of smoke, hands lifted almost defensively, “I’m — I’m sorry I ambushed you. I do… do think I went into that night with a goal, as well as the intention of achieving that goal. And then we got high. Or I did. Maybe you did, a bit? Either way, I don’t —“ He laughs briefly, staring at something on Remus’ shirt. Probably a stain. “— I don’t regret it. Even if my arse kills, I don’t regret it. But I don’t want it to make things weird between us. I think that… I think you wanted it, too, at least a little. I hope you did. And I hope you won’t hate me forever. But I won’t waylay you like that again, I promise. We can keep being us. We don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen, you and I, but.” He runs his fingers through the back of his hair, which ends up pulling out a whole tangle of it that he drops with a distasteful look to the floor. Remus snorts helplessly and Sirius continues. “But we can move on. And maybe around James and Pete, we can,” he whispers. His glance up at Remus is furtive. “And everyone else, of course. But especially them.”

Remus, who’s folded his arms over his chest, watches Sirius take one last suck off the butt of the cigarette. “Have you quite finished?” he asks, and because Sirius seems so meek all the sudden, even with the fag and that jacket hanging perfectly off his square shoulders, he nudges at his elbow gently.

Sirius pouts in thought, then nods. “Think so.”

“I wanted it, too,” is how Remus starts, because he’s a twat, and if every following word he speaks is going to tear another little shred off his heart, then fuck it all, he might as well ease its load first. A confession, though Sirius can’t even begin to comprehend the extent of it, the depth and richness of that want. It’s all for the best, he reminds himself; and it’s really the only good outcome, isn’t it? Sirius doesn’t see him in that way. He needs this outcome, this friendly, dependable one, this one he’s always known, or else he’ll have nothing. “And I couldn’t…” He smiles, though his brows are pensive as his eyes flit over the jacket, and mutters, “Could never hate you, you wanker.” He shudders internally, as if his stomach is eating itself, his heart is pumping all its blood out but not back in. Should you ask, I’d extract the memory and toss it into the Great Lake. But I don’t want to, so I hope that you’ll spare me. “No one will hear it from me.”

Sirius stubs out the cigarette on their hardwood floor with the toe of his boot, which Remus really thinks one shouldn’t do. Sirius then smiles slowly and tsk-tsks and shakes his head. Inky-black strands get caught in his eyelashes, in the wetness of the lip he’s just licked. Then he does something like a plié. “My arse,” he whimpers, laughing in disbelief.

Remus, feeling like a deflated balloon, fiddles with the prefect’s badge on his robes and half-smiles. “Sorry. You did criticize my technique.”

“I did, didn’t I?”

“‘Sloppy,’ and I quote.”

“So you’ve got some room for improvement. What’s wrong with that?” Sirius reaches for the black robes carelessly thrown over the end of his bed.

“Hey, they are plenty of other quotes from you I could cite to turn this conversation on its rear-end.”

Sirius grins, shrugs modestly, slips into his robes. “Don’t say rear-end ‘round me for at least a week.”

Remus leans against the foot of his own bed. This can’t possibly be normal. Sex, actual sex, followed by one conversation and he’s supposed to act like his life should simply go on? “You can’t wear the jacket under your robes, Sirius. McGonagall will think you’ve got a vest of Dungbombs strapped to your chest.” It also looks bulky and ridiculous, and it makes Remus’ knees weak.

“She can inspect me all she wants.” Sirius heads toward the door. He looks even more odd from behind, the shape of the jacket distinct. “Wake Pete, yeah? We’ll be late for Defence.”

The moment Remus hears Sirius’ heavy steps clomp down the stairs, Peter warily pokes his head through the curtains around his bed. “Remus,” he says, and when Remus looks, he clears his throat. “What… what did you do to Sirius’ arse?”

Every cell in Remus’ body must come together to retain his composure. “It’s a euphemism,” he croaks, then hastily grabs his books from his desk. “Get a move on, Wormtail. We’ll be late.”

***

Sirius complains all day about being too hot, yet not once does he entertain the idea of removing the jacket from beneath his robes, not even when James tells him so the third time, loud enough in Charms to have heads turning in their direction. Remus, knowing better but still well-aware of his weaknesses, allows himself to be unreasonably pleased about this. He can only be so happy, though. By mid-day it hurts to walk. And he’s not much of a daydreamer — he physically can’t be, can’t let himself be, rather, because if he blanks out in class, everything he’s missed is completely lost on him — but now he gnaws his nails down to the bed as thoughts of the night before roll over him in waves. They’re all a blur, Remus thinks, sensations he’d been too caught up in the moment to appreciate, to try and memorize how skin and lips and thick, black hair — Sirius’ — had felt. He regrets what he didn’t value enough, but then again, if he did remember, what good would that do him? It’d only give him more of an excuse to dwell on a lost cause.

But he does that night. That night, when the wolf romps freely, unfettered, unchained, in pursuit of the black dog. They always play, of course, but this time Remus wins. Whether the black dog rolls under a bush, paddles into the freezing lake, shakes off and sends the beads of water flying in all directions, the wolf smells him everywhere, goes mad with it — not the howling mad, not the terrifying-the-innocents-of-Hogsmeade howling violent mad, but mad with hot energy coursing through its veins. Olfactory memory. It’s been close before, and now it knows, it remembers. Once those droplets fly everywhere, the dog is suddenly everywhere — on the rough trunks of the trees and the soggy ground — and the wolf is thrown off briefly, but he still wins, he finds him, he keeps winning. Headrush. Intoxication. The bites are frisky, always are, the snapping jaws bear no heat. The stag’s big horns butt between them. The wolf lets up, but it’s satisfied. Less monster, more animal, more being. One with them. One with the dog, one after the dog.

Remus just hopes nobody notices anything unusual.

***

They’re in Transfiguration when Jules Verlaine and Winnie from Ilvermorny appear at the door and interrupt McGonagall mid-demonstration. The poor parakeet has a teapot’s spout for a head, wings fluttering frenziedly. Sirius is staring at it with a squint, prepared to stick his hand into the air and demand if that’s the final product, isn’t that a bit cruel, Professor? when James smacks him on the arm.

“We’ll be needing Black,” says Jules with an affected air, arms folded over his chest. He’s leaned up against the doorframe now, even for his short stay.

Winnie rolls her eyes when only silence follows Jules’ words and McGonagall gazes upon them expectantly. “It’s for a champions thing,” she explains.

“The Daily Prophet is here,” Jules then decides to add. Winnie’s hands clench into fists.

McGonagall’s hawk eyes dart to him. “Very well. Off you go, Mr. Black.”

James claps him on the shoulder. As Sirius slides out of the bench, he meets the eyes of Peter and Remus in turn. The latter smiles faintly at him.

“Go get ‘em,” whispers Remus, who looks rumpled and pale after last night’s moon, resting his chin on curled, scabbed-over fingers.

Sirius can’t help but smile. “Fuck off,” he mutters.

In the hallway, Sirius tugs at the collar of his shirt. Winnie walks two steps ahead of him and Jules.

“Long time no see,” Jules says, smirk smug but eyes unreadable as he strides along.

“It’s been four days,” says Winnie. Sirius snorts. Jules looks toward her with narrowed eyes. Sirius doesn’t know where they’re going, but Winnie seems to, and inexplicably, he trusts her wholeheartedly.

“I didn’t see you at the party on Sunday night,” Sirius states, mostly for Jules’ sake, which roughly translates to you could’ve easily seen me.

“I went for a bit,” Winnie sighs. “Those mixed drinks were nasty.”

Jules looks sideways at Sirius. “I didn’t realize I was invited.”

“Figured you’d invite yourself,” Sirius counters. Half the Beauxbatons girls had been present. This earns him a quiet chuckle, an appraising look.

Winnie leads them into a small classroom. Whereas she stops just inside the door, Jules waltzes straight past the two of them. Before Sirius can follow, Winnie grabs him by the elbow, shoots him a look. “You don’t have to let him creep on you, you know.”

Sirius stumbles backward with the force of her grip. He meets her deep-brown eyes, which aren’t as much irritated as they are concerned. It’s a Remus-esque look if he’s ever seen one. “I know,” he says after a moment. “It’s fine.”

Winnie loosens her grip, seems to evaluate Jules from a distance. “If you say so.”

Sirius smiles, small. “I do.”

A clearing of the throat brings both of their eyes to the front of the classroom. Behind the customary professor’s desk stand Dumbledore, Mademoiselle Maxime, Cassady, and Garrick Ollivander himself, and sitting at one of the students’ desks is a young woman with a heart-shaped face, a bubblegum-pink topknot, and a bluntly-cut fringe that stops just short of her pink eyebrows.

“Lisbeth Lyre,” she introduces herself, rising up from the desk with an accompanying fumble that topples over her chair. “Oh, Merlin’s beard,” she mutters, bending over to right it. Jules has wandered to Sirius’ side once again, and there’s a contemptuous smile on his face. When the pink-haired woman turns toward them again, Dumbledore nods at her encouragingly. “Right! Lisbeth Lyre.” She hugs a bounty of scrolls to her chest. “With the Daily Prophet.”

Dumbledore smiles serenely, eyes content, little slits. “Ms. Lyre will be interviewing you each, one by one, for an initial feature on this year’s champions for the coming Friday’s Prophet — highly anticipated, so I seem to have heard. And in the meantime, my good friend Mr. Ollivander will check that your wands are in working order.” Dumbledore touches the shoulders of Maxime and Cassady and then sweeps out of the room, midnight-blue robes flowing in his wake.

Lisbeth smiles in a nervous, endearing way once Dumbledore has departed. A few of her scrolls drop to the floor as she unrolls a little one, squints at it, and then takes in the champions once more. “Why don’t we start with, er, Sirius Black?”

It’s Winnie, again, who nudges Sirius forward when he doesn’t move.

Sirius clears his throat, smooths at the collar of his shirt. “Right.”

Lisbeth crouches down to pick up her scrolls again. “Shall we head into the office?” Sirius goes to follow, but the quickly-aging Ollivander stops him with a hand to his shoulder and a warm smile that Sirius rather likes but dredges up memories of being dragged by the ear to Knockturn Alley to purchase a second wand after he’d snapped his Ollivanders one a month into first year.

“Your wand, Mr. Black?” Ollivander behests in a gentle tone.

“You probably do need my wand to Weigh the Wands,” Sirius chuckles to himself and hands his wand over. A glance backward toward the other champions shows Mademoiselle Maxime and Jules conversing in rushed French as she smooths his bouncy curls into place. Sirius follows Lisbeth into the office.

It’s a rather drab office, almost like it’s been left to its own devices. Sirius thinks it must be that of the Ghoul Studies professor, or some other subject he’d not once considered taking.

Instead of sitting in the chair, Lisbeth Lyre sits on the desk itself with her legs crossed beneath her. Sirius doesn’t question it, but lowers himself into the cushy armchair across from her, clears his throat as she sorts through her scrolls.

“Sirius Black,” she starts, taking a painstakingly long time to scrawl down his name. Sirius can’t explain why she’s doing it manually, but her temperament brings him to suspect that she’s a lowly new-hire they’ve sent to cover the bullshit Dumbledore’s put on. Highly-anticipated my arse.

“That’s me.”

Lisbeth hadn’t seemed to expect a response, so she gives Sirius an odd look, but smiles ultimately. “So, Sirius Black. You’re a Triwizard champion now, and in the first coming of the tournament in over a century. What convinced you to partake in this iteration?”

Sirius slumps back against the chair, shrugs. “It was on a whim, really,” he says smoothly. He thinks of Regulus, of his mother. “I didn’t expect to be chosen.”

“No?” Lisbeth nods thoughtfully. Sirius doesn’t know what she writes for so long, as he’s said nothing of substance. “Well, are you excited? How did your family take the news? I imagine they’re mighty proud.”

Sirius blinks, then laughs brusquely. “Oh, yes. Incredibly proud,” he grumbles.

Lisbeth looks lost, as if she doesn’t know which misstep she’s taken. “What was that, Mr. Black?”

“Very proud, I said,” he says through gritted teeth.

Lisbeth gazes at him a while, tapping the fluffy end of her quill against the parchment. Her eyes are comforting in their obliviousness. “Troubles at home, Mr. Black?”

Sirius pinches at his lower lip. “Have you heard of my family?”

Lisbeth concentrates hard. “Black?” Then she shakes her head. “I can’t say I have.”

Sirius, amused, smiles at the adorably clueless journalist. “Well, good. That’s a can of worms I’d rather leave unopened. Can of roaches, actually. Maybe maggots.”

“Of course. Everyone has their private lives,” Lisbeth says, and she’s scribbling even while watching Sirius with wide eyes.

The rest of their conversation is drab; how old he is, what he’s studying currently, what he likes about Hogwarts. Sirius leaves with a number of questions of his own on his tongue, though he doubts Lisbeth would be able to supply him with the appropriate answers. Any news on the Death Eater movement? Sirius smiles to himself. Poor Lisbeth would have just shaken straight out of her boots.

“Looks to be in tip-top shape,” says Ollivander to Sirius as he arrives back in the classroom. “All but for the fact that Priori Incantatem revealed the trip jinx to have been the last cast with this wand.”

Sirius runs his fingers through his hair, divests Ollivander of the wand. “Wouldn’t know anything about that, sir,” he murmurs with a wry grin, twirls his wand between his fingers. At that very moment, he’s startled by a blinding, sudden flash and a noisy shutter, and when the spots of light clear from his eyes, he finds Lisbeth setting down an old camera and shyly beckoning Winnie to join her in the office.

“How was it?” Jules asks him, appearing at his side. His hair is fluffier than when Sirius had last seen — the work of Mademoiselle Maxime, he suspects.

“What the fuck’s with your hair?” Sirius asks, laughs blithely when he pokes at the bouncy barrel curl just above Jules’ left eye.

“Watch it, Black.” Jules’ hand clamps around his wrist, holding it there in place, and Sirius doesn’t feel threatened — he’s sure he could knock Jules out if he absolutely needed to — but he does feel a churn in the pit of his stomach when Jules’ lips curve with amusement and his eyes — a greenish sort of hazel, colder than Remus’ — settle on him, shadowy. “Are you going back to class after this?”

Sirius casts a fleeting look about the room. Cassady and Maxime are engaged in a one-sided conversation, scales leaning toward Cassady’s side, and Ollivander is inspecting Jules’ wand — it’s quite beautiful, actually, gray ash inlaid with silver at the base. He then wrestles Jules’ grip on him until it’s he who holds Jules’ wrist, lower, between them, and lifts his brows. “You’re really asking me if I’ll go back to McGonagall’s?”

Jules shrugs. His hand hangs in Sirius’ without resistance. “She’s a charming woman,” he amends. “I don’t see why not.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Sirius’ mouth. “I suppose you’re right. I ought to be getting back, in that case, if I’ve no good reason to skive off on class.” He lets go of Jules’ hand, blood pulsing hot at the pulse point in his wrist. “Wouldn’t be very exemplary of me, being a champion… and all.”

Winnie exits the office with Lisbeth, at which point Jules glances over his shoulder at them. “If you wait ten minutes, I’ll give you a good reason,” he murmurs. And. There it is. Sirius sticks his hands into the pockets of his robes. Jules smiles at him, blue robes twirling and curls bobbing as he turns away to join Lisbeth just as Winnie’s getting bushwhacked by a surprise photograph.

On his way out of the classroom, he wishes Mr. Ollivander well and nods at both Headmasters without making eye contact. In that hall, he finds an open window, leans into it on his elbows, lights a fag dug up from the depths of his pockets. He’s well through his second cigarette when he jumps at the touch of a hand to his lower back and he drops the fag, head whipping first to look Jules in the eye and then to follow the pitiful fluttering of his cigarette down into the courtyard. When all of the dying grass doesn’t suddenly burst into flame, he’s ephemerally relieved.

“You scared me,” Sirius mutters, fussing with his fringe and reluctantly meeting Jules’ eyes.

“I didn’t mean to.” Jules smirks, faint. “You waited.” Sirius’ eyes roll and he rubs at one of them just to busy his fingers, feeling silly. Why had he? Then, Jules licks his lips, and Sirius recalls. This is what he’d prickishly put his friendship with Remus on the line for, isn’t it? For a bloke? And how bloody ridiculous that sounds in hindsight…

Sirius sighs, places his hands on his hips, evading eye contact. “Seems I did,” he concedes, as if he’d sleepwalked to this very spot and couldn’t possibly be blamed for this outcome.

Jules’ brow twitches. And then Sirius has his face framed by long, adamant fingers and thin, boyish lips dryly against his own and that stubbled chin he’d told Remus about butting against his skin. Sirius twitches in shock, but it’s not enough to loosen Jules’ grip.

“In the middle of the goddamn hallway?” he hisses, and as he turns his head to scope it out — empty but for them —  Jules’ hands slip to holding his neck.

“We’ve got nothing to be ashamed of,” murmurs Jules. Sirius’ pulse must be skyrocketing underneath the fingers on his neck.

“This may be news to you seeing as you only arrived last week, but we haven’t got many raging poofs here at Hogwarts.“

“Alright, Sirius. You want privacy. I understand.” As Jules proceeds to draw away, Sirius’ mind races to perform furious calculations; he’d left Transfiguration halfway through class, and if it’s been at least a half hour since then, he thinks he recalls hearing the bell toll, and if that be the case, he’s got another half hour before students take to the halls again in the busy transfer between classes. He swallows. Fuck it. Letting his weight sag back into the stone wall, he takes Jules by the lapels of his robes and drags him back in. He’s warm, solid, tall, and it takes a few moments of overcoming shock until their lips meet once again. Sirius’ eyes drift shut as Jules pins him to the wall with an insistent thigh between his legs, a tongue pressed between his lips, eager fingers rubbing up and down his chest. Sirius can kiss, sure, but he’s still a bit lost on the touching-blokes part, so his hands remain where they are, clutching fervently at Jules’ robes. Jules’ lips shine slick and peachy in the beam of sunlight that half-catches on his face as he draws back. Sirius can see the dust in the air swirling in the light, too. Jules’ leg is still against him, and Sirius’ eyes are fast to fall closed again when Jules puts that sinful mouth on his neck, undoes the highest clasp on Sirius’ robes so he can get a layer closer to feeling the heat on his chest, on his collarbone. With his lips by Sirius’ ear — he can feel the hard, warm brush of teeth when Jules smiles against the shell of it — Jules hums, “Wanted to do this since I first saw you,” and Sirius exhales, shaky, because Jules and his posh accent sound a whole lot less elegant when he’s whispering words like that, and Sirius thinks he likes it.

“In the courtyard?” he breathes. He remembers the white pegasi, Jules leading the troupe of prim Beauxbatons bluejays.

“Oh, yes.”

Sirius bites his lip, cracks his eyes open just to watch his own fingers crawl up Jules’ chest. There are wet spots, wet nibbles down the side of his neck. “Why?” he urges, popping his hips away from the wall, full-on erection now straining against his trousers, against Jules’ hard thigh. Jules turns Sirius’ head with a mere two thumbs on his jaw, the tips of their noses touching, eye to eye. He brushes, carefully, a few stray strands of Sirius’ overgrown hair from where they’re caught in his eyelashes.

“There are many pretty boys at your school, Sirius.” Sirius feels the damp breath of the words against his mouth, and he finds himself willing to wait for the full answer when Jules slips his tongue along his lower lip and they fall again into a wet, starved kiss. Sirius feels the bony lines of Jules’ shoulders through his robes. When Jules pulls back, their mouths part with an obscene sound. Sirius feels the thin string of saliva between their lips snap against his own chin. “But of them all, Sirius, you’re the Purest.”

Jules proceeds to lean in again, but as soon as Sirius’ brain catches up to the wild horse race the rest of his body is running — specifically his blood to the nether regions — he scoffs aloud, pressing two fingers to Jules’ lips when they’re barely an inch apart.

“I am not pure,” he asserts, heavy eyelids forced to lift, because the whole disheveled-from-only-snogging look doesn’t quite fit the bill to back this argument.

Jules’ face betrays several consecutive emotions: confused, understanding, and then he just seems entertained by this. He grins like a cat underneath the pads of Sirius’ fingers. “No?”

“I’ve been with plenty of girls,” Sirius argues, fights against a gasp when Jules grinds his leg against him. “Well — at least three.” Why the rich, brownish-green of Jules’ eyes and the heat of his breath are suddenly an equivalent to a vaporized Veritaserum, Sirius can’t say. Jules chuckles, so Sirius is quick to add, “And boys. Boy. Just… boy. But it’s more than most can say.”

“No, you haven’t,” Jules murmurs, stroking Sirius’ hair behind his ear.

Sirius tips his nose upward petulantly. “Have too.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Well, I didn’t shag him to prove anything to anyone.” At this point, he can’t even be sure if that’s a blatant lie or the whole truth. Remus — he’d wanted to shag Remus. To prove something? Not necessarily. To prove something to himself? That seems more accurate.

Jules kisses the corner of Sirius’ mouth, and tremors run downward all along Sirius’ belly as Jules snakes a hand between their bodies. “You’re adorable, Sirius.”

“Fuck off,” Sirius whispers, though he tilts his head magnetically toward Jules’ lips.

“Would it be alright,” Jules mumbles, lips featherlight on Sirius’, “if I made you come in your pants, Sirius?” The cat-like grin again. “You’ll get your privacy. You’ve got robes on, after all.”

Sirius tries to raggedly breathe and swallow at the same time. Elegant knuckles brush the straining, achey bulge at his crotch. He forces his eyes open, not quite remembering when they’d fallen shut. He laughs but it just sounds like a desperate groan.

“Oh, it’d be alright.”

***

Remus wonders just how long it will take until James combusts.

Remus is sitting at the foot of his bed, cross-legged, as close as he can be to the divide between his and James’ beds. Peter leans against one of the wobbly bedposts of Remus’ bed. They’ve both got their eyes on Lily, who’s perched on James’ bed — James’ bed — with her loafered feet dandling absently. James, on the other hand, has adjusted his glasses and mucked up his hair at least thrice in the past five minutes, pacing about the aisle between the beds. For all he claims to be done with Lily, earlier that day, he’d spent an awfully long time waxing poetic on the totally-platonic, totally-sober moment he and Lily had shared at Sirius’ party on Sunday night. She’d seen him shirtless up close, which was more than James had ever expected. And now she’s on his bed — though probably unknowingly, as it could be any of theirs — and Remus is holding out that the innuendo-driven, hormonal part of his brain will remain suppressed by the throes of anxiety until Lily has fully left their room.

Sirius flings the door open as he enters such that it whines in protest on its hinges and knocks against the wall. They haven’t seen him since he’d been pulled from Transfiguration. With his eyes flickering toward Lily and back to Sirius, Remus, watching him saunter in, waits for the moment the realization will strike him. Sirius stops short just a few steps into the room, eyes on Lily, but it’s James who speaks first.

“Where the hell’ve you been, mate?” James storms forth, wraps an arm around his shoulders, ushers him inside as if he requires escorting. “This is your clue. We’ve been waiting for ages!”

Sirius registers that it is indeed his Triwizard clue that’s clasped between Lily’s fingers. “What’s she doing here?”

Without raising her eyes, Lily sighs. “The third-person really shouldn’t be necessary, Black —”

Sirius laughs, humorless, places his hands on his hips. “‘Scuse me, then. What are you doing here?” Remus notes his loose-hanging robes, his untucked shirt.

Before Lily can reply, James unhands Sirius to throw his arms into the air. “Listen, man! What’d the Prophet stuff your ears with? Pro-Ministry propaganda? Evans has generously agreed to help us decipher your clue.”

Remus rubs at his upper lip to conceal a smirk at the bored look Lily aims James’ way. Sirius, on the other hand, feels differently.

“Oh, the Prophet was fantastic, thanks for asking.” Sirius turns his head magnanimously toward Lily. “And thanks a bunch, Evans, but I think we’ve got it covered.”

“No, we haven’t,” Remus says, and Sirius gives him the Would you just shut up look. “Unless you’ve forged ahead on your own, Sirius, and not informed any of us of your progress, then we’ve still got nothing.”

Sirius shifts his weight on his feet, tugs on the waistband of his trousers, and the face he makes would make Remus think he’d shat his pants before walking in. “Well, no, I haven’t a bloody progress report, Remus, but I’ve got another two weeks until my head’s on the chopping block, and —”

“Would you two stop?” Lily asks sharply, and when only a silence follows, she smiles faintly at Remus. “First of all, I don’t think there’s much in here to be deciphered. Clearly, if they’d wanted you to be extensively prepared — learned special spells or how to cast wandless,  that type of thing — there would’ve been more… substance. This feels to me just like a nursery rhyme.”

Sirius schleps toward his wardrobe. “Scintillating analysis, Evans. What would I ever have done without you? At least I know now that when I run headfirst into the land of fen without a clue about where to go or what to do, it’s because they wanted me to be clueless, and that’s why all I got was a shitty poem.” With his back to them, long robes covering all important bits, Sirius kicks off his shoes and then shucks his trousers off and his pants along with them. “Still at square bloody one.”

There’s a gallimaufry of voices when the remaining four speak at the same time. James jumps instantly to Lily’s defense with an acerbic “Don’t talk to her like that, Pads.” “My honor doesn’t need defending, Potter,” snaps Lily, before covering her eyes and saying, “I should’ve known one excursion to the boys’ dormitory would mean seeing Black strip.” Peter huffily gives a “She’s only trying to help!” that Remus thinks Lily might find sweet if she weren’t so torn between ardently avoiding Sirius’ side of the room and castigating James.

And though Remus speaks up a half-second too late, he’s fully knowing his words will get lost in the jumble. “It’s more than you’ve got, Sirius.”

Sirius, now with a new pair of trousers on, whirls toward them all before he’s finished buttoning them up, ready to fling scathing remarks by the looks of it, but because he has to choose which of his assailants to fight first, Lily swiftly inserts herself into the gap in conversation.

“I wasn’t finished, by the way.” She glares at Sirius. “And I’m pretty confident about this, so it surprises me that none of you have caught on. Comfort with wandless magic is practically unheard of for wizards our age, so the fact that you’ll have to go about it wandless leads to believe it’s also meant to be magicless. And then there’s the other hints: juggle? Struggle?” Lily lifts her brows, looks at them all in turn. “No?” She laughs briskly. “Really? Remus?”

Remus winces, not picking up whatever it is that Lily is putting down.

“Those unlike you?” she continues. The boys all stare.

“Oh!” barks James suddenly. “Muggles!” He pauses with his hand against his chin. “But why would they put Sirius with Muggles into the Forbidden Forest?”

Lily’s relief is short-lived. “Forbidden — what? Potter, did you even read the clue? The Forbidden Forest is anything but green.” She shakes her head slowly and then extends the clue toward Sirius, who’s approaching James’ bed, outer robes now gone, trousers unbuttoned. Remus watches him, curls his fingers around his blanket. Right. Muggles.

Sirius accepts the clue hesitantly. “So you’re saying the challenge involves Muggles?”

Lily nods, pushes off of James’ bed. “I can’t tell you where it'll take place, but beyond a reasonable doubt, I think that you’ll have to complete some task either with Muggles or with the help of them. It’s not outlandish, really. Chaz Cassady is Muggleborn, Dumbledore’s hosting this tournament in the midst of a war. Encouraging benevolent attitudes toward Muggles can’t hurt.”

“She’s a genius,” Peter murmurs, and Remus guesses he recalls the third-person quip as he clears his throat and corrects, “You’re a genius.”

Lily rolls her eyes, nudges Sirius out of her way.

“Muggles? I can do this,” Sirius decides, eyes scanning the clue. “Most Muggles are ace. Last I’ve heard, they can’t bite my head off. I can handle this.”

“Thanks, Evans!” James calls just as the door closes behind her. Remus counts one second before James grabs Sirius by the collar of his shirt. “Why the fuck didn’t you thank her?” he hisses.

Sirius lifts his hands in surrender. The clue flutters to the floor. “I didn’t ask for her help.” He shoves James off and the confrontation ends there. Remus believes it’s because James, subdued, still can’t believe Lily had agreed to come up to their dorm. He’s staring at the indent she’d left in his sheets. “And since when are we back to kissing the ground she walks on? Prongs, you were supposed to be over her.”

James comes to, folds his arms over his chest. “I am. I didn’t flirt with her once.”

Sirius chuckles. “You didn’t need to. The guard dog act was enough.”

James regards Sirius, then punches his shoulder on his way to his nightstand to roll a joint. “What did the Prophet ask you?”

“Nothing important. The feature’s gonna be shit, unless Jules and Winnie gave the reporter a real show.”

***

It’s late, and because his bed curtains are shut and his wand is on his night table, Remus can’t tell for how long he’s been lying awake. Can you regret not knowing something you couldn’t have possibly chosen to know? he wonders, mulling over Lily’s dissection of Sirius’ Triwizard clue just hours previous. He wishes he’d realized, he yearns to have been the one to — it’d been right there, right in front of his nose the whole time. Juggle and struggle rhyme with Muggle, of course they do. If he’d figured it out… He imagines the look on Sirius’ face. He wouldn’t have been surprised, he never is when Remus contributes something new to the conversation, something none of them had thought they’d needed. But what Sirius might have done would have been exponentially more gratifying than any You’re a genius jabber from Peter. Sirius would’ve given him that smile, the one that always accompanies a Nice one, Moony, the tight-lipped, clandestine, proud smile. Remus can’t say it’s reserved solely for him. He’s not daft enough to believe Sirius doesn’t cast it unto other recipients. He is, however, daft enough to paint a rosy-hued picture of it all for his own, to delude himself into thinking it’s special for five, dreamy minutes until it rains and the paint drips off the canvas to the ages-old background chorus of You’re such a fucking idiot. He rolls onto his side, fingers grazing the drapes gently, sheets kicked haphazardly to the foot of the bed. Peter snores, James mumbles No, no, no inside the recurring nightmare in which Snape is the uncharacteristically brawny captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team, and Sirius is silent. Sirius has always been a quiet breather; it’s how, in the pitch-black of the Potters’ giant basement the summer after second year, no matter who was the seeker, stumbling blindly through the dark and knocking old Tiffany lamps off tables in search of the other three in hiding, Sirius always won. Always found last, or never, even, bursting from zero decibels to loud, infectious, victorious laughter when James, Peter, and Remus would surrender after a half-hour of looking for him. Always quiet… unless he’s getting fucked. It’s the loudest Remus has ever heard him breathe.

He’s guiltily shoving a hand down the front of his boxers just as the bed frame creaks and the mattress dips behind him and he flips onto his back, palm pressed innocently to his heaving stomach by now, staring into the shadow-cast face of Sirius, who, with his hair hanging in his face and his shirtless upper half, looks rather like a child of the jungle.

“Sirius, god, what,” he whispers, heaving himself onto his elbows, but Sirius’ hand is warm through the thin, worn fabric of his shirt as he presses Remus back down into the sheets.

“No, don’t get up,” Sirius mumbles, then maneuvers himself onto his side adjacent to Remus. “Sorry. I would’ve knocked, but there’s no door.”

Remus snorts, rubbing a hand over his face sleepily. “The amount of shit you all would give me if I walled in my bed and put a door in…”

Sirius smiles. Remus can tell, vaguely, because of the highlights of his teeth in the blackness. “How are you?”

“You came to my bed to ask me how I am?” Remus shifts over onto his side, too, attempts to be discreet about rucking the sheets up around his waist.

Sirius hums. “Well, now if I say no, I’ll sound rude.”

Remus smirks. “I’m fine, thanks.” Then he lifts his brows. “Go on, then.”

Sirius’ smile is gone. His face is serene, features soft, the heat of his body warm, filling the corral of Remus’ bed. “I got off with Jules today.”

Remus’ mouth is dry. He watches Sirius’ fingers walk up the space on the mattress between them, wide as can be without their both rolling off. “Did you?” he rasps.

“Yeah.”

Remus exhales deep out of his nose. “Okay.”

“Yeah.” Sirius lays his palm flat. Remus inspects the dark, inky lines embedded into his skin, heart racing. He should feel sick, but he just feels hot.

“I’m happy you were able to… overcome your fears,” he whispers. It feels put-on.

“The only thing I overcame was in my pants,” Sirius whispers back. “Like, a lot.”

Remus looks up abruptly from his hand and into Sirius’ eyes, which are squinted because he’s grinning, the little shit. “Sirius,” he laughs helplessly, covers his mouth to mute it, turns his face into the pillow. He’s hard, and not just because of the unsteady fan of Sirius’ warm breath against his skin as he laughs, too. “You’re vile.”

“You think so?”

“Mhm.” Remus turns his head to face his friend again. He feels juvenile, giggling in the wee hours of the morning, tucked together and in bed. But they’re seventeen and eighteen.

“We did it out in the hall,” Sirius adds, faint.

Remus swallows audibly. “That’s risky.”

“Not as much between classes.” Remus watches Sirius shift, wonders if it’s because his muscles are sore, if his position is comfortable, if he’s sticking to the sheets with sweat.

“Right,” breathes Remus.

“That’s why I changed when I got back. When Evans was here.” When Sirius blinks, it’s slow, and Remus sees the pale globes of his eyelids. He sighs, and then, “Did you notice?”

Remus smiles awkwardly. “It was kind of hard to miss. Lily was furious.”

“She’s fire incarnate. Of course she was.” When Sirius bends his legs, one of his knees touches Remus’, albeit through the sheets. “But Moony, I meant — did you notice.”

Remus thinks he knows what he means, but perhaps not. Either way, he nods wordlessly. Sirius suckles on his lower lip. When he sucks too hard, it makes a sound that’s far too loud in the stillness of the room, in that void between Peter’s snores, and Remus chuckles, bewildered. Sirius’ answering smile is sheepish.

“I need to piss,” is what he says finally. Remus’ bed curtains part with a rush of cool air into the space and Sirius is gone. He hears the door creak open and counts to thirty before he squeezes his eyes shut tight, rolls onto his stomach, ruts languidly against the mattress. Just once. Twice.

Remus mouths a quavering chuckle into his pillow. He’s not going mad, he’s not. But if Sirius truly went for a piss, and not to rub one off when there’s no one in the toilets at night, then he just might be.

***

Friday morning, Remus pats with a napkin at the gloriously sopping pumpkin juice stain on his trousers. Beside him, Sirius is still snickering, which is making it very difficult for him to eat his bacon, and across the table, James is fighting Peter for the comics section. He’s passionate about this particular one of a poorly-drawn dragon.

Not long before, an owl had swooped overhead and delivered, for Peter, a fat copy of the Prophet, which had knocked over the full pitcher of pumpkin juice, flooding Remus’ porridge with it and his lap, too. As he lifts his wand to dry the patch, he resents that Peter’s mother insists he stay up to date on current events.

“No, it’s on the next page. I just saw it,” James mutters, grappling for the paper.

“Let me at least get the sports section first!” Peter protests. Remus, squinting quizzically at a photograph on the front page, knocks his knuckles into Sirius’ shoulder. In response, he gets a particularly crumby “What?” as Sirius stuffs a slice of toast into his mouth.

“It’s you,” murmurs Remus. Sirius follows his gaze. Then he rises from the bench, wresting the paper from Peter with only a few rips.

“Hey!” they yell in sync. Remus can’t help it when he leans over Sirius’ shoulder.

“The Triwizard Tournament welcomes to the stage the white sheep of the Black family,” Remus reads, voice hushed, eyes tracking the headline. Just below the thick, black font is a splendidly flattering image of Sirius, signature sly smile and all, twirling his wand between his fingers, of all things.

“What the fuck,” whispers Sirius.

“It’s a nice picture,” comments Lily. She’s two girls down from Peter, also with the Prophet in hand.

Sirius is silent. He passes it over to Remus.

“The champion of our very own Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry is none other than young Sirius Black, 18. Once heir to the Black family fortune, now spurned, Black is the rebellious heartthrob with the dark, Black past we’ve been waiting for and cannot wait to keep up with for the next several months through the ups and downs of the Tournament.

"With a scoff and a toss of his glossy hair, Black refers to his family life as a ‘can of roaches… maybe maggots… that he’d rather leave unopened.’” Remus lifts his head, eyes on Sirius. “Did you actually say that?”

Sirius rubs at his chin. “Yes! I did! But that’s beside the point!” He rests his elbows on the table, face in his hands. “Keep reading.”

Remus frowns, reluctantly looks downward. “‘He’s gotten off with me and everyone in my circle of friends,’ shares an anonymous student of Hufflepuff House.” Remus winces but plows ahead. “Black’s peers seem to agree. Many deem him a ‘troublemaker,’ and Severus Snape, 17, of Slytherin House, claims, ‘Nobody in this school can take a breath without being interrupted by Black and his childish antics. Him and that James Potter — who’s practically his adoptive brother, the only person willing to take him in — they make a merry pair of idiots, throttling Hogwarts’ academia day by day.’ During our chat, Sirius was laconic, but as we plunge headfirst into the inaugural Triwizard challenge, we’ll be lucky if we learn more about this renegade dreamboat.”

Remus lowers the paper. Sirius’ head is buried in his hands, and James, despite his brown complexion, is going positively red in the face. Peter’s cheeks are the color of fresh strawberries. Upon Remus’ conclusion, their hoots of laughter become audible, echoing through the cavernous dining hall. James pounds his fists against the table, shaking his head so wildly his glasses nearly fly off into Remus’ pumpkin juice porridge soup, but he swipes them up from the table and rises onto his feet. He hoists himself up onto the bench.

“Potter,” Lily warns, standing up. “Get down.”

“Fuck you right back, Snivellus!” James hollers at the Slytherin table, hands cupped around his mouth. With his sheer enthusiasm, half of it comes out as a yodel. “The throttling’s only just begun!” Remus watches through his eyelashes, ashamed that he’s smiling. James makes a lewd gesture, a gesture someone who knows nothing about cocksucking might make, and then he comes tumbling back down onto the bench because Lily’s grabbed him by the back of his robes. Peter’s been laughing for so long that there’s no more noise coming out, just wheezy breaths.

Every teacherly head at the High Table is turned their way, but Lily waves to them. “Not to worry, professors! I’ve got a handle on it!” she calls, tone uneven, then takes James by the scruff of his neck as she bends down to his ear’s level, voice dropping dangerously low. “Pull shit like that again, Potter, I’ll have your title revoked and have Kingsley Shacklebolt take your place faster than you can spunk when you have a wank alone.” James, staring straight ahead, has never appeared more in love. Lily lets go of his neck, wipes her hand off on her robes. “Twenty points from Gryffindor.”

James blinks, then turns dizzyingly fast. “Twenty?!” Lily’s already striding off. “You can’t dock twenty points from the Head Boy. From your own house! Evans, have mercy!”

Sirius lifts his head. He squints, eyes adjusting to the light. Remus touches the small of his back for one, two, three seconds, moves his hand back to his thigh when Sirius’ eyes flit to him from their corners.

“Hey, Sirius, how’s it feel to be the wizarding world’s renegade dreamboat?” asks Peter, who, after a hearty gulp of juice, has recovered from his fit of giggles.

“She said she’d never heard of my family,” Sirius bemoans, expression pitiful. “I bet Lisbeth Lyre isn’t even her real name!”

“Liar is kind of in her name,” murmurs Peter.

“It’s nothing most people didn’t already know,” Remus says. It’s meant to be comforting. He watches Sirius tear the crusts off his other piece of toast. “It’s a shame she makes it sound as if you were kicked out as opposed to becoming independent.”

James tunes back in. “Just think about how pissed off your mum’ll be, Padfoot. The world’ll know she turned out her eldest son and now he’s after the Triwizard cup.” James’ lips flicker at a smirk, as if he’s trying to restrain it. “And everyone’s hearts, apparently.” He snatches up the Prophet. “Could they have picked a more Sirius picture?”

Remus feels a weight lift from his chest as Sirius’ face warms to fondness.

“Glossy hair,” mutters James, rereading the article, and then he folds up the Prophet so he can gently swat at the top of Sirius’ head with it. Sirius grabs it from him, shakes the hair out of his eyes.

“You should be thanking me,” Sirius says, smoothing out the front page. “Got your name in the paper, didn’t I?”

“I believe that was Snivellus, actually.” James appears on the verge of leaping onto the table again but internally must decide against it. Under the table, Remus feels a nudge against his thigh. It’s the edge of Sirius’ spoon, clean, thankfully.

“Codename Anonymous Hufflepuff?” whispers Sirius with a flash of a smirk, holding eye contact for shorter than Remus would have liked.

“As if I’d ever tell,” Remus mutters. He licks his lips, forces his eyes ahead. But folding his arms over the table means dunking his sleeve into the uncleared pumpkin juice spill of ten minutes ago. And yet, as he sighs and soaks it up with James’ napkin, Remus isn’t quite so bitter.

Chapter Text

Curled up against his pillows, Remus has Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four tucked between the pages of his Muggle Studies textbook. Sue him — it’s just about the only way he can nab a moment alone. If the other lads catch him in the midst of reading for pleasure, it only means they’ll refuse to take no for an answer while roping him into whatever is currently distracting them from their studies.

Sirius is in his bed. Remus had asked him ten minutes ago just what he’d been up to. Sketching tattoos had been his preoccupied reply, the tip of his tongue trapped between his teeth.

James charges in. Remus’ eyes flicker over the edge of his book, and when his novel begins to slip, he must quickly adjust his position to camouflage it.

“Where’s Peter?” James demands, apparently displeased at the sight of Peter’s empty bed. Sirius doesn’t reply. When James directs his eyes expectantly toward Remus, he can only shrug. James frowns. “He had my cloak last.” Sighing, he makes his way toward his bed. “Oh, Sirius. Emmeline’s looking for you. She’s in the common room.”

“Is she,” Sirius mutters as he rolls onto his stomach. Remus, watching his socked feet kick up into the air, then glances toward the door, above which they’d cut out the image of Sirius from the Prophet and pinned it to the wall. If you’ve gotta kiss whoever you get under a mistletoe with, what’ve you got to do when you end up under a picture of you? James had asked. Sirius has yet to decide, but Remus has his bets on a double cartwheel — of which Sirius claims him and Regulus had once been capable — or something naughty.

James arches a brow. “Yes,” he says slowly.

Sirius fails to react, simply goes to chew on the end of his feather quill before recalling precisely what he’s holding and blowing raspberries to spit out the bits of fluff that’d stuck to his tongue.

“How’s it taste?” asks Remus with his best air of nonchalance, averting his eyes to the words on the page.

“Hey, fuck you,” Sirius laughs. Catching Sirius’ eye over the top of his book, Remus’ toes curl with a ticklish, warm delight into his covers.

“Did you hear what I said?” James asks, dragging his button-up over his head rather than actually undoing the buttons. He had, in the end, joined the Gryffindor rec Quidditch team, and been all the more honored when he’d been asked to coach. Peter had been the one to finally convince him — something about being caught out sleepwalking with his racing broom between his legs.

Sirius is silent a few beats until he lifts his eyes, blinks at James, nonplussed. “Who? Me?”

“Yeah.” James worms into a t-shirt Remus still considers to be of much too high quality to ever sport in. “Emmeline’s in the common room. Looking for you.”

Sirius waits until James’ wild-haired head pops through the collar of the shirt to formulate his reply. “And?”

James chuckles, baffled. “No? Not gonna set off on a totally-not-run, suave-as-shit swagger down to the common room? Unoccupied baby oven, just begging for a ready-to-be-baked baguette?”

Remus lowers his books to his chest. Sirius is staring blankly at James. “You’re serious right now?”

James knows he can’t pass that up, so he shrugs, unbuttoning his uniform pants with a, “Well, no, that’d be you —”

“You’re such a dickhead sometimes.” Sirius snorts. “Baby oven? Really?”

James leans against his bed, pantsless but unfazed, legs crossed at the ankles. “Can you blame me? I thought you’d be all over the offer. I just — I didn’t think the fame’d get to your head this fast.”

Sirius begins to sit up, somewhere at the crossroads between amused and vexed. “Right. Let me just drop everything and go shag Emmeline. That’s what I do, isn’t it?”

James laughs halfheartedly. “Well, way to be humble about it.”

Sirius proceeds to slide off his bed. He does it on the opposite side of James’, at least, so although the hairs on the back of Remus’ neck are already standing on end, he doesn’t have reason to be immediately concerned they’ll choose to sort this out with fists. Sirius is still beyond the getting-physical radius. “I’m not boasting. Just call me a slag and be done with it.”

James blinks. “Alright. You’re a slag. That’s not news to anyone, especially not you.”

Sirius ducks down out of view, and the thumps that ensue tell Remus he’s putting on his boots. “Right. Because, above all, I’m a slag first, then Sirius second.”

James presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek, huffs. “That’s not what I meant, Padfoot —”

“No, no. By all means, do continue. If it’s my humility you’re concerned about, take my shags off my hands. Not that you ever would, being so desperately devoted to a bird who treats you like Hippogriff shite. Frankly, they’ve come to bore me, and if that’s really all there is to getting off with girls, you’re going to be terribly disappointed the day Evans finally gives you the golden ticket to her knickers.” Sirius hasn’t tied his laces, so when he goes to take a step toward the door, he stumbles.

“How generous of you, mate, to offer me the minge you can’t stomach anymore, like they’re fucking scraps of food,” James says, but his tone is genial.

Sirius glares darkly as he stomps toward the door. “Don’t wait up.”

James lets loose a loud cackle. “And just where the hell are you going? You’d never leave the grounds, not on your own. I know you.”

Exasperated, Sirius turns toward James in the doorway. “I’ll be in Emmeline’s bed ’til dawn. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No, but it’s exactly what I expected to.”

An embittered smile tugs at one side of Sirius’ lips. Then he fixes his eyes on Remus. “Enjoy your Orwell, Moony.” Remus’ eyebrows jump up on his forehead. The door slams shut in Sirius’ wake. Chewing on his lower lip, Remus turns to stare James down.

“What?” he mutters, defensive. Remus shifts to settle back against the pillows, sighing. He’s not worried, necessarily. It’s Sirius and James, James and Sirius. Their tiffs never last long, whether they’re wrathful and scathingly insulting or regarding who’d eaten the last of who’s Honeydukes stash. And that’s another thing, the physical aspect of many of their squabbles. Magic can hurt, its effects can be grave, even more so when the hexer is of James’ or Sirius’ magical ability. And yet, the two of them go at each other’s throats, literally, which only ever leaves them with bruised knuckles and elbows and ribs. Remus considers this a hell of a lot easier to recover from than scrambled innards or eternal slug-filled vomit. His eyes take in James’ underpants, the ones dotted with the three types of Quidditch balls.

“Even for you two, that was an unprecedented level of stupid,” Remus answers, then props his Muggle Studies book up against his chest.

“Stupid, maybe, but not wrong. He gets more than all of us combined.” James pulls trackies from beneath his bed and sniffs at them.

“I’d tell you to be less selective, but I truly think you have more of a shot with Lily than you know.”

When Remus glances up from his book a moment later, James is standing at the foot of his bed, eyes narrowed. “I bet you think this is funny, huh, Moony? Pushing me toward her while I’m still weaning myself off?”

“Weaning?” Remus echoes through a flummoxed laugh. As it fades, he sighs, tries to find his place on the page, but the Orwell thumps against his chest as it slips from the grip of his thumbs. He drops his textbook to cover it. “There have been funnier things.”

As if he could possibly understand the indecipherable muddle of Sirius’ mind, Remus pictures Sirius storming past Emmeline Vance in the common room.

If that’s really all there is to getting off with girls… No. No, no, no.

Then again, Sirius would know now, wouldn’t he? He has gained enough of a basis to make that comparison. Remus almost can’t believe these are thoughts that are passing through his mind. Before Sirius’ party, he couldn’t have ever imagined that being the case. And now, Sirius, mercurial as always but this time in a way that unequivocally affects Remus, has decided he enjoys the company of boys as well. As well? Only? Either way, it’s boys that aren’t Remus.

He feels short of breath. Remus thinks it should hurt, that it should affect him more, be a dagger to the gut more than a thrilling, heart-palpitating discovery. He briefly thinks of Sirius coming to his bed that evening after he’d been with Jules. 

If he hasn’t always been — children never are, or they shouldn’t be, in an ideal world — then Remus has, over the years, become an unforgiving realist.

He’s a werewolf, for Merlin’s sake. When he goes home for the summer, his mother and Da steer clear of all things post-Hogwarts in conversation. The elephant in the room grows bigger each year, though, at the same pace that Remus ages. He loves them, and he knows they love him, but with love often comes coddling, and it doesn’t quite fit into the definition of coddling to share that You’re a Dark creature, son. If you think your life has been hard, you’ve got another thing coming. Dumbledore’s safe haven can only protect you for so long. People have chosen their sides, they’re already against you, the law is already against you, there are few who have it in their hearts to understand… In truth, he doesn’t need them to tell him so. He’s got it memorized. And Remus knows it, too, that his parents would have him stay at home until he went gray or they passed on, whichever came first, let him transform in the basement and have him help out at home, three people sustained on his Da’s meager salary. He knows it, but could never stomach it or live it.

He’s a realist.

What is a boy to do?

He’s defied fate once already by befriending Peter, James, and Sirius. Luck was on his side. He has his family and friends. Remus wouldn’t even think to try and press for more. A career? Love? A purpose? Longevity? It’s all out of the question, really. Luck gave him more than his allowance. It shan’t be so generous again.

Remus has had years to confront the truth that Sirius would never be more than a friend to him. This belief, burnt into his mind with the sizzle of a branding iron, may have been shaken to the core that night of November the second. The next morning, though, the smoke had dissipated. It wasn’t even that Sirius had laid down the law, but Remus had laughed at his own naivety. Are you fucking mad, trying to push the boundaries further than they should’ve ever gone for you? You’re lucky you’ve got him. Hell, you’ve got three. And you’d jeopardize that for something as foolish and trivial as passion? Romance? Get your head out of the fucking clouds. If you claim to love him, why do are you so intent on losing him? You’re overdue for a bout of bad luck.

Remus does whatever the emotional equivalent of an eye-roll is at himself. His head is in the clouds still, but at least he’s cognizant of it. Sirius with a man, Sirius with Remus… It’s a fantasy. Sirius with Jules… It’s like Remus said. Heart-palpitating, thrilling. It’s reality. Like most realities, it makes Remus’ stomach knot itself elaborately, makes him want to dry-heave if he thinks too hard — heave his heart right out of his chest to be rid of the sour-tasting jealousy. But it’s also further from the reality he’d always expected of Sirius, closer to his own, twisted fantasies, which is part of why it still somehow makes his heart flutter and his thighs tremble.

Remus lets his head loll back against his pillow, staring at the canopy. Without preamble, he begins to mumble, “He’s under a lot of pressure, James. The Prophet’s already taken to calling him a slag. I think you’d best… not.”

“I don’t mean it as an insult, Moony. It’s a matter of social balance. Every quartet has its slag. Unless — you mean to say it’s now you?” Remus can feel the smirk being aimed his way. He doesn’t need to look. He’s already groaning, hand rubbing over his face, as James says, “Yeah, I heard about Mary, you dirty bugger.”

Remus almost nervous-laughs himself to an early grave. He realizes he’s broken a sweat in several places. At least he avoids the Freudian slip, the one where he straight-up asks, Oh, yeah? Did you hear about any others?

***

“This is the last time I’m going to say it, alright?” Sirius grumbles, arms held tight across his chest, eyes fixated on the pair of heavy, varnished wooden doors. “Fucking magical — fucking doors. Lily… lit le livre… dans le lit.”

“They changed the password,” Jules says into his ear. Sirius nearly leaps out of his skin, plastering himself to the doors with shock, and at the sight of Jules’ face, all its angles and prominent bones cast in shadow, he lifts a shaky finger and pokes it into Jules’ chest. He’s in different robes, more casual ones — his mother’s definition of casual, not, say, Remus’ — still a gentle blue.

“Don’t… do that,” Sirius says. It’s not as stern as he intends it to be.

“You scare rather easy,” Jules murmurs, leering at him. He takes Sirius by the wrist to tug him out of harm’s way, because when he says, “Monterey Jack,” the doors open obediently. He doesn’t release Sirius, either, as he traipses in, shoes tapping on shining marble. “I don’t know who that is. The Americans chose it.”

“Cheese, I believe,” offers Sirius. He recalls the foods unit from Muggle Studies fondly. There had been samples to taste — mostly, however, of English Muggles’ grub. The confusion in Jules’ eyes is endearing when he looks down his shoulder at Sirius — cute, even. Sirius decides he’s allowed to think that now he’s holding hands with a boy.

Jules guides him left, as to their right are Ilvermorny’s quarters. The walls in the guest suite are papered with intricate floral designs. The marble is cold and unforgiving underfoot but beautiful, and there are twelve, cushy beds in the room they enter, six on the floor and six floating overhead, as if attached to the wall. Sirius knows they’re really levitating. It smells like too much perfume. It’s also empty.

“Where is everyone?” Sirius mutters. To his right is another door leading to a private bedroom, likely for Maxime. “And wherever they are, why aren’t you with them?”

“Exploring the castle, as they do.” Jules smiles faintly. His skin is dry, almost papery as his thumb drags across the back of Sirius’ hand. “This is the closest they’ve ever seen to a ruin. It’s… charmingly archaic.” He walks, so Sirius follows, and he doesn’t know what to do other than copy him when Jules sits down on a neatly-made bed. What deranged fuck actually makes their bed? Even with magic it’s a hassle. On the rare occasion that Sirius wakes early enough to watch Remus make his bed, he kindly informs him that he’s taking the knee for the oppressor. Which oppressor is it now? Remus would ask. Sirius smiles at the thought. My mother’s legacy.

Less anal are the other beds, sheets rumpled and scattered with lacy brassieres and jewelry, pale blue neckties and silky pyjamas tossed over bed frames. God. Anal. What the hell is wrong with him?

“I think you just insulted my school,” Sirius states, though his mind wanders. His hand is getting sweaty, but he tries not to think about it. He shifts so he’s got a leg tucked under himself, chin tilted up because Jules is tall. “Which, objectively, is not acceptable, because, objectively, this is the best place I’ve ever known, and second, also objectively, I’m here, I come with this package deal of poltergeists and crumbling stone, which incontrovertibly makes it better than whatever castle on a cloud you and your clones hail from.”

Jules doesn’t flatter him with laughter, but he does smirk and reach over to tuck Sirius’ hair behind his ear. “It’s not in the sky, Sirius. It’s in the mountains.”

So Sirius rolls his eyes, twitches away from the contact with his nose crinkled up as if he’s repulsed. He’s not. His eyes find his hands, fingers twisted together in his lap, and decides that he must look rather meek like this. He moves his hands to the mattress behind himself, leaning into them. “Why’re you down here, then? Not exploring the ruins?” he asks again.

“I just had a feeling.” Despite Sirius’ avoidance, Jules’ long fingers graze his cheek. He doesn’t move, simply allows it to happen until they get close enough to graze his lips, the pillow of the lower one, and, well, Jules isn’t exactly Sirius’ favorite conversationalist — that would be a clean tie between Nearly Headless Nick and Remus when he’s drunk and feeling philosophical — so he doesn’t mind if the nattering ends there. As Jules’ thumb presses into his lower lip, Sirius looks at Jules’ parted mouth, at the slight crookedness of his two front teeth, and then those fingers secure his jaw in place as he’s kissed. It’s nice. Sirius breathes warmly out his nose, his hands curling into fists against the sheets. Jules’ nose is small, grazes lightly against his cheek. It’s a no-expectations sort of kiss, chaste, even, as if Jules genuinely believes Sirius is a virgin and going tongue-forward would scare him off. But when he gets comfortable and Sirius starts to smile absently at the light pecks, Jules pushes him down onto the mattress, crawls atop him, fingers finding purchase in Sirius’ hair, tongue in his mouth, and all Sirius does is make a whiny, muffled noise that’d be embarrassing in any other context and kick off one of his boots so he can get his foot on the bed. He may not be one to make the bed, but he shan’t wear shoes in one. He’s no monster.

Jules has nice hair, flowy almost to the nape of his neck, and Sirius is just letting himself touch, hips lifting unconsciously from the bed as Jules presses against him when the pert click-click of kitten heels tracks into the room.

“Merde, Jules,” mutters Juliette Verne, who now kneels at the foot of the next bed over, rifling through her trunk. She makes eye contact with Sirius, smiles apologetically, kindly. “Just pretend I’m not here.”

By then, Sirius has forcefully shoved Jules off and has scrambled to sit upright. He blushes red-hot like mad. Jules hasn’t moved himself to the very opposite end of the bed like Sirius had subliminally yelled at him to, but instead sits just beside him, cool as a cucumber, his knee pressing into Sirius’ thigh. “If you’re looking for the cardigan, it’s in Mademoiselle’s room. You left it at breakfast. I believe she took it.”

Juliette shuts her trunk with a tired sigh. “Thank you.” Before she departs, however, she dips down to kiss Jules on the forehead and gently touches her dainty hand to Sirius’ shoulder. Once she’s left, cardigan in hand, Sirius’ muscles uncurl.

“What — what was that?” he mumbles, still watching the door. He jerks at Jules’ sudden closeness, but he’s kissing his neck, his collarbone where his shirt is unbuttoned, so he’ll allow it.

“I’m sorry. I should’ve introduced you. It didn’t occur to me. That was my sister,” Jules replies, though it’s in a whisper into his skin, breath warm. He feels tongue, knows that’ll leave a smell on him. Dizzily, Sirius leans his head against Jules’.

“No — I mean — do they know?”

Before he can get more articulate, Jules draws away, gives him a funny smile. “Does my sister know that I’m queer? Do my classmates?”

Sirius frowns, incapable of words. Then he nods faintly. Jules smiles.

“Of course they do, Sirius. Beauxbatons is not a large school.”

“And they don’t — care?”

“My classmates? No. Why should they?” Jules’ dull-green eyes are amused. “My professors… perhaps. But my parents are benefactors of the school, you see. Unless I’m doing poorly in their classes or giving them cheek, they’ve no reason to complain. It’s a personal matter.”

Oh, the power of money. Or open-mindedness? Sirius shifts on his rump. He sure had thought he’d cared himself. He should care, yeah? “Sounds nice,” he says. Sirius thinks, perhaps, that his heart has recovered from pumping on overdrive. His forefinger rises from the mattress, traces an indeterminate shape into Jules’ knee.

“It’s just life,” Jules replies, but there’s something cagey about him. Before Sirius can dredge up the curiosity to pry — he’d really rather just not converse right then — Jules presses his palm down to cover Sirius’. “Will you push me away if I try to have my way with you?”

Sirius, leaning forward unconsciously, feels his pulse in his temples, his chest, and by all means in his cock, as if his blood’s grown thicker for just those words. “Why don’t you try and see?”

***

Loose-limbed and in need of a good teeth-cleaning, Sirius makes his quiet way upstairs. It’s long past curfew, and his footsteps echo slightly with each step he takes, but the castle rests under a blanket of pure silence — no Peeves, Filch, or McGonagall to be heard or seen. It’s as he takes a shortcut down a hall on the next floor up that he runs into the first sign of wizarding life since Jules. It’s Winnie, hurrying down the hall, and she looks so determined that Sirius thinks she just might pass him by, but instead she stops short in front of him, evaluates his disheveled state, and sighs.

“I’ve been looking for you,” she says, voice hushed, brown eyes almost bottomless in the dim light.

Sirius’ back straightens suddenly. “Have you?” His hands slip into his pockets. “Has something happened?”

She frowns in a way that makes her nostrils flare. “Yeah, something happened. Went all the way up to that damn tower looking for you just to have them tell me you weren’t there.” She gives him a second once-over, this time with slight distaste. And quickly lifts a finger. “No, Black. I don’t wanna know.”

“I wasn’t going to let you know,” Sirius protests, but the look on her face has him giggling despite himself. “Anyway, you’re clever. It’d be rude to underestimate you by thinking you didn’t already know.” He’s shocked at how lax he is about something that had coiled him up so tight not long ago. It could just be Winnie, with her hard stare and multitude of plaits and indifference. His first instinct is to inexplicably trust her.

“I just don’t like him,” she mutters, continues to grimace, and Sirius fills in the blank. Jules. “He gives me the creeps.” Sirius considers this, then shrugs.

“Not that I don’t trust your creep radar —,” he begins loftily, tilting smirk in place and all, but Winnie shushes him abruptly. She holds up her palm, stares past Sirius’ shoulder, and when only silence echoes back, she drops her arm.

“Keep your fucking voice down, Black. Is there somewhere we can go? I have to tell you something,” she whispers. “And… I’ve been on this floor for ten minutes and can’t figure out how to get off.”

Sirius takes her up to the prefects’ bathroom. Empty, thankfully. No bathing Remuses in sight. He can only hope that Ravenclaw prefect-slash-git Murray doesn’t barge on in.

Winnie assesses the room critically, hands on her hips. It brings Sirius to also question the practicality of a password-protected, overly-lavish bathroom reserved for just barely a dozen people.

“I overheard something about the challenge next week,” Winnie says, now at a normal volume.

Sirius just watches her a moment. Then, with raised brows, he murmurs, “And you wanted to tell me about it?” He laughs, soft. “Why?”

Winnie lifts her shoulders and folders her arms over her chest. “I don’t know. I don’t like Jules, that supercilious bastard, so don’t go fucking mouthing this off to him, and you’re… alright. I kinda pity you, so maybe that’s why.”

“What?!”

“What what? Why do I pity you? I can tell you’re scared.”

“I am not!” Sirius says vehemently, but Winnie’s gaze is unyielding. He gapes a moment, then shakes his head. “Sorry. Allow me to rephrase. And you’re not?”

Winnie finally smiles. “Of course I am. Just not as much.”

Sirius is certain she’s correct about that, too. The challenge is fast approaching, and he’s thought about it perhaps once since Lily’s clue analysis, mostly because thinking too hard on it brings him to a panicky state he’d prefer to avoid. Peter suggested reviewing Remus’ Muggle Studies notes, but Sirius doubts the pragmatism of that. Memorizing facts will help him little if he’s stranded in a swamp with a bunch of Muggles. Or… whatever. “Fine. Fair. What did you hear?”

Winnie exhales deeply. “Okay. I wasn’t even — I wasn’t even trying to eavesdrop, but Headmaster Cassady can be an airhead sometimes. I went back to the quarters early after breakfast, and he was in there with Dumbledore discussing the task. He’s the one who set it, y’know. So they were deciding about the means for — I don’t know, some creature… Dumbledore referred him to your Magical Creatures professor. But it’s supposed to be the means for us, for the champions, to be able to communicate with a person of our choosing during the challenge. Like… a walkie-talkie, in a way.”

Sirius swears he’s been paying close attention until the very last bit. “A whattie?”

Winnie gives him a blank look. “You’ll be able to choose a person to talk to during the challenge. They won’t be there with you, but you’ll, like. Have them in your ear, or something. I don’t know. I was trying not to get caught. I think Dumbledore already knew I was there.”

Sirius scowls absentmindedly. “I’m sure he did. The man’s omniscient.”

Winnie doesn’t say anything, just looks at him until, “Okay, well. Bye.” Then she turns to leave.

“Wait!” Sirius latches onto her wrist, and once he’s dragged her to a stop, holding on doesn’t seem like the best idea, so he releases her. “Er — what am I supposed to do with this information?”

Winnie shrugs. “I don’t know. Thank me, maybe? Figure out who’d be the one person you’d want to talk to in a life or death situation?”

Sirius blinks at her. “Do you really think it’ll be life or death?”

Winnie shrugs. “Better to overprepare than under.”

Sirius tilts his chin in a nod, eyes on the floor. “Well. Thank you.” He rubs a hand over his chin. Who he’d want to talk to in a life or death situation. James? If he was desperately bored and in need of a life or death situation, he’d go to James. And James would get them both out by the skin of his teeth. Peter? Hell, if he thinks about it, he doesn’t really go to Peter for anything, unless it’s to rant about something inane about which he would feel guilty bothering Remus and for which James’ attention span would be too short.

Well, of fucking course he’d go to Remus. Cleverness and common sense and an excellent nose for sniffing out loopholes. That’s all Remus’ domain. And he’s a half-blood. Remus knows Muggles. He'd spent his first eleven years with Muggles, now his Christmases and his summers. 

Winnie shakes him by his shoulder. “Black?” Sirius’ eyes flutter in a series of blinks as she tries to level with his gaze. “This is supposed to be good news. You won’t be alone.” Frowning, she mutters, “You’ve gone all… white. Or just whiter than usual.”

Sirius shakes his head slowly, but meeting her dark eyes doesn’t make him feel any better. “Er. I’m fine.” He straightens his shoulders, rolls out his neck, and places his hands on his hips. Fine. He smiles for Winnie. “I’m grand.”

“You’re a shitty liar.”

Sirius’ smile drops. He feels like a pouting child. He must remind himself that he isn’t. He’s eighteen now, even if just barely. “You… really don’t want to know.” But he doesn’t even give her a chance to escape before he blurts, “I shagged my best friend,” and plasters himself to the wall, eyes fixed on that damn mermaid painting. He swears she’s smiling smugly at him.

Winnie’s hand disappears from his shoulder. She sighs audibly, then leans up against the wall beside him. He can tell because their shoulders brush — or his shoulder brushes her arm. She’s a good bit taller than him. “You fucked that James Potter kid?” she asks. “Y’know, I really didn’t take him —”

Sirius’ eyes blow up wide. “What?! No!” he says hurriedly. Shockingly, he doesn’t gag, but it certainly takes him by surprise. “No, not James!”

“Oh.” Winnie chews on her lower lip, and a few silent seconds pass. Then, “You got any other friends?”

Sirius stares at her, unblinking. Out of his chest bubbles a laugh that sounds batty to his own ears. “Only a couple.” He drops his head against the tiled wall, sinks slowly down it until his tailbone’s hit the cold, hard floor. “It was Remus. Remus Lupin. I don’t know if you know of him.”

Winnie takes the more efficient route of seating herself directly beside Sirius. “The sickly one,” she guesses, looking to Sirius for confirmation.

Sirius hesitates, bristling with defensiveness, but he can’t blame her when Remus does so often look peaky. “Yes.” He drops his chin to his knees.

“Okay. Uh, congrats. He’s cute. Tall. Sorry, but — what’s that got to do with anything?”

Sirius stares at the tub. If he squints hard enough, blurs his vision in that way that makes his eyeballs tremble, he might just disillusion himself into thinking Remus is there, hunched around his knees, bruises up and down his spine from his last transformation that Sirius is sure Remus never notices because he never heals them himself, like he does so many of his wounds. “I shouldn’t —” 

“Black, I’m already down here, and probably couldn’t find my way back to the first floor if I tried. Stop being a pussy.”

“Jesus,” Sirius mutters, giving Winnie an unsettled look that she returns with both steadfast patience and boredom. Hesitating, he tucks his chin between his knees again, sighs tightly. “Alright. He’s the obvious choice — my obvious choice of whom to communicate with for the challenge.” His eyes flicker to their corners to check that Winnie is listening, and then he continues. “It started when I — when I very recently decided it was possible that I was interested in… men. In boys. Not little ones, obviously. Boys. Like Jules.” He clears his throat. “Like… Remus.”

It’s a strong start, Sirius thinks. The only reason he’s stopped is because Winnie is now cackling. “Recently?” She breathes out shakily, fanning herself. Her nails are magenta and long, almost unnaturally so, and Sirius wonders if they’re the Muggle stick-on type or if she’s charmed them. “Really? Recently? Okay. Okay, I’m good. Keep going.”

Sirius just looks at her. “What the fuck was that all about?”

She smiles, dimple deep in her cheek. “Nothing. Keep going.”

Sirius rubs a hand over his chin. “You’ve known I was bent all this time?”

Winnie shrugs, sweeps a curtain of little plaits behind her shoulder. “Didn’t mean to make assumptions.”

Sirius huffs. “Well, you did.” He nibbles at his lower lip for a moment. “And you were right,” he hums dejectedly, right into his knees.

Her long-clawed hand settles on his shoulder. “Hey, don’t be upset, man. It’s in my blood. Or — not really. I don’t know where the hell my blood came from. But I have two moms. When I’m not at school I live in one of the gayest neighborhoods ever. I could just… tell. You’re fine.”

Sirius curls his fingers around his ankles. He’s embarrassed, but he’s not quite sure why. Winnie figured it out before he did himself. Had others suspected? He’s not ashamed, necessarily. He just feels like he’s one step behind. And shouldn’t he be the most reliable source on himself, know Sirius Black better than anyone else? I don’t even know who you are anymore, his mother had glacially said to him at the start of the summer before sixth year. Damn right you don’t, Sirius had shot back. But does he? “Where?” he mumbles. He forlornly forgets how they’d reached this topic.

“Where what?”

“Where do you live?”

“Oh. The Castro. In San Francisco.”

He lifts his head, brows rising. “Really?”

Winnie pats his shoulder once more before withdrawing her hand. “Yup.”

Sirius gawps. “That’s… sick. What’s it like?”

Winnie snorts. “What happened to Lupin?” When Sirius’ face flushes, Winnie nudges him with her shoulder. “Another time, Black.”

“Yeah, alright.” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “There’s not much to it. I told Remus I liked Jules, asked him if he’d thought about buggering blokes before, said he had, there was that party, I was — I was riling him up, and he, he was bloody infuriating, but he was also so fit, and then we…” He smiles wantonly. “Naturally, I bollocksed it up.” Winnie waits, so he looks at her. “And I told him that we should never tell anyone about it. That it was a one-time thing. And now we’re fine, we’re normal… I think. I just can’t look at him too long or be alone with him for too long, or else I get all sweaty and start thinking only in what-ifs and then end up running out the room like a madman.”

Winnie chuckles. “So you like a dude you’ve already hooked up with?” She shakes her head. “This shouldn’t be a problem, Black.”

Sirius scratches at the bare skin of his ankle, runs his fingers through the coarse, dark hair there. “I don’t like him,” he counters. “Or I do, and… no. I don’t.” He lifts his hands to matt his fringe down in front of his eyes, hide behind it, and press the heels of his hands into his eye sockets. With Jules, it’s easy. Sirius barely knows him. He probably never truly will. “There’s just… too… much. It’d be too much. Everything would change. Everything is already going to change. We’re graduating. There’s a war.”

“For someone who left his bigot-ass family and volunteered himself for the biggest wizarding event since the Quidditch world cup, you’re very resistant to change.”

Sirius glances toward Winnie, who’s giving him another clap to the shoulder and getting to her feet. He feels the gentle graze of her long nails on his skin. “You read the Prophet article, huh?” Her answering silence has Sirius slumping against the wall. “What can I say,” he murmurs, huffing out a snort, “I like things as they are.” Leaving his family behind had turned Sirius’ life on its end, but not much else. It had meant carving out a little hole for himself in the patchwork of the Potter family, too, but he’d already spent his summers there. It wasn’t much more to ask of James, Effie, and Fleamont than he was already, though he felt guilty enough accepting their hospitality and kindness. And entering the Triwizard Tournament? Well, that’d been all him. It would be Sirius completing the tasks, dealing with and basking in the attention. This change that Winnie speaks of… it’s territory Sirius doesn’t feel authorized to enter. It doesn’t belong solely to him.

“There’s no rush, Black. If you can’t decide whether or not you like him, that’s okay. You don’t have to know yet. Or ever. Clearly, he liked you enough to — do whatever with you, so if you get over yourself and decide the gates of Hell won’t open up beneath your feet 'cos you like your friend, then that’s good. But you also can’t be mad, at him or at anyone, if he doesn’t wait for you.” She pulls her knee socks higher up her legs expertly despite her nails. “He’s cute. He’s my type. I could swoop in and you couldn’t be mad.” She raises her eyebrows innocently. Gazing up at her, Sirius feels rather like James’ Quidditch uniform after a rainy practice, soaked and tossed carelessly onto the floor without hope of being cleared away for at least a week. “Get up and help me find the first floor.”

Sirius clambers onto his feet begrudgingly, because she’s right. Of course she’s right. They’re halfway down the hall, tiptoeing, when he whispers, “Remus is your type?”

“The tall, bedheaded, quietly mysterious, looks-like-he-hasn’t-slept-for-days type?” Winnie frowns, nodding. “Yeah.”

“The bedhead is my thing,” Sirius insists.

“Oh, please. Claiming you don’t use any hair potions would be a bald-faced lie, Black. There’s a huge difference between a manufactured bedhead and a natural one.”

Sirius thinks that’s unfair. “I can’t keep it this long and not use potions. I’d look like Snivellus.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” A pause. “If you like bedheads, why aren’t you into James?”

“James Potter? He’s just a guy who won’t be mature ’til he’s got grandkids. And he clearly carries a torch for that Lily.”

Sirius steers her around the corner and onto the stairs. “That’s why you like me, then, right? For my unrivaled maturity?”

Winnie sighs long-sufferingly. “You, Sirius Black, are the lesser of two evils.”

“That is what they call me.”

***

November the twenty-second arrives so fast it tramples on Sirius’ heels and barrels right over him.

It’s early and as bright as can be through a thick, gray cloud cover on a Saturday morning. Sirius had awoken to a neatly-folded pile of clothes at the foot of his bed. Remus had already been awake though still in bed, sitting upright and staring out the window. When Sirius had shifted, rubbing his hair from his face, Remus had turned toward him, pointed to the pile. “A house-elf brought that. Said you were to wear it.”

This is how Sirius finds himself in the Great Hall, wearing what looks like an off-brand Adidas tracksuit. His is red, presumably for Gryffindor. Jules’ is white and Winnie’s is turquoise. He stands on the platform before the High Table, the room abuzz with gossiping, giddy students despite the early hour. A few feet from the three of them is a table on which sit three baskets of various shapes and sizes. Sirius balks at them. Jules nudges him in the side.

“They won’t eat you, Sirius,” he murmurs, which has Sirius rolling his eyes. But he’d believe it. Man-eating baskets? Muggles could be advancing at unprecedented speeds and he’d have little idea.

A hush falls over the room when Dumbledore extracts himself from his, Maxime’s, and Cassady’s huddle, shooting the tip of his wand toward the faraway ceiling. The force of the magic ruffles everyone’s hair with a soft-blowing wind, and as the emitted sparks fall, twinkling and percolating slowly toward the floor, above the heads of the champions appear three of what Sirius could only describe as mirages. It’s like looking into a Pensieve, seeing the a room from an outsider’s angle, but there’s three, there’s three hazy-edged Pensieves for all the Great Hall to see, three respective images of dense, green forests. A butterfly flits past in one of the mirages. Leaves rustle in a silent breeze. Sirius stares directly upward, hair falling back from his face. The land of fen.

“Champions, please step forward,” booms Dumbledore, wand pointed at his throat. As they do, Dumbledore spins, robes swirling, to face their audience.

“Go get ‘em, Black!” an anonymous voice cries from the direction of the Hufflepuff table. It isn’t difficult for Sirius to smile that time and pump his fist into the air.

“Before embarking on the day-long journey that is the first task of the Triwizard Tournament, our champions will be given the opportunity to choose a confidant, the only witch or wizard they shall consult over the course of the next twenty-four hours. Should you be chosen, please approach the High Table and stand beside your champion.” Sirius’ eyes dart to Winnie. She’s not looking at him. “Winifred Reid,” says Dumbledore, “who will you choose?”

“Mayra Valdez,” Winnie tells the hall, and an eager brunette leaps up from amongst the Ilvermorny students, quick to join her side.

Jules, unsurprisingly, calls upon the counsel of Juliette Verlaine. She gives Sirius a placid smile as she ascends the platform.

“Sirius Black,” Dumbledore enunciates. Sirius swears the hard ‘k’ echoes from the back of the room to its very entrance. He even sees the flecks of spit fly.

For the past two minutes, Sirius has had his eyes trained on the Gryffindor table. James had insisted upon arriving early to breakfast for possibly the first time since they’d started at Hogwarts simply so the trio could reserve the sought-after spots at the head of the table. Though he’s well aware of the stretching silence since Dumbledore had called his name, he doesn’t make an instant decision, not like Winnie, who’d probably discussed this with her boo far in advance, nor Jules, whose preternatural twin bond had probably rendered his decision a cakewalk. Sirius looks first at James. James is his first instinct. Always. He should’ve tabled this with his friends long ago instead of seesawing through an internal debate for over a week. There’s no turning back time now, of course.

James’ gaze is dependable and uncharacteristically steady. He smiles at Sirius, and his lips are already forming the word, his name, tongue at the roof of his mouth for the J when James shakes his head minutely. Sirius’ lips part uselessly, wordlessly, and James’ head tilts toward Remus across the table from him. Remus, who’s fussing with his hands, probably picking at a hangnail or a scab rather than giving Dumbledore his rapt time of day. Sirius swallows his heart back down into his chest.

“Remus Lupin,” he tells Dumbledore. Or the room, rather.

James gives Sirius a sharp nod. Peter starts to clap before realizing it’s not an occasion for applause. At the sound of his name, Remus looks up in a daze. All eyes are on him, for which Sirius feels marginally apologetic, but Remus is on his feet and sauntering up to Sirius’ side before someone can awkwardly cough or a tumbleweed can roll down the aisle.

“What have you done,” mutters Remus from the corner of his mouth once he’s standing beside Sirius. Sirius gazes straight ahead at Dumbledore, and as he puts his hands on his hips, his elbow nudges Remus in the side.

“I’ve made the right decision.”

“These are Ooroaches,” Dumbledore states. Professor Kettleburn, having risen from the High Table, advances toward Remus first, his good hand cupped and squirming with something pearly and white. “Once mated, they develop incredibly strong aural connections, and as pairs will have the capability of communicating across long distances what one roach hears to the other, and vice versa.” Sirius has to stifle a chuckle as Kettleburn places what looks like an oversized maggot into Remus’ ear, but it’s his turn next.

By the time Winnie receives her roach, Sirius isn’t sure if it’s a good sign he can no longer feel his own Oooroach or if it’s crawled down his ear canal to his brain to lay eggs. He’s desperate, suddenly, to speak to Remus, but the whole room is silent for the proceedings.

Dumbledore then dismisses Remus, Juliette, and Mayra. “Counsels, if you’d please follow Professor McGonagall into the back chamber.”

Remus says nothing as he turns and leaves. Sirius supposes it serves him right. When Dumbledore hands him one of the wicker baskets, it nearly slips from his clammy fingers.

“Champions, your task is to find safety. You should find that trustworthiness will help you immensely. Let the first challenge begin,” barks Dumbledore, and as if on command, Winnie, clutching fast to her basket, is warped into nothingness. Sirius’ eyes flicker down to his own basket. Portkey. Murmurs arise throughout the Great Hall until they’re all enraptured by something above Sirius’ head. He whips around in search of their attentions’ captor. It’s Winnie, having appeared in the first of the Pensieve-like mirages. She collapses with a soundless Oof into the grass, basket cradled to her chest, and just like that, Jules twists into the void, too. Sirius is the next to go — stomach first, it feels like.

The forest comes into view just as the vertigo hits Sirius, and he flops from at least three feet above the ground onto his stomach. As he opens his eyes a crack, he finds his basket’s landed several feet away, and while his chest rests comfortably against a patch of moss, his pelvis has hit a rock rather painfully. He groans as he rolls onto his back, pictures Winnie briskly picking herself off the ground, Jules dusting the moss from his stupidly white tracksuit. Sirius can’t be arsed to rise yet. He’s got twenty-four hours, hasn’t he?

Laying out on his back isn’t a mistake, though. The trees around him, many thin and white-barked, wind all the way toward the sky, where the canopy is faraway, sunlight peeking through in gentle, hazy tones of yellow. It’s the purest silence he’s ever heard. Or never heard? A bird flits by, cawing. Then the silence resumes.

“Wow,” Sirius murmurs, just so he can hear it fall flat, fail to echo in the dense wood. He smiles to himself.

“What is it?” asks a distinctly-Remus-like voice from beside him. Sirius lurches away from the sound, but there’s no one there, not a soul. Just a rather ugly-looking beetle. Then Sirius recalls the roach in his ear. Lovely. 

“Moony?” he breathes, floundering his way onto his feet. He turns in a circle once, just to reassure himself that Remus isn’t there, and meanders toward his basket.

Remus’ reply is prompt. “Yes?” There’s a brief pause, and then in his soft, scratchy voice, “Are you in danger yet?”

Biting back a smile, Sirius swipes up his basket. “No. I’m in a bloody fairytale forest, minus the fairies.” He shakes his head, breathing in. Dampness, a fresh rain, pine needles. “It’s just bizarre, hearing you and not seeing you.”

“This whole competition is bizarre. There’s an insect in my ear. We’ve got mated insects in our ears.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Sirius simpers, leaning against a tree. “I don’t mean to be off-topic, Moony, but you’re my counsel, so — what should I be doing?”

“What? How should I know?”

“Well, the task’s to get to safety, or so said Dumbledore.” Sirius looks about, frowning. “I’m in the middle of the woods. Should I build a teepee out of sticks? Dig a hole with my bare hands and curl up in it?”

“Muggles,” Remus reminds him. “The challenge is about Muggles. I think that means you ought to find a Muggle.”

“Shame. I think I’d be excellent at erecting teepees.”

“Sirius.”

“Yes, dear?”

“Go find a Muggle.”

“Easier said than done. There’s about three hundred and sixty different directions I could go in. Should I move in the direction the moss grows? Isn’t that a wilderness rule?” Sirius examines the tree he’s leaned up against and frowns. “It grows all over, Moony.”

“Just pick one direction and try to keep a straight path. You’re bound to hit water or civilization at some point.”

“Unless it’s the wrong direction and you’re leading me completely astray. Some counsel you are.” Still, Sirius chooses the direction he thinks looks greenest, before realizing they’re all equally green. No second-guessing, he tells himself, and trudges onward through the trees, swinging his basket about as if he’s Little Red Riding Hood. And he is, isn’t he? He tugs his red tracksuit hood over his head, suddenly grinning like mad, and he starts to say, “Hey, Moony, you should see me now — can you see me? Or can you only hear me? I’m Red fucking Riding Hood, and you know what’s just perfect? You’re the Big Bad —“

“I ought to remind you if I’m shit counsel, it’s your own fucking fault.” A sigh, right into Sirius’ ear, but without the breathy heat he half wishes he could feel. “Why did you pick me, Sirius? The moment Dumbledore asked the question, I was so sure it’d be James.”

Sirius worries his lower lip through his teeth. “What does James know about Muggles, Moony? On a scale of one to ten, he knows just about negative... negative however old Dumbledore is. And you’re just as quick a thinker. And… well. I wouldn’t mind talking to you for a full day, though I didn’t really stop to consider your unfortunate end of the bargain.”

Remus just breathes for a while, and Sirius is fine with it. His eyes wander the terrain beneath his feet, determining where it’d be most stable to step next. Then, Remus chuckles, quiet. “Have you really got your red hood on?”

Sirius smiles. “You can’t see me?”

“No. They’ve got me sequestered in the chamber behind the Great Hall.”

“Are you —”

“I’m stuck here until the challenge is over.”

“Oh, goddammit.” Sirius laughs contritely. “That’s on me. I’m sorry.”

“McGonagall said meals would be brought to us. It could be worse.”

“Being waited on by McGonagall, are you? Sounds like a dream I once had.”

“Was it dirty?”

“No. I woke up before she was able to drizzle the melted chocolate onto my supple, supine body. She’d managed to tie me up and gag me, but we never quite got around to getting the raspberries onto my nipples.”

“I really hope no one in the Great Hall can read lips.”

***

Sirius has been on foot for two hours, no water or humanity in sight. Remus has been welcome company, not to mention he’d probably saved Sirius’ life when in a spell of hungry boredom he’d nearly eaten some attractive red berries only for Remus to identify them by description as poisonous.

Stopping in his tracks, Sirius throws down his basket, allows his head to loll back on his neck. “You have no idea how much I’d love to transform right now.”

“That’d be some way to blow your illegal Animagus cover. I bet Lisbeth Lyre is watching. She’d get a kick out of that.”

“Sod off. You’d like it here, too… wherever I am. Spending a full moon here would be ace. The moss is soft. There’s all this strange undergrowth. New smells. Haven’t seen any animals other than a snake, but — oh, shit.”

Just a stone’s throw away from Sirius is a woman. She’s plump, in red wellies that match the horizontal stripes on her shirt, and she’s got hooked over her elbow a basket rather similar to Sirius’, though larger and filled with golden-yellow mushrooms. On her head is a pink bucket hat, which Sirius has a bird’s eye view of as she crouches down to pluck another few mushrooms from the damp earth. As she rises to her full height, Sirius sees that her hair is a brittle black, but based on her soft jowls and lined skin, it’s been dyed. She jumps at the sight of him, small eyes going wide and golden mushrooms careening over the rim of her basket and onto the ground below.

“Sirius?” Remus asks, voice thick with tension. All Sirius can do is hiss Shush and scamper over to the woman to help gather the mushrooms back into her basket.

“Jessus sentään, pelästytit minut,” says the old woman, who observes Sirius’ frantic mushroom gathering from above. Sirius wishes suddenly for the gift of telepathy, because despite the roach in his head, the panicked voice in his brain screaming Remus, what the hell is she saying? isn’t of any help.

“That’s… unusual,” mumbles Remus.

Sirius straightens up. He thinks he’s gotten all the mushrooms. The woman is watching him curiously. “Those are some odd ‘shrooms, ma’am,” he mutters, then smiles faintly and carefully lifts his palms as a show of surrender. “I’m sorry, but I only speak English… et le français, e italiano, e español… si putina Romana.”

Remus whispers, “Showoff.”

The woman hesitates. “I am sorry to tell you my English is not very good,” she then reticently replies, and Sirius feels himself relax a bit, even if her accent is stilted and hard.

“Ask her where you are,” Remus demands. Not yet.

Sirius smiles, nods to the basket. “Well, I’m sorry about your mushrooms.”

She looks as if she wants to respond, but can’t quite find the words to express her thoughts. “You are picking as well?” Her w’s are v’s. Picking what? Sirius follows her gaze to his discarded basket. Picking? Picking. Yeah, sure. He bounds over to the basket, leaps over thick, knotty tree roots, picks it up, and shrugs as he returns to her side.

“Not with much success,” Sirius explains, inverting his basket to exhibit its emptiness. “And I’m very lost.”

“Tell her your mother deserted you on the side of the road and drove away,” Remus nags, and Sirius is so close to laughing that it’s a miracle he doesn’t. He clears his throat.

“My mother — er, my mother got quite cross with me. Threw me out of the auto — the car and drove off. I’ve just been wandering since.” Sirius rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet to appear the picture of innocence, but the forest floor isn’t quite so even, so when he stumbles, the old woman has to catch onto his arm to keep him upright.

“Nice,” whispers Remus.

“You poor boy,” she says pityingly, rolled r’s and all, then replaces Sirius’ basket with her own, taking the empty one for herself and turning away. “You must come. Hungry, yes?” She pulls a small compass from her pocket, eyes it, and then proceeds to trek off.

Sirius’ eyes widen. “Yes, hungry, yes,” he says swiftly, following closely on her heels.

The lady doesn’t say much of anything after that, and bends down occasionally to uproot more mushrooms to place into Sirius’ basket, slowly filling it to its brim. He yearns to talk to Remus, but muttering to himself wouldn’t be putting his best foot forward, but his insane foot. Remus’ even breathing steadies him.

Sirius isn’t sure how long it’s been once he and the woman set foot on a dirt road. When Sirius attempts to cross, she presses a hand to his chest to hold him back, looks both ways twice, then hobbles along. It’s so serene that Sirius thinks he could identify the mechanical huffing and puffing of a Muggle car from a mile away.

They descend a precarious hill along a footpath carved out only by years of walking. Sirius is surprised to find himself fighting with all sorts of canine instincts as he looks about — towering evergreens, shrubs low to the ground and blooming with tiny, near-black blueberries, a red, ramshackle cabin at the foot of the hill, edging onto water, a small body of it, shining silvery under the partly-cloudy sky. The water is near still, only burbling softly against the stony beach between overgrown cattails.

“This is beautiful,” Sirius says quietly. The woman’s hearing has proven to be poor — the first exhibit having been when Sirius had gotten his foot entangled in a root and plummeted straight to the ground without even drawing a reaction from her — but she looks over her shoulder at him as they get closer to the steps of the cabin, her pink-lipsticked smile genuine.

“I wish I could see,” says Remus.

Sirius follows her up creaky, wooden steps onto a porch that wraps around the cabin. The porch is painted a peeling green, the cabin a rustic brick red, and he can’t help but smile at the potted flowers. 

Because she removes her wellies at the door, Sirius kicks off his shoes, too, and follows her through a wobbly door into the cottage. It’s exposed wood all over, full of mismatched furniture, children’s toys piled up on a sofa pushed up against the far wall. There’s a basket by his feet that’s overflowing with bundles of knitted socks.

“What the hell,” he mutters under his breath, “Remus, I want to live here.”

“Sorry?” asks the woman as she takes Sirius’ basket from him, walking both into a cramped kitchen area. There’s a cuckoo clock on the wall that doesn’t quite look like it works, hung ceramic plates painted with various flora.

“Oh, nothing,” sings Sirius. Remus chuckles in his ear.

Still staring at the dusty nicknacks, Sirius is taken by surprise when the woman approaches him again, this time shoving a red vat of water into his chest. Some of it sloshes over, soaking his tracksuit, and it’s heavy as he accepts the load. There’s a bristly brush floating in the water amongst numerous dirty potatoes.

“Clean,” she says curtly and points at the door with a bony finger.

“What?” Sirius breathes, frowning at the grimy spuds.

“Clean what?” asks Remus.

“Potatoes,” murmurs Sirius.

“What?” laughs Remus.

“Yes,” says the woman enthusiastically, turning Sirius around by the shoulders to urge him toward the door. Sirius gives her a panicked look over his shoulder, but she only smiles encouragingly before retreating back to the kitchen.

Once he’s outside, Sirius sets the vat of potatoes onto the porch floor. “Moony, she wants me to clean potatoes,” he hisses. “They look like they’ve just been dug up from the ground.”

“It’s possible they have. Where are you?”

Sirius surveys his surroundings — he can see the woman puttering away in her tiny kitchen through the front window — and lowers himself to sit on the porch floor. “I’m at her cabin.” He looks out through the porch railings at the sparkling, gray water. Across the lake, bordering the shore, are other small, wooden cabins peeking through the surrounding trees. There are small boats docked along the shore. The woman has got one, too, but it’s upended, drifting lazily on the water, looking like it’s not been used for years. “It’s on the water.”

“Water. Woods. Okay. She sounded… How do I put this? Scandinavian?” Sirius wishes he could see Remus. He loves it, loves seeing his eyes, yellowy-ambery-green, dart about while he thinks. “Are you cleaning the potatoes?”

“No, I’m not cleaning the bloody potatoes,” Sirius mutters. He pokes at one of them. It bobs in the water.

“Clean the goddamn potatoes, Sirius.”

“I don’t —”

“What? Did you think they popped out of the ground seasoned and mashed and buttered?”

Sirius scowls, picking one up. “Well, no. The house-elves would —“

“You’re telling me, Sirius, that when you leave Hogwarts, you’re going to get a house-elf of your very own —”

“No!” he spits. “Of course not. I’d use magic. We’re wizards.” He turns the potato over, warily eyeing its ugly spots. “What do I do?”

“Did she give you a brush? Just scrub at it ’til you can see the yellow all over.”

Sirius tries. “This is hard.”

“You’d never be let in the door of the Lupin household with that attitude.”

A short time later, the woman comes out to find Sirius on the last potato, grumbling to himself. His fingernails are brown and crusty with potato grit. “Strong boy!” she praises and picks up the vat. Holding it to her chest, she gestures at a broom leaned up against the outside wall. “Clean,” she instructs, then retires into the cabin again.

Sirius can practically hear Remus grin. “What’re you cleaning this time?”

He curls his fingers around the broom, tempted to test if it’d fly. But then he eyes the pine needles and dirt on the porch floor.

Sirius is ushered into the cabin once the porch has been swept. He’s shoved toward the sink presumably to wash his hands, and only then does the richness of the smell wafting through the room hit him. The hot water from the faucet scalds his pruned-up hands as he rubs soap into them, eyes drifting to the creamy mushroom mixture on the stovetop, the pot full of boiled potatoes.

He’s sat at the rickety table with a gingham napkin spread across his lap as the woman places a plate piled high with buttered potatoes garnished with dill and that indulgent mushroom stew.

“Thank you,” says the woman with a hard 't'. Sirius smiles around his mouthful.

“Where are we, if you don’t mind me asking?”

The woman smiles, cuts at her potatoes with an actual knife. “Parainen.”

Sirius blanches, gathers the last of the gravy onto the prongs of his fork. Would it be crude to lick the plate clean? “Where?”

“Parainen.” The woman has Sirius’ basket from earlier now in hand, and she presses it into his grip. “Suomi. Finland.”

Remus lets out a brilliant laugh in his ear. “Finland! Fen land! The land of fen!”

Sirius doesn’t have the time to wipe his mouth with his napkin, as three seconds after handling the basket, he’s warped into the stomach-clenching, skin-stretching, mind-numbing tube of Portkey travel.

***

“I’m this close to vomming my guts out,” Sirius wheezes. The landing isn’t as cushy as the first. It’s concrete, actually, that bruises Sirius’ hipbones. He opens his eyes carefully, grimaces as he fully comes to, smacked in the face by the smell of piss and rubbish. He’s in a dingy, gray alley between two brick buildings. Sirius scrambles to his feet, though his joints complain about it.

Remus pipes up, “If you’d just eaten a bit slower in case of spontaneous Portkey travel…”

Sirius snorts, frowns at the scrapes on the heels of his hands, but it’s only a bit of blood. “As if you saw that coming.” He sighs. “Just when I was beginning to enjoy myself.”

“I’ve heard that’s what these challenges are all about. Enjoying yourself.”

Sirius leans against the brick wall, still catching his breath, waiting for his heart rate to even out as he chokes on a laugh. “God, fuck you, Moony.”

Remus is silent. Then, “Scoped out your surroundings yet? Where are you?”

Sirius’ gaze drifts toward the end of the alley not stuffed with rubbish bins and old, rat-infested sofas. He squints. The sun’s begun to set, but it’s light out enough to make out the multitude of passersby, the gridlock of Muggle cars beyond them in the street. “Some city.”

Brushing himself off, feeling rather ridiculous in his tracksuit, Sirius strides out of the alley and onto the sidewalk where he’s swept up in the current of moving people. English is what he hears all around him. Blessed English.

“Sounds American,” Remus muses.

Sirius nods though Remus can’t see. The buildings around him are tall and the clouds hang low. It only strengthens the effect of the buildings’ heights, as if they’re ascending up to where only birds fly. “There’s all these… lights.” Sirius trips forth when someone pushes past him with haste. “Everything’s so fast. Ooh, Live Burlesk. Land of the Dirty Dancers.”

“Sirius.”

“Fine.”

He wanders, moves with the flow of the people. The Americans. It becomes immensely clear to him, from eavesdropping and reading the street signs, the names of the delicatessens, that he must be in none other than New York City.

“I’m in New York, Remus,” he says. He can talk to himself without worry, too. He’s passed several strangers who’d been doing the same, albeit with a crazed edge to their eyes.

“That’s… well. That’s mad.”

“I’m in New York.” Sirius laughs, takes an arbitrarily chosen right turn to get off the busy street, hands in his pockets. “No wonder I was ready to vom. International fucking Portkey, mate.”

“Unless it’s some sort of magical illusion. Finland in November? Sirius, it’d be covered in a foot of snow.”

Sirius blinks, then shrugs. “Maybe my good friend woman-in-red-wellies lied to me.” Footsteps slow, he makes his way down the sidewalk. “What do you suppose I do now?”

“Same as before, I reckon. Find a Muggle.”

“There’s Muggles everywhere, Moony!”

“Find someplace safe, then. You told me that’s what Dumbledore said.”

“There’s people laying out in the street all around here. Just what constitutes safety?”

Remus sighs. “Did he say anything else, Dumbledore? You’re not giving me much to off here.”

While Sirius ponders, he passes a man in a black coat whose beady eyes don’t leave Sirius’ face once, not until he’s passed him by completely. Unsettled, Sirius frowns and walks a tad faster. “Something about trust, I don’t know. Does anyone have the patience to wade through the riddles he speaks in?” He swallows thickly. “There are creeps out here, Moony.”

“Trust…” Remus hums.

Sirius slows upon reaching a slightly too-clean window. His own reflection staring back at him has him gasping aloud. “Remus, I look a right mess,” he whispers frantically. There’s a pine needle in his hair. Sirius plucks it out, smooths at the tresses. Giving himself a scan, he notices his red-clad knees are grass-stained.

“That’s the least of your problems right now.”

There’s movement behind the glass, and then the noise of a tinkling, little bell as the door beside the window opens. A young, blonde woman with a flattish nose wearing a dirndl pokes her head out. “Are you coming in or what?” she asks him, voice betraying an utterly American accent. 

“Are they talking to you?” Remus mutters.

“Sorry?” Sirius says in bemusement.

“You’ve been staring in our window. Thought I might suggest you come in, if that is what you’re meaning to do.”

Sirius, still feeling poleaxed, fishmouthes for a good moment.

“Bloody hell, Sirius, just go in,” Remus urges. “What’s the worst that can happen.” Briefly, Sirius mulls over this. Er, murder? Muggles have strange weapons whose gory aftereffects make death by the Killing Curse seem tame. But Sirius still steps forward hesitantly. The woman opens the door wider for him and he squeezes past her reluctantly.

He descends a few stairs into a warmly-lit bar. The walls are painted with rolling, green hills and blue skies, and behind the golden-wooded bar itself are bottles upon bottles of alcohol. Lederhosen of varying shape and size decoratively line the wall across from the bar. Everything, absolutely everything, is labeled in German.

“What’ll it be, then?” inquires the blonde, who winds her way past Sirius and behind the bar. He stands there, likely looking daft, for longer than he’d like.

“I’m… still in New York, yeah?” he murmurs, holding his palms flat. She laughs, husky and loud.

“Yes. Did you fall and hit your head?” She picks up a pint glass, proceeds to fill it from the tap. Sirius has never felt thirstier.

“Something like that,” he answers, leaning up against the bar. “That for me?”

She gives him that condescending look again, the same one she had when she’d asked if he’d cracked his bloody noggin on the ground, but she slides the glass over to him anyway.

The conversation with Heidi, as it turns out, flows easily. Again, to avoid conveying signs of lunacy, Remus is left to banter with only himself.

She dissects his origins, first and foremost. Sirius makes the mistake of telling Heidi he’d just flown across the ocean before recalling that Muggles do have flying contraptions, like the berserk one in which the Ilvermorny students had arrived at Hogwarts. She’s friendly, only two years older than he is, and over a sampler of German beer she tells him about the university she’s attending, one with a very generic name for being in New York. New York University. Sirius tells her it’s not original enough, that it should have some sort of animal in its name, perhaps combined with one of a variety of skin infections, and then she laughs herself silly at the thought of enrolling at a school called Slugstye, particularly when she shows Sirius her jumper branded with NYU. Had he been better with wandless magic, he would’ve transfigured her one on the spot right then reading Slugstye across the chest.

She’s sweet, Sirius decides. When an equally blonde but much taller man enters the bar with another jingle of the bell, unwinding a tartan scarf from around his strong neck, Heidi introduces him as her older brother, Conrad. Conrad is twenty-eight and owns the bar. He winks at Sirius, kisses Heidi on the cheek, and disappears through a door behind the bar after a promise that he’ll be down in time for the evening rush. Heidi tells Sirius they live in the apartment above the bar.

Sirius then reveals he hasn’t got a place to stay for the evening. Why the hell not? asks Heidi, and upon Remus’ suggestion, his first words in bordering on an hour, he spews at her some nonsense about how he’d booked his room at the inn mistakenly for the following evening. Hotel, he corrects when Heidi questions his unusual verbiage, and it’s with a warm smile — the freckles across her nose in the same pattern as the pinpricks of warmth Sirius feels in odd places in the pit of his stomach, the same ones Conrad had had, too — that she offers for him to spend the night. Sirius accepts with grace. Heidi then insists that Sirius try her favorite whiskey. His fingers clasp the tumbler, he brings it to his lips, and everything goes redblackbluegreen as he’s wrenched by his innards from the comfort of the cushioned barstool into a time warp.

***

“I really think I might sick up this time.” Sirius crouches on the dry ground, palms pressed to it, chest heaving as he squints downward. He’s half-drunk on Heidi’s beer, all of it sloshing around in his stomach, and the best decision he’s made all day is to then have a piss. “If the whole Hall sees my dick, so be it.” He tugs down his trousers, leans an elbow against chainlink fence, sighing deeply, and he hasn’t taken stock of his surroundings quite yet, so the Muggle car that rolls by — honking loud enough to scare into flight all the grazing birds on the yellowing patch of grass where Sirius idles — gives him a fucking fright.

“I’ve figured it out, in case you’re interested,” murmurs Remus.

Sirius flips the bird at the car though it’s long gone and tugs up his trackie bottoms. “Hm?” He rubs his fingers into his temples. He could really use a cigarette.

“The challenge. I’ve figured it out.” Remus waits, in all likelihood to give Sirius another chance to space out and ask him to repeat himself once more, but he’s on the ball that time. “Finding safety with the help of Muggles. Trust. Whenever you gain the trust of a Muggle, that’s when you’re transported. That — that Finnish woman, once you’d done some tidying up for her, she fed you, she trusted you. And you befriended the — barmaid? I wasn’t quite sure what was going on. But she trusted you enough to invite you to stay the night. And again, that’s when you… well.”

“Right.” Sirius should praise Remus for his unfailing cleverness, but, again, he’s half-drunk and he’s bloody exhausted. It’s nearing dusk. His hands are on his hips and he turns in a circle. Another car zooms past. He’s on a strange tract of dead grass, surrounded on all sides by paved road, the only barrier between being the metal fence he’d just pissed on. The sun is on the verge of dropping below the horizon, a strange, apocalyptically greenish-orange color. Sirius frowns at it, listens to Remus breathe.

It’s not desolate, though, this patch. Thumbs in the pockets of his bottoms, Sirius traipses closer to a stained, olive-green tent that’s been pitched square in the center. Parked beside it is a fantastically glorious machine, shiny with lacquered black and chrome, with thundering, thick wheels. The motorbike, unlike the neighboring tent, hasn’t a scratch nor a fleck of mud on it. Stepping around a burnt-out campfire, Sirius squats down beside it to marvel at it, eyes tracing a line starting at the tailpipes.

From between the flaps of the tent surges a bedraggled man. The eerie sunset light glints off the knife he’s holding, and Sirius must have squawked or screamed or something, because Remus is yelling, “Sirius? What’s happened? Sirius, talk to me, what’s going on?”

The man’s tackled Sirius to the dusty grass, both his free hand and the side of the blade pressed to Sirius’ neck. He reeks of the long, unwashed hair that dangles into Sirius’ eyes and grimy sweat, and his teeth are edged with brown as he hoarsely seethes and spits down at Sirius, “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I was just looking! I swear! I — fuck.” He strains to drag in a breath through his crushed windpipe, but he doesn’t dare move. His face twitches as he feels drops of pungent spit hit his skin. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’ve got no idea what the fuck’s happening either! It’s just a beautiful bike, mate, please, I come in peace!”

“Oh, fuck,” whimpers Remus. Sirius pictures him biting his nails.

The man removes his hand from Sirius’ throat, but the cool knife stays. With critical eyes, he scans Sirius’ face. “What the — where did you come from, boy?” he demands.

Sirius feels tears at the corners of his eyes. “I — I was just walking,” he whispers, shakes his head though it doesn’t do anything but jar his dizzy vision. “I mean — England. My parents threw me out. I’m alone, I’m unarmed — should I try anything, you could kill me so easily, mate, I swear.”

Sirius doesn’t expect for the weight of the knife to lift, to be able to swallow without worry of slicing his Adam’s apple. The man’s bony weight is gone. Sirius watches him get to his feet. “Unarmed? Got any booze on ya?” he mutters. “Sure smells like it.”

Sirius winces, sits up against his elbows. “No, sorry. I was, er. With a girl. She gave it to me.”

The man grunts, pockets his knife. “Suppose you’ve still got the face to be goin’ ‘round, charming booze outta girls. ‘f I did that, they’d arrest me.”

Sirius squints at him, at this man with rotting teeth and sporadic white hairs in his dark, unkempt mane and tattoos all up his over-sunned chest, his shirt ringed with stains at the armpits. “Yeah, no shit,” he says. Then his eyes go big. He expects a knife to the throat.

Only, the man cackles and drops to sit on the ground in front of his tent. He parts its flaps, reaches inside, comes out with a pack of cigarettes. Sirius sits up, careful to avoid knocking his elbow against the motorbike. “You’re alright, kid, even if you speak like the gold-encrusted crap of those rich shits staying over at the Beverly Wilshire.”

Sirius doesn’t know what that is. He watches as the man places a cigarette between his teeth, lights it with a match. “What’s that?”

“Right, you’re from outta town.” Sirius’ eyelids flutter a bit as he inhales the smoke the man puts out. “Hotel for rich motherfuckers.”

Sirius nods. His fingers curl around his ankles.

“Calm down,” Remus says then, quiet. “I can hear it in your breathing. I don’t think he’s gonna hurt you.” A pause. “Emphasis on think.”

Sirius nods again, this time for Remus, and swallows down his nerves. “This your bike, then?” The man tilts his head in a smoky nod. “She’s lovely.”

“Damn right. All I got left.”

Sirius arches a brow. “Yeah?”

“Had mi amigo hold it for me while I was in prison. S’all I had when I got out.”

Chewing on his lip, Sirius is shocked he doesn’t bite straight through it. “What’d you do time for?”

“Killed my wife and kids.” The man cackles again, wheezy and crow-eyed. “Nah, boy. A man I trusted did something. They got me as an accessory, but I didn’t do shit, boy.”

Sirius pouts mindlessly, eyes on the glowing metal of the bike. He sees in it the reflection of the glowing cherry on the man’s fag. “That’s rough, mate.”

“Yeah. My wife remarried, kids grew up and moved all over.” The man taps the ash off his cigarette. “What about you, kid? Said somethin' about your parents?”

Sirius shrugs. “Not much to it. They hate me, always have, ‘cos I’m not — racist like them. ‘Cos I don’t want to marry one of my cousins.”

Another cackle. “Good riddance.”

Sirius dares to look the man in the eye, smile faint. “You just ride around, then? Set up your tent wherever you’d like?”

“It’s not as luxurious as it sounds, kid. Can’t get no steady job with a record. Hell, my girl’s tank’s empty right now. Can’t buy no fucking gas.”

“Oh,” Sirius says dumbly.

“Do me a favor, boy. Get out there, do some work. Doing somethin’ good would be even better. Find yourself some friends, but be selective. Only the good ones, the ones that’ll have your back, not fools who’ll drag you down.”

Flexing his starry fingers, Sirius looks down at them, the sigil on his hand, and then at the tattoo peeking from the drooping collar of the man’s shirt. “Will do, sir.”

The man’s dark eyes assess him. “Want a smoke, boy?”

Sirius sighs, chuckles tonelessly. “Do I ever.”

It’s a pity he doesn’t even get to light the fag before he’s warped into sparks of color and darkness across the ocean.

***

Hands on Sirius’ cheeks, on his chest, shoulders. All outside his clothes — why not under? He’d so enjoy that. He emits a tired noise, somewhere between a whimper and a grunt, and opening his eyes to a dark sky, still starry, and to Remus’ face, means Sirius is perfectly content with just smiling and shutting them again. “Hello, Moony.”

“Really thought I’d lose you there in Los Angeles.” Sirius hums, eyes still shut. So that’s where he’d been. “No one else is back yet, Sirius,” Remus adds. He’s still close by. “You’re the first one. It’s only been twenty hours. There’s four left ’til nine o’clock.”

Sirius scrubs a hand across his eyes. He comes to realize that the starry sky is simply the ceiling of the Great Hall, and, thank Godric, he’s back at Hogwarts. He hauls himself up, and Remus helps him to his feet. Silently grateful for the steadying grip on his elbow, Sirius takes a gander at the Hall. It’s about half-empty. Most students are dead-asleep, either with their cheeks pressed to the tables, drool puddling against the wood, or are in blanket huddles on the floor. One of those drooling onto the table is James, whose glasses have been pushed up into his hair. Peter is blinking awake, just as a smattering of others are. They must have been disturbed by the sound of his arrival by Portkey.

“Good to see you, Mr. Black,” Dumbledore says appraisingly as he passes. “Welcome back.”

“Prongs, Prongs, Prongs, Prongs, he’s back,” Peter is whisper-yelling, rattling James awake. The soft laugh that Remus makes beside him is like honey. Heads lift. They stare at him, at Sirius.

“Holy shit, Black’s back!” someone yells, and Sirius’ lips pull at a grin. He leans his weight heavily into Remus’ side.

Up above, the floating Pensieve-like visions display Winnie and Jules. The third mirage is still present, a noiseless, moving image of the homeless man’s tent, his bike, a lit campfire now flickering against the backdrop of a dark night. Winnie navigates a gray street in New York. Jules trudges, appearing discontented, through the Finnish forest.

Without warning, Peter and James dogpile unto him, and if he hadn’t already amassed a motley of bruises from his Portkey falls, Sirius might have complained. Toppling to the floor once more at this point doesn’t make much of a difference.

“Oh, Pads,” James moans, clapping him heartily on his back. Peter crushes them both a bit, but the sentiment is appreciated. “Dozed off when you were bonding with that scruffy guy.” Through the fray of James’ hair, as he looks upward again, Sirius sees that Remus is there, arms across his chest, smiling down at them all. “Oh, mate, you’re back. Missed you."

"Yeah, you too. Does this mean someone can get the roach out of my ear?" pleads Sirius.

James rolls off him, eyeing the platform, empty but for the four friends. "More importantly, does this mean you won?”

Chapter Text

Sirius places first in the task. Winnie’s final Portkey zaps her back to Hogwarts a half hour before the time allotment is up, and Jules Verlaine is brought back on the twenty-four hour mark, having failed to ever leave Finland after storming out at the request to clean potatoes. According to Peter, most of Hogwarts and the visiting students hadn’t left the Great Hall once but to go to the loo or to retrieve their blankets and pillows for what later that night had become an inter-house sleepover to see the task to its end.

Everyone is in a celebratory mode. Sirius is in high spirits, too. Remus suspects that it’s hunger and adrenaline fueling him through breakfast after the completion of the challenge, as he simultaneously scarfs down helping after helping of food and holds court with Hogwarts students across all houses, though it’s mostly James he speaks to as he recounts in excruciating detail his past day. Notably missing from the horde of young Slytherins is Sirius’ brother, but Remus hopes him adequately distracted to not notice. He sits off to the side with Lily, grateful to have the Ooroach out of his ear, to have Sirius back safe and sound, to reconcile with himself that yes, Sirius is alive, despite having been at a raging man’s knifepoint not long ago, tethered to Remus only by sound, by his harsh breathing and his panicked words and Remus couldn’t in any way help.

He’s right about the adrenaline, too, because once the plates have vanished from the Great Hall’s tables and half his admirers have retreated to complete their Sunday studies, Sirius makes his way up to Gryffindor Tower and promptly passes out until the late evening. When he rolls out of bed, hair sleep-mussed, still wearing his stained tracksuit, James graciously breaks out Sirius’ birthday weed and they all smoke up. Remus doesn’t get to talk to Sirius much, but it’s just as well — Peter is still brimming with questions about the task and Sirius, now doped up, is more than happy to oblige.

Come Monday morning’s mail delivery at breakfast, upon the first signs of screeching and hooting owls, Remus grabs the pumpkin juice pitcher and hugs it to his chest. Across the table, Sirius is rolling his eyes at him until a soft package drops onto his head. He’s able to catch it before it gets in his runny eggs. Peter’s heavy Prophet — front page graced once again by Sirius’ mug, smiling but weary and breathtakingly handsome in a singular image of him post-return, blowing his black fringe from his face, alongside a wide shot of the three champions pre-departure — thuds onto the table.

“Oh, perfect,” Lily exclaims. She’s two down from Remus with Mary Macdonald in between. If Remus was given the chance to overanalyze, he’d say that since the outset of the year, Lily’s troupe of friends has migrated closer and closer from their end of the table toward the Marauders’ customary spot in the middle. When Remus looks her way, he instead meets the eyes of Mary, who gives him a few bats of her lashes and then looks deliberately downward. “Really perfect.” Lily undoes the twine that’s tying her Prophet together and unfolds it to have a good look at the front page. “More target material for my dartboard. Thanks, Black.”

Whilst Sirius only glances up at the mention of his name, context eluding him, James, shocker, had already been paying attention.

“I may’ve only been in your dorm once, Evans, but I must admit that I simply can’t recall seeing a dartboard. Funny,” James says, torn between smirking and frowning in thought. 

Marlene, half-asleep, twitches to life and glares at James, scandalized. She turns her wrath on Lily. “Please tell me Potty’s lying about having been in our dorm.” At this, Mary giggles. Her elbow nudges Remus in the ribs.

There’s an owl’s soft hoot and an identical package drops into James’ lap. Remus watches the large, regal owl depart. Sirius has been examining his own since he’d received it, and he unsticks the envelope that’s been taped on. He proceeds to read the note inside it aloud.

“Dearest Sirius — oh, how lovely — Fleamont and I are very proud of you for your triumphant first victory. While I am not surprised in the least, I thought it fitting to send you a token of my well wishes. I figured that dress robes would not be amongst the few belongings you took with you from your old home, and that a Triwizard champion ought to look a champion at the Yule Ball. I’ve sent James his own set as well. If he has plans to not attend the ball, or worse, to attend wearing an unwashed Quidditch uniform, you have my full permission to give him a good walloping. All my love, Effie.” Sirius folds up the note, grinning and biting the tip of his tongue as he turns to James.

James, flushed and frowning, stares dubiously at his own package, then snorts. “Well, bloody hell, mum, that was fast. Didn’t the Prophet only roll out the story this morning?”

Sirius laughs, starts to tear into the package. “What the fuck’s a Yule Ball?” he mutters.

“That woman — I swear mum must’ve bought these in advance. She probably had them tailored and everything. If you’d lost, she would’ve sent them anyway, but as a consolation gift,” James murmurs, watching Sirius perform slovenly surgery on his package, his own hugged up against his chest. Remus rests his chin on his hand, eyes also following Sirius’ fingers.

“What is a Yule Ball?” Peter asks.

Lily butts in, laying down her newspaper. “Aren’t you going to tell him, Potter?”

James flinches, looks toward her. “Tell him what?”

“What the Yule Ball is, obviously.”

“Why would you think I know?”

Lily’s green eyes roll. “It’s all Professors McGonagall, Sprout, and Alnair have been talking about for the past week.” She sighs, folds her arms over the table and sits up straighter. “It’s a massive winter soirée held on Christmas, always the same year as the tournament. From what I’ve heard, it’s brilliant. And what’s more is that it’s tradition for the champions and their dance partners to open the ball with a splendid waltz.” She’s smirking at Sirius, fingers laced together beneath her chin. “That should be fun to watch.”

Sirius throws her a look. “I’m an excellent dancer. Even my mother can’t refute that.”

Lily snorts. She looks at Remus, then, which he isn’t ready for, eyes going a bit wide, but then her attention is once again on Sirius and James. “I’ve heard talks of Celestina Warbeck being the musical guest. Professor McGonagall is trying her best to make it happen.”

Sirius, Remus, James, and Marlene cringe synchronously.

“Please, no,” mutters Remus, rubbing his hand over half his face.

“I think the fuck not,” says Sirius, unsheathing his dress robes.

James plucks off his glasses to rub a lens clean with his jumper sleeve. “Ol’ Warbeck’s a proper senior citizen now, isn’t she? What’s McG thinking? Is my mum on the board for this? She loves a good bit of Celestina.”

Marlene whistles lowly. “Those’ll look sharp, babe.” She’s talking to Sirius. The robes he raises up are a dull black, silky all over. Remus can see that James is right, they must’ve been tailored, because they nip in at the waist. Around the collar and from elbow to wrist are elaborate embroideries stitched in white.

“Yeah, they’ll work,” Sirius says appreciatively. Refolding them, his eyes scan the table until they reach Lily again. “Did you say partner? Who’s my dance partner?”

Lily takes a sip from her tea. “You’ve got to ask one, of course.”

“Yeah?” Sirius frowns, cranes his head past James to peer at Marlene. “Marls, will you waltz with me?”

Around a mouthful of pain au chocolat —  the quantity of which has much increased at breakfast since the Beauxbatons students’ arrival — Marlene says, “Can’t. Goin’ with Dorcas.”

Beside Remus, Peter grumbles dejectedly, and Remus’ own brows shoot up, but to everyone else this seems to be an unsurprising state of affairs.

Sirius harrumphs, shifts his gaze past Marlene. “Alice?”

“I’ll be going with Frank,” Alice answers. When Lily frowns at her, she adds, “Well, he hasn’t asked me yet. But I know he will.”

Sirius sighs. Lily is next in line. He says mechanically, “Mm, not you, Evans, you’ll be alone —”

“I will not!” Lily argues, slamming down her cup. Remus sees James go rigid. Sirius, on the other hand, chokes out a bewildered chuckle like the little shit he is. “I’ll have you know I was asked just this morning, so you can shove that up your lonely arse, Black.” Marlene snaps her fingers twice, biting back a smirk, clearly delighted by the outburst. Lily then sighs, drums her fingers against the table, and rises from the bench. “Well, I’ll be off. Slughorn’s feeling under the weather and I’ve got first-year Potions to teach. I’ll see you ladies later.” She squeezes Mary on the shoulder before striding off, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

James stares despondently at the spot where she’d sat, the paper of his unopened dress robes package crinkling in his grasp. Sirius knocks their shoulders together. “Dodged a curse there, mate, that’s for certain.”

James ignores Sirius, swivels toward Marlene and Mary. “Who’s asked her?”

Marlene smiles humorlessly. “Haven’t the foggiest, pumpkin.”

James blinks, clears his throat. “Not that I was planning on it.”

Remus turns to glance over his shoulder at the entrance to the Great Hall, but Lily’s already gone. He stabs his fork absently against the table, feels it stick in the varnish of the surface, and shakes his head very faintly. He doesn’t pity James, but he does feel for him. When he tunes back into the ongoings of the table — James opening his dress robes package — he finds that Sirius is already watching him, cheek against his palm. He takes his time in looking away, too, but only once Marlene’s gone and said, “Well, Potter, if you can’t take Lily to the ball, at least you’re guaranteed a date with a Niffler.”

“Good Godric, mum,” hisses James, peeling back the paper. The robes are velvet and a deep, dark red, adorned with golden threading and what looks like emeralds at the collar. “I can’t wear these.”

Peter scoffs. “You toffs are so ungrateful.”

Sirius hoots out a laugh, claps James on the back of his shoulder. “Oh, man, you’ve got to! Effie only wants to show off her second favorite son.” He pinches at James’ cheek, pulling at it indelicately until his hand is slapped away.

“Morning, Black,” says Winnie Reid, who’s just appeared behind Sirius. Rather than turning around and being civil, Sirius bends backwards to have a look at her, hanging onto the edge of the table.

“Hi there,” he greets. Winnie puts her hand to the back of Sirius’ head and lifts him upright.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

Sirius, gobsmacked for a moment, nods carefully and then shrugs as if to mentally say Why not? “Alright.” He puts his hand back on James’ shoulder. “This here’s James. There’s Marlene, Mary, Remus, and Peter.” Remus offers a weak smile, Peter waves, Marlene salutes Winnie with two fingers. James doesn’t react, not out of rudeness, but because he’s zoned out picking at an emerald on the collar of his robes. Sirius glances backward at Winnie again. “And everyone knows who you are.”

“Thanks,” Winnie says, places her hands on her hips. She smiles right at Remus, warm if not a bit intimidating. Remus shifts to sit on his palms and they stick to the bench. “I guess I should get to the point, then. Dunno why everyone’s doing it today, getting a little overexcited in my opinion, but I might as well, too. So, Lupin, would you be down to go to the Yule Ball with me?”

Sirius incredulously laughs out a “What?” just as Mary echoes the sentiment with a colder edge. Winnie appears to be pleased by Sirius’ reaction, but soon her dark eyes are trained on Remus again, who is… floundering, to say the least. Shellshocked.

“I,” he croaks, blinks thrice, then swallows. He feels like a right mess. “That. Would. Be great.” He smiles, if a bit shaky. “Thank you?”

Winnie grins brilliantly at him. “Good. That’s settled.”

“Moony! How could you betray stag solidarity like that?” James cries out brashly. He hadn’t even known James had been attuned to his surroundings.

Thrown, Remus protests, “I didn’t realize we were all going stag!” Then he feels a hand enclose his shoulder, cold even through the layers of robes. From the corners of his eyes, Remus sees another curl around Peter’s. As soon as he hears Jules Verlaine’s voice, he doesn’t turn to look, but watches Sirius instead, who’s only just gone from frowning at Winnie to eyeing Jules.

“Are we having a champions’ meeting I wasn’t invited to?” asks Jules. Remus attempts to shrug out of his grasp, and luckily Jules’ hand slips away. Peter simply stares at the bony hand like he’s got a tarantula on his shoulder.

“The only kinda champions’ meeting I’d ever host,” mutters Winnie under her breath. She walks off.

Jules ignores her. “Those are nice dress robes, James Potter,” he remarks. “Look to be from the same maker as mine.”

James’ face is blank. “That’s just fascinating.”

Jules hums, chuckling. “Isn’t it? But I’ve actually come to talk to Sirius.”

Remus doesn’t miss the way the apples of Sirius’ cheeks go slightly pink. “What is it, Jules?”

“Ask him to the Yule Ball,” calls Marlene, popping a strawberry into her mouth. Jules chuckles in that sort of hollow-but-regal sound. Both Sirius’ and James’ heads whip toward her. “What?” she huffs. When they both finally turn away, Marlene just snorts. Remus watches her. She gives him a wink.

“I was hoping that Sirius didn’t have a partner yet for the ball,” Jules murmurs, “because — come here, Juliette — because my sister was wondering if he’d like to accompany her.” Remus looks over his shoulder to find Juliette Verlaine at Jules’ side, her expression impassive, almost bored.

“Why doesn’t your sister ask him herself?” asks James combatively. Sirius twists his fingers together on the tabletop.

Juliette seemingly forces a smile, though it’s convincingly sympathetic. “It’s quite alright, Sirius, if you don’t want to go with me.”

“Er,” starts Sirius, but Jules cuts him off.

“She’s classically trained. Ballet and ballroom.”

James has his eyes intensely locked on the side of Sirius’ head. After several seconds of silence, Sirius exhales a defeat and tosses his hands into the air. “Yeah, why not.”

“No!” squawks James, who shoves at Sirius’ shoulder. “Solidarity!”

“I need a partner, Prongs,” Sirius deadpans. “Can’t open the ball dancing with myself. That’s just slightly past how low I’d stoop.”

James’ upper lip twitches in a grimace, and then he nods at Peter. “Solidarity, Wormtail,” he says firmly.

“Have you not found yourself a partner yet, James?” inquires Jules.

James casts his eyes down, sets about folding his robe, though Remus knows that means there will be creases in its luxurious fabric by morning. “Speak for yourself, Jules.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m lucky enough to have found someone already. Lily Evans. I’m sure you’ve heard of her, being in your House and all, and what with you being Head Boy and Girl together.” Jules’ smile is mild.

Sirius’ jaw clenches, but he says nothing. James is at risk of popping a vein in his forehead, but after a moment of internalizing Jules’ words, staring hard at him from beneath the mess of his mop-like fringe, he simply turns to Mary. “Hey, Mary. You’ll go to the Yule Ball with me, yeah?” James’ eyes flicker to Jules, then Sirius, and lastly to Remus. “Could do worse than Head Boy.”

Mary casts one last look at Remus, which he catches and wishes he hadn’t, before allowing her shoulders to sag. She sighs. “Sure.”

Marlene reaches out and pats Mary’s wrist. “It’s okay, love.” James’ lips purse as he glares at Marlene tepidly.

Jules brushes his curls behind his ear, unhands Peter. “Well, I’m glad you were able to sort that out. All of us.”

Peter puts his head down on the table.

***

Remus often forgets how fast the term can fly by when the arduous workload of seventh year catches up to him. Even Sirius and James stay out of trouble for the most part. Remus thinks it’s because the excitement of the tournament drains Sirius in intermittent intervals, while James is caught up between performing his Head Boy duties to the best of his ability and coaching the rec Gryffindor Quidditch team to a victory against the rather shoddy Ilvermorny team (Remus is vaguely sure they don’t have Quidditch in the States). During the two weeks following the first Triwizard task, there must be, of course, hiatuses from maturity. Sirius recounts Walburga’s history of involving himself and Regulus as tykes in a number of what he calls Pureblood extracurriculars, among them Russian gymnastics and figure skating, which leads to Remus making an offhand comment about how he’d like to see Avery on figure skates. On the last of November, the first snowfall of the year, it so turns out that the Slytherin common room’s floor has been entirely iced over and several students have already been sent to the infirmary for slips and slides and, somehow, frozen tongues that demanded unsticking. James, after evaluating the situation as Head Boy, tells Professor McGonagall that he would personally place the blame on the draughty windows in the dungeon dormitories, as the Great Lake has been frozen for some time. He escapes punishment with finesse but also earns himself a suspicious eyeballing from Lily.

December sixth brings with it a new full moon. Remus isn’t sure if it’s the cold setting in, but his joints ache like a bitch, and a meaner bitch than usual. He doesn’t voice it aloud, but he knows that his friends know, though Peter’s well-meaning pat on the back only makes him wince.

They arrive strangely early at dinner, before the tables have been stockpiled with food. It’s sparse enough in the Great Hall that James has no trouble spotting Jules’ curly head at the Ravenclaw table. He’s unforgiven for stealing Lily out from under James, though she was never quite under him to begin with. When James snarls to himself a variation on the same insult they’ve all heard on numerous an occasion about Jules’ poncey clothes or his mousey face, it goes ignored, in particular by Sirius. Sirius hasn’t let up his pattern of disappearing without explanation for hours at a time, and Remus suspects he’s spending then with Jules. There have been no more evening bed invasions, but Sirius has been distant from Emmeline Vance, despite James oft teasing Sirius about the hours he spends worshipping her body. Sirius allows it to happen, hasn’t groused about being called a slag since the last petty quarrel.

“Time’s running out for me,” Peter mutters, his quiet volume at odds with Sirius’ hyperactive hand-drumming against the empty table. Sirius quiets instantly when he finds Peter speaking. “I’ll never find a date in time for the Yule Ball.”

“I thought I told you to ask Prudence Clearwater?” James says, eyes boring holes into Jules Verlaine’s back. “I talked to her last week at the prefects’ meeting.”

“She’s already going with the other Ravenclaw prefect Murray,” Peter says, his voice muted as he speaks into the table. Sirius rubs the back of his shoulder.

Remus still hasn’t quite been able to wrap his own head around being asked by Winnie Reid to the ball. Sirius had only shrugged and said, “She called you cute.” End of discussion. Remus has yet to ask Sirius about Jules’ questionable choice of dance partner as well. It’s not often that they have a moment alone.

“Come on, Pete. Just ask a nice third-year. They’re all buzzing to go,” says Sirius.

“That’s because they couldn’t otherwise!” Peter snaps. 

“We can’t let him take a thirteen-year old to the Yule Ball,” Remus says, rubbing at his eye.

Peter nods. “That would just be perverted.”

Sirius frowns and stares into the distance. “Merlin, we’re old now.”

As dinner appears before them, Sirius marvels at an ornately-decorated game pie. Remus, meanwhile, looks curiously at what’s appeared beside the pie. It’s a small bottle, swirling with blue liquid, almost oily on its static surface.

Lily is quicker to mention it, though. “What’s that you’re drinking, Black? Looks straight out of Alice in Wonderland. Or a hotel mini-bar.” She sits down on Peter’s other side. Across from her and beside Remus, Mary and Marlene plop down onto the bench.

Sirius blinks at her. “No offense, but I’ve not understood a word you’ve just said.”

Lily rolls her eyes. “So out of touch.”

“It’s got your name on,” Peter says, now prodding at the bottle, at the little brown tag hanging from the cork stopper.

Sirius snatches it up, squints at the writing on the tag. Both Remus and Peter are keenly interested, but James, next to Remus, is trying so hard to appear aloof and unaware of Lily’s presence that the tension he radiates makes Remus’ own muscles ache. Or then that’s the impending full. “Drink me if you dare,” reads Sirius.

“Oh, that’s definitely Alice,” notes Lily.

“What’s Alice got to do with this?” demands Sirius.

“Not Alice Fortescue, you bumbling idiot,” Lily shoots back.

“Jules has got one, too,” James says. Over at the Ravenclaw table, Jules Verlaine is indeed turning a small blue bottle over in his hands. Sirius glances back to confirm.

“It could be a clue,” Remus murmurs.

“Only one way to find out.” Sirius goes to yank at the cork.

“Accio,” Lily says speedily, and the bottle flies from Sirius’ grasp and into her palm. She drops her wand to the table, brings the bottle up close to her eyes, gives it a little shake. “Black, you can’t just drink it. This is clearly some kind of potion. You have no idea what it might do!”

“That’s the point of drinking it, Evans, to find out.” Sirius leans so far across Peter that he’s got their shoulders smashed together. He extends his palm. “Hand it over.”

“No! Use your brain for once, Black!”

“Bloody he — Why do you even care? It’s mine, it’s my task, it’s my —”

“Sirius,” Remus says tightly — though simply speaking grates on his brain enough to induce a migraine — pressing his fingers into Sirius’ wrist to pin it to the table. “You can’t… That’s one of the golden rules of potionmaking. You can’t take something you don’t know the effects of, just like you can’t safely combine ingredients unless you know they won’t be caustic. There are just as many harmful potions as there are good ones. And what if you drink it and it does fuck-all and that’s your clue lost forever?” He chuckles dryly. “You can’t possibly be that thick.”

Sirius mulls this over, eyes fixed on Remus’ fingers. Then, “Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Moony. It seems I am.” He eyes Lily skeptically. “Alright. Fine. What would you have me do, Evans?”

Lily holds the bottle up to the light. “I’ll give you your precious bottle back, Black, but… in the interest of Hogwarts’ stakes in this tournament, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d love to take a look at it in the Potions classroom after hours. Maybe tonight. See if I can’t figure out what it’s made of.” She smiles jauntily as she sets it down. “Perhaps you’d like to join me, Remus?”

Just as Remus begins to say, “I’m feeling a bit —,” Peter jumps in with an unhelpful but once again well-intentioned, “Remus promised to do my Defence essay.” Lily’s auburn brows furrow as she looks at Peter. Remus sighs calmly. “Sorry. I’m feeling a bit worse for wear. I’m not sure how late I’ll be up.”

Lily pouts sweetly, and Remus thinks she’d pat his head were she close enough. “Pity. I’ll have all the fun myself then.”

“I’ll join you,” James says impertinently.

“Sorry?” says Lily, though Remus knows she’s heard correctly.

“Prongs, my man, you’re shit at Potions,” Sirius levels.

“That —,“ James hesitates, “— may be true, but what reason has Evans got to help you? Hogwarts’ stakes my arse. She’s going to the Yule Ball with the enemy. We can’t trust her. I’ll just… supervise. Make sure there’s no funny business with your potion.”

Sirius frowns thoughtfully, then nods. Remus stares blankly between them both. Lily is no saboteur, and he thinks James might just know that. “I think that’s a fair price, Evans, for letting you play with my clue,” Sirius states magnanimously.

“Of course you do.” Lily pinches the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Potions classroom at nine.”

***

“I didn’t think you’d show,” murmurs Lily as the slow pads of footsteps enter the Potions classroom at ten past nine. She’s reserved a lab bench for herself, dragged an old microscope out of Slughorn’s stores, and set up her equipment, cauldron ready. She doesn’t look up, one eye shut as she twists at the microscope’s fine adjustment knob.

“How did you even get in here?” James asks. “Thought Sluggy kept this all under lock and key.” He drags over a chair, obnoxiously loud, and sits down a few feet from Lily. The classroom is dark but for the few torches she’d lit closest to her bench; she’s technically allowed entrance at any hour, but that’s no reason to draw attention.

“He does. I happen to be the proprietor of one of said keys.” She lifts her head to bat her eyes listlessly at James, who’s shed his robes since dinner and is clad in a thick, high-necked jumper striped with Gryffindor colors. It’s… adorable. She turns brusquely toward her microscope.

James clamps together his hands. “What’re we doing?”

Lily sighs out her nose. “I thought I might take a bit of the potion and strain it, have a look at what’s left behind. If that doesn’t get me anywhere, I might resort to distillation, but that’ll be difficult enough given how little of this I’m trying to use.” She leans into the bench, lifts her eyebrows at James. “Sound like a plan?”

James lifts his hands into the air then links them behind his head. “I don’t speak swot, Evans, so do what you’ve got to do.”

Any evidence of butterflies, or something ridiculous of that sort, disappears in a flash. Lily’s lips purse as she lays out a cheesecloth over her microscope slide, stoppers a drop of the electric blue potion onto it. “That’s real mature of you, Potter. Yeah, alright, third-years ridiculing girls for studying, that’s fine. Stupid, rude, and a waste of time, but fine. Third-year marks mean nothing. But now? Calling me swotty?” She chuckles, pushes the slide into place, bends over to peek into the microscope. Momentarily distracted, she quiets — nothing remarkable, until she scrapes the potion’s remnants left in her cheesecloth onto a new slide. Her veins abuzz with inquisitiveness, she busies herself with increasing the magnification. “What was I saying? Oh, now, in seventh year, you’re — You do realize that dreams of being a professional Quidditch player sound a little silly at this age? And I’m not doing this to be swotty. I’m genuinely curious. Last time I checked, that’s not something to be embarrassed about, so I refuse to be.”

James appears to assess her before speaking. “I don’t believe I’m heading straight for Puddlemere United,” he asserts. “I’m not that daft. Actually, Sirius and I have been… we’ve been in talks about going out for the Auror training programme.”

Lily preens herself, simply for managing to put an end to James’ swot talk. If he'd had an actual argument to any of her points, he would have voiced it. “You need decent marks to be an Auror.”

“I have great marks.”

“You must. Dumbledore had to have formed a solid case to sell you as Head Boy to McGonagall.”

James says nothing. Then, “Any breakthroughs?”

Lily leans into the microscope once again. “There’s an interesting crystallization going on. It looks a lot like… like the interaction of powdered asphodel root and infusion of wormwood, also used in Living Death. But there’s also… See, last year, I did some extra coursework for Slughorn, some research on restorative potions. One of them was for reverting curses, and it involved using — I think it must’ve been mandrake root, and there are fibers in here, too, that look quite a bit like that, like the mature mandrake root.” James is eyeing her with one brow lost under his crop of insane hair. “Bear with me, Potter, I’ve not brought any parchment with me, so I’ll have to talk this through to have any hope of remembering a thing.” She draws away from the bench, fingers linking behind her back, and gazes up at the stone ceiling unseeingly, paces slow around the table. “So… what’s also peculiar to me is that wormwood contains thujone. I’ve always found it odd that thujone is an ingredient in Living Death, a sleeping draught, as it’s thought to cause sleeplessness — part of why drinking absinthe is so dangerous, as you never tire out and you just keep on drinking and drinking ’til you kill yourself as the thujone keeps you awake. Anyway, that’s sort of antithetical to me. Thujone is also thought to be — oh, pardon me,” she stumbles against a leg of James’ chair, unfazed, and carries on wandering in a circle, “it’s thought to be a psychoactive substance, and an excitatory one, too… If consumed in excess, you might feel delirious, or even seize up, convulse… And together with Mandragora, the toxins of which are also hallucinatory…” She halts, a step from Potter’s chair, mid-musing. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was some sort of psychotropic potion.” She breathes out deep, rolls onto the balls of her feet and off. Her eyes flicker down to James. “Of course, that’s all just conjecture.”

James rubs a hand over his jaw. He’s got his legs crossed now, and his countenance is a hybrid between impressed and woman, you’re barking mad, and something she can’t decipher. “I take it back. Talk swotty all you want. You’re well fit when you do,” he mutters, and his lips curl up at the corners.

Lily blinks, takes a step back, just a single step, and laughs, bewildered. “You’re an idiot,” she says hastily, a tad short of breath, and turns toward her work station, adrenaline fizzing under her skin. What to do, what to do? Anything other than looking his way. She decides to clean off her slides.

“Is it safe to drink, then? For Sirius?” asks James, still with a wry note to his voice.

Lily smiles to herself. “I never truly thought it would be dangerous. I think Remus may have been exaggerating a bit back at dinner, but perhaps it was just to get through to Black. However dangerous these tasks are supposed to be, I don’t believe they’d directly hand the champions the potion equivalent of the Killing Curse.” She chances a glance at James. “But I wanted to have a look myself.” She shrugs, smile faint. “I’m sure it’s palatable.”

“Can I try it?”

Lily picks up the microscope. “It’s a small bottle, Potter. There’s really not much in there. Two swallows, maybe. If that.” She waddles with the heavy microscope in hand all the way to Slughorn’s storeroom, and when she returns, half the bottle has been drained. Down James’ hatch, she supposes. He stands by the lab bench, palm pressed to his tummy, squinting into the dark corner of the classroom.

“I feel nothing.” He frowns. His brown eyes turn on Lily. “Why do I feel nothing?”

“You’re just as bad as Black,” Lily mutters, capping the bottle. “I’m no Potions master. Everything I said was just conjecture.”

“But it was smart-sounding conjecture.” James turns toward her, staring at the upturned palms of his hands. “I still feel nothing. Do something, Evans.”

She scoffs. “Like what?”

“I don’t know! Magic!”

Lily digs her wand out of her robes pocket, stares at it a moment. “Fine. Er… Lumos.”

A soft, white light glows at the tip of her wand, almost weak. James’ pupils dilate to pinheads. He trips backward a step, catches onto the edge of the lab bench. She thinks for a moment that he’s just being dramatic, but there’s genuine wonder in his eyes as his head whips around, as he stares once again at the palms of his hands.

“What is it?” she asks, careful.

“It’s… everything’s white. All around. The whole room’s white. My fingers are glowing.” He sounds mystified.

“Nox.” Lily edges closer to him. James blinks at her. “And now?”

“Everything’s normal again.”

Lily licks her lips and ponders silently. There’s a neat little spell she’d learned back in third year to pull out whenever a friend had a birthday. Wordlessly, she directs her wand at the ceiling and conjures fireworks, the little sparks of red, yellow, and blue that explode with soft whizzing noises above her head. Their ashes disperse before they can even flutter down to her head. Her attention back on James, she finds him with his hands pressed to his ears, blinking rapidly, awe written all over his face. “It’s like a personal fireworks show!” he yells, which almost has her jumping out of her skin, as it’s mouse-quiet in the dungeons at night. His voice goes ringing and echoing out the door and into the corridor. She Finites the charm, places her hands on her hips.

“It must…” Her expression is calculating. “You thought that was loud?”

“Nearly blasted my eardrums, Evans.”

She shakes her head. “Those were both rather low-effort casts. Just a regular old Lumos. It must… the potion must be amplifying your senses. Your sight, your hearing.” Tapping her foot absently, she starts to smirk. “I’m thinking now would be a bad time to cast Serpensortia.” She wanders closer to James, picks up the bottle to examine it, twist its tag around between her fingers. “Else you find yourself being swallowed up by an army of snakes.”

“Yeah, best not.” James chuckles, and when he turns, they’re side by side up against the table. “You’re brilliant, you know that?”

Lily sets down the bottle, feels a flush creep up her neck, and Godric knows with her skin, she blushes like a maniac. “You’ve told me before.”

“Yeah, but I mean it. You were able to deduce that. Sirius would’ve knocked it back like a shot of firewhisky and gone to Charms and — I don’t know, thought himself drowning in his own Aguamenti. You’re brilliant.”

Lily, biting hard on her lower lip, grabs her cauldron, proceeds to pile her various instruments in. There’s a silence that follows, so heavy and cloying it almost chokes her, and something could happen, something could happen so easily were she to just let go like Remus had told her to, but she can’t. She keeps her eyes fixed on her cauldron, and then on her slides as she wipes them dry one by one.

James cracks his knuckles against the tabletop. “So you’re going to the Yule Ball with Jules Verlaine.”

Lily nods.

“Evans, just… why? Why the hell? You’re out of his league. You could do so much better.”

And by that, do you mean yourself? She smiles awkwardly, doesn’t look up. “Everyone but you seems to feel differently about him.”

James drags his fingertips along the bench, pressing them in so they squeak against the surface. “Well, fine, he’s the Beauxbatons champion, he’s fit in that… that weird, mousey way of his, but he’s a hubristic prick.”

“Sounds familiar.”

James tuts once. In her periphery, she sees him shake his head.

“Potter, he asked me before anyone else did, and when I thought no one else even would. Of course I said yes. What else do you want me to tell you?” When she turns her hip against the bench, Potter’s fingers are steepled together, resting against his forehead, elbows on the table. She takes in his profile, the unruly shag of his hair.

“You don’t need to tell me anything else.” James sighs, and as he straightens up, he elbows the bottle onto the floor. It falls, cracks, shatters. The potion floods out onto the tile, icy blue and translucent, and then seems to evaporate before their eyes. Lily meets James’ horrified gaze, silently vanishes the glass, and, feeling brave, touches her hand to his bicep as she passes him by.

“That was all you, Potter.”

***

After spending the night galloping with Moony and Wormtail, Sirius is outraged to learn that James has virtually destroyed all that was left of his clue. On the other hand, when Lily reveals to him her findings, he’s sufficiently impressed that the anger is soon forgotten. Remus bears witness to this all in the comfort of the Hospital Wing, where the four of them and Lily gather the morning after. Lily as a fifth spoke to their usually four-spoked wheel is odd, but she sits in a chair next to Remus’ bed, beside where Sirius is sat indecorously on the covers, Remus’ ankle buzzing with pins and needles under his bony bum, and she’s more than civil. Actually, Lily is so fixed on describing the logical progression of her analysis to Sirius that she doesn’t question just how Remus’ illness the night prior could have escalated to this, him propped up in bed in the infirmary with his arm in a splint and Skele-Gro mending his bones. Before Lily had arrived, Sirius had told Remus he’d chased him up a tree and there had been a tumble. She doesn’t bring it up, but he knows she’s thinking about it.

Knowledge on all psychoactive potions but Elixir to Induce Euphoria is confined to the Restricted Section. Years ago, they’d all made off with the Animagi research and gotten off scot-free. James’ attempt in the Spring to look into ritualistic soul bond spells simply as a means of telepathic communication — however good Sirius and James are at reading one another’s eyes and gestures across rooms, they aren’t without incident, like when James’ eyebrow raise had once meant wait and not go and by then Sirius had already unshrunk the peacock he’d had stashed in his pocket and exploded all the Christmas crackers hidden about the Potions classroom —  hadn’t been as stealthy. And now, despite the turn of a new term, Madam Pince refuses to cave for James’ Head Boy title, and any and all of his associates who dare enter within a ten-foot radius of the velvet rope set off screeching claxons. Remus reckons there must be some sort of unseeable barrier they can disable. The four of them make plans to raid it over the holiday, relying on the hope that even Madam Pince must unwind. Lily mentions in passing, just as she’s leaving the Hospital Wing, that Slughorn has never not written her a permission note to enter the Restricted Section. Sirius looks suddenly as if he’s seen her in a whole new light.

It’s the first time they’ll all be spending Christmas at the castle. Two weeks before the holiday, Remus receives a package from his Da. Crammed in between the folds of an old set of dress robes — likely Da’s, though Remus has been taller than him since fourth year — is a note signed by his father and mother. They advise him to stay through the New Year at Hogwarts as well, tell him ambiguously that they’ll be away, that they love him, that they’ll make sure he has presents to wake up to on Christmas morning. He writes back asking where they’ll be, but he’s yet to receive a response, so as with everyone else above third year staying through the holiday for the Yule Ball, Remus writes his name on McGonagall’s list.

The weeks that follow are a whirlwind of Remus-and-Lily partner projects, gossip about the Yule Ball that Remus ignores, gossip about which Beauxbatons boy is seeing which Ravenclaw girl that Remus also ignores, and Peter sweating out his body’s water content as he frets over his lack of a date. To this Remus listens, at least. Day by day, more frost-charmed evergreen wreaths appear on doors and garlands twine up the balusters on the stairs, more trees sparkling in brilliant metallic tones spring up in corners, sparkling icicle chandeliers hang high in the Entrance Hall, and candles and menorahs appear on every unoccupied windowsill. Remus has never been a particular fan of Christmas as a holiday; he likes being with his family and helping his mother cook, being relegated to chopping vegetables and setting the table because he’s bollocks at actual cooking, but the glamour of the occasion is lost on him. And the nights are long, which means the full is long. Sirius had wholeheartedly agreed up until two years ago when he’d had his legendary first Christmas at the Potters’, at which point he’d jumped on James' bandwagon in possessing enough Christmas cheer for all four of them.

However, sitting up in bed on Christmas morning without early classes to make and deadlines to meet but instead with snowflakes fluttering past the window against a whitewashed landscape and his three greatest friends awakening, sleepy-eyed and putting on their glasses or tugging socks onto their feet to tread safely on the cold floor, he feels… merry.

Peter had gone all out at Honeydukes, so Remus receives his fair share of chocolates, James two tins of treacle fudge, and Sirius every flavour beans because their masochistic novelty never seemed to have died on him. James gives them each the most James gifts of bottles of Acromantula venom — supposedly worth a hundred galleons a pint. You can either figure out its Restricted uses by potioneers, or save it a few years ’til it’s worth even more and buy yourself a flat. Or a Russian mail-order bride. Or, if you prefer, you can mail yourself to her and let her charge you by the hour for being an insufferable git. That is if she still wants you by that point. Sirius gives James the newest Nimbus — I’d bought it before I knew about the Quidditch cancellations, mate, I swear — Peter a Zonko’s gift box, and to Remus he gifts Oscar Wilde’s De Profundis. My mother would’ve hated it. Remus has never read Wilde, so he doesn’t know how to react other than to smilingly thank Sirius.

Remus’ gifts pale in comparison to the Acromantula venom — he gives James and Sirius respectively the newest Sex Pistols and Queen records, for which he’d owled his Da the money. Peter isn’t as into music, so what he ends up giving him is a pot of cream and one of Sirius’ old Muggle softcore porn magazines, seeing as they’ve been recently jesting about how Peter could possibly pass those hours he’ll be alone on the night of the Yule Ball. Sirius thinks it hilarious, and Peter does, too, after about thirty seconds of put-on pouting. He needn’t worry, though, because after hours of Christmas breakfasting and lounging around in front of the fire in the common room, Sirius strides into their dorm a half-hour before the Yule Ball is to begin.

“Pete, mate, I’ve found you a woman,” Sirius says.

Pete sits bolt upright in bed. “What?” He scrambles out of bed to follow literally on Sirius’ heels, which means he steps on the heel of his boot. “Don’t tell me you’ve accomplished the impossible.” Sirius catches both himself and Peter, whirling to hold his short friend by the shoulders.

“One of Juliette Verlaine’s friends. She’s expecting someone witty and charming, so no fart jokes tonight.” He claps Peter on the shoulder. “Don’t say I never did anything for you.”

“Witty and charming,” Peter echoes breathily. He hesitates, and then, “I let Fenwick borrow my dress robes ‘cos I thought I wasn’t going — but I need ‘em back!” He sprints from the room, faster than Remus has ever seen him move.

Sirius glances over at Remus, hands on his hips and looking exceedingly pleased. Then his smile drops as he registers Remus, still in his shabby cords and an old jumper, sitting slouched on his bed. “Moony, why aren’t you dressed? Up you get! It’s not long now before we tear up the dance floor.”

Remus smiles in a funny way but slides compliantly off his bed. “I don’t have to do my makeup, Sirius. Won’t take me long.”

Sirius looks him over, eyes narrowed skeptically, before turning to march toward his wardrobe. He’s in a red jumper James’ parents have gifted him for Christmas, and it cinches at the wrists and at his waist, just high enough that Remus can see a bit of stomach. He bites his thumb absently as he watches him cross the room. “Where’s Prongs?” mutters Sirius into his wardrobe.

“Got dressed and went down early to the Great Hall. Him and Lily have to confer with the musical guest, apparently.” 

Sirius grunts in acknowledgement, shucks off the lovely jumper. Remus’ eyes drift over the angel winged angles of his shoulder blades beneath his skin, the soft rounds of muscle on his shoulders. Sirius asks, “Don’t suppose he combed his hair?”

Remus smiles, leans his hip into the nearest poster of his bed. “Not a chance.”

“The last time I saw a comb touch that hair must’ve been years ago.”

“Have you seen the comb since? Might still be in there.”

Sirius barks a soft laugh, shrugging his robes on. They look only a bit odd over his jeans, but those drop soon as well to be replaced with clean, black slacks. Sirius turns toward the mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door, frowning at the futility of the rows of tiny, pearly shank buttons on both his sleeves and from his belly button to the middle of his neck, all unfastened. “Moony, come help,” he says.

Remus grabs his wand, approaches Sirius slowly. Sirius turns to face him, their gazes meeting for a split second before Sirius nods, waving about his open, flapping sleeves. “I’ll do my sleeves. Can you do these?” He jerks his chin down toward his chest, and as soon as Remus sucks in a breath and raises his wand, Sirius knocks it out of his grip. It clatters to the floor. Too flustered to respond with a dually coherent and indignant response, Remus just blinks, allowing Sirius to get the first word in. “Er, sorry. Just do it by hand.”

Remus can only see half of Sirius’ eyes, the gray irises cast in shadow by his eyelashes, his eyelids purpley and pale as he begins to fumble with the buttons on his left sleeve. “Right,” Remus murmurs eventually, staring at his discarded wand. His hands go Sirius’ robes, connect the very bottommost of the buttons at his waist. Sirius huffs to himself, something about too many fucking buttons, who puts this many fucking buttons on robes, while Remus resists the urge to brush his thumb along the pale, soft skin of Sirius’ stomach. This is precisely why they can’t be alone together, particularly not when Sirius is half indecent and Remus’ mind is running wild. Control yourself, Lupin. The last time he’d touched Sirius’ skin, anywhere but his hands, had been on his birthday eve. They’re decorative, you git, he says, or maybe he doesn’t. He does touch, though less conspicuously than he’d like. He’d like to hold his palm flat to it, feel his warmth, feel Sirius breathe beneath him, hold him down. Remus can tell that his cheeks are flaring red, the sort of splotchy, unflattering blush that spreads from by his mouth to up under his eyes, the kind of heat he can physically feel as if his cheeks have lit up like heat lamps. Remus is halfway up Sirius’ chest, just about level with his nipples, or so he thinks, when Sirius switches to his buttoning up right sleeve. After his fifth attempt to get the round, little button through its loop with his usually so dexterous left hand, Remus stifles a laugh.

Sirius’ eyes shoot up toward him. “Shut up,” he says, quick and defensive, and Remus simply shakes his head, eyes fixed on the sparse, dark hair over Sirius’ sternum. On the eleventh attempt, or far later, Remus hasn’t quite been counting, he can’t help it when he laughs aloud. Sirius drops his arms to his sides, tilts his head up, grin and eyes wide. “I am going to kill you,” he says coolly, matter-of-factly. Remus can feel the heat of his breath, of his words against his chin.

Remus does up the button right at the base of Sirius’ neck. “Well now, Padfoot, who are you to be threatening me while I’ve got you by the throat?” he questions softly, brows crinkled. When Sirius swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs just beneath where Remus’ fingers are fastening the final button.

He knows Sirius is watching him, feels the vibrations as his fingers rest lightly on his neck and Sirius clears his throat. “You make a point,” he says, quiet.

Remus’ lips quirk up at the corners but doesn’t quite meet his eyes. He swipes his wand from the floor, and with a flourish toward Sirius’ left arm, the buttons knit themselves neatly and obediently into their loops. Stepping back to observe his handiwork, Remus admits without hesitation that Sirius is stunning. The robes fit to the breadth of his shoulders, to his trim waist, flaring out around his hips, and the buttons cinch him in at the high collar and the wrists. To his shock, Sirius doesn’t offer a teasing jibe — something along the lines of Like what you see? — or perhaps he doesn’t get around to it because Remus turns away, flicks his wand to send Sirius’ new jumper flying into his wardrobe.

“You’re still seeing Jules now and then, yeah?” Remus asks as he opens his own closet.

There’s a brief hesitation. “Yeah.”

“Did you ever ask him why he pulled what he did? Asking Lily to the Ball, pairing you off with his sister?”

Remus hears him sigh, then snort. “He won’t admit that Lily was just a jab at James, which she was.” Remus picks at the fraying sleeve of his dress robes where they hang in his closet. “But Juliette… he said she’ll be easy to be rid of during the night. I feel bad for the girl.”

“He wants to dispose of his own sister?” Remus peers around the door of his wardrobe. Sirius is sitting on his bed, charming his biker boots’ laces to double-knot. They don’t look as out of place with his getup as they should. He says dryly, “Suppose it’s so you can bone in McGonagall’s office while everyone’s occupied?”

Remus decides to hold his gaze that time, though Sirius seems reluctant to return it once he’s caught Remus’ eyes. A smile tugs at his lips, but that’s as far as it goes. “I’ve heard it’s the place to shag.”

Remus rolls his eyes but tries to be good-natured about it. He doesn’t want to undress with Sirius watching, not in the midst of a conversation about his fling, boy fling, not with all the lights on, not when it’s Remus’ own fingers dragging the fabric from his scar-marred skin. But he pulls his jumper off anyway, shrugs into a button-down because his robes are far too disproportionate to not have something underneath with the arms so short. “James doesn’t know?”

Sirius’ reply is curt. “Of course not.”

Remus grimaces at his reflection, at the bald spots in the velvet of his robes. Just about their only strongpoint is that they fit at the shoulders. He usually wouldn’t mind, but it’s Winnie who has to stand beside him all night. Remus grabs his slacks and shuts his wardrobe. “He doesn’t need to,” he tells Sirius, who looks every part a boy king, perched on his bed. “It’d be worse if it wasn’t just a petty rivalry between them, borne out of absolutely nothing but arrogance and oversized egos on both parts. But it is.”

Sirius lifts an eyebrow, then looks down at his dangling legs. “I’ll tell him soon, I think. Not specifically about Jules, but.” He pauses, plucks his wand from his boot to Accio something that rattles loudly against the inside of his wardrobe door before it successfully knocks it open. Sirius catches the flask, silver and dinged-up, and smirks as he shows it to Remus and tucks it into his pocket. “It’s becoming more real, I think,” he continues, hops off the bed.

Remus stares at him. “You and Jules?”

Sirius snorts on his way to the door. “Fuck no. It being… er… blokes.” With unreadable eyes on Remus, Sirius hesitates beside the door, which, when Peter charges in with a mound of balled-up fabric hugged to his chest, he’s able to catch by the knob before it hits him in the nose.

“Got ‘em!” Peter announces victoriously, now already halfway out of his trousers. Their door remains propped open by Sirius’ hand, and as Davey Gudgeon passes by in the corridor, he gets an eyeful of Peter’s white, unsunned thighs, briefs-clad arse.

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, close that fuckin’ door, Black,” he laughs, disappearing down the hall.

Sirius smirks lopsidedly at Remus, probably because Peter’s not paying attention and Remus is the only other one in the room.

But he looks away then, pats the pocket he’d stuck his flask into. “Gonna get McKinnon to fill this for me. I’ll see you lot —,” he bows grandly, sidestepping out of the room, “— at the Ball.” The door swings shut.

Remus bites the inside of his lip, sighs, looks at Peter. “Does this mean Fenwick is going in his birthday suit?”

***

Remus decides to be gracious and wait for Peter, who is dissatisfied with his hair for so long that the graciousness backfires and when they happen upon the Great Hall, they’re both rounding the staircase banister at top-speed, running and breathing heavy. Luckily, the doors have yet to open, but that only means the Entrance Hall is swarming with students in robes of silks and velvets and jewel tones, the air buzzing with nerves and excitement. Remus looks about, searching the crowd for Winnie, but she emerges from the sea of people directly in front of him. Her braids have been elaborately swirled into rosettes of sorts around her head, and for a night, she’s nicked the Beauxbatons students’ color of choice, donning gauzy, sparkling, robin egg blue dress robes. Her eyes glimmer with the same sparkles.

“There you are, Lupin,” she says, then abruptly goes about fixing a button on Remus’ exposed shirt. He allows her to, peering directly down at her in a temporary panic. Peter has disappeared from his side.

“You look, er.” He chokes on his words, but tries and succeeds to get out, “Beautiful.”

Winnie smiles as she steps back. “You think so?” She gives him a twirl; the layered hems of her dress robes swirl about her like a whirlpool before falling back into place around her ankles.

Remus lets out a clipped laugh and nods rapidly. He rubs at the back of his flushed neck. “Oh, yes. Absolutely.”

Winnie tucks her hand into Remus’ elbow. “Well, I give you permission to keep telling me that.” Her dark eyes flicker up to him. “And you don’t look half bad yourself.”

Frankly, Remus thinks the literal meaning of ‘half bad’ is the perfect way to describe just how he looks. McGonagall, at least a head taller than the average student, announces to the room via Sonorus, “Can I have all the champions here by the doors, please?”

“That’s me.” Winnie tugs on his arm. She bulldozes through the crowd, making it very easy for Remus to follow in her tracks.

Jules, gazing imperiously upon the dense crowd, particularly the roguish fourth-years present, is already there with Lily on his arm. Her dress robes are a royal blue that make her vibrant hair shine excellently. Winnie positions them beside the pair.

“Hi, Remus,” Lily whispers. She looks none too happy holding the arm of the Beauxbatons champion.

“You look lovely,” he murmurs, and she rolls her eyes but smiles anyway.

James slips out from between the doors of the Great Hall, giving far too many students an exclusive glimpse of the Hall beyond before he rushes to shut it. McGonagall gives him the eye.

“Well, aren’t you dapper, Moony?” James says as he pats Remus on the chest and slips between him and Lily, sucked up into the crowd. Lily doesn’t look at him; she grins at Jules instead, who pays her no mind. Once James is gone, her smile falls like a mask off her face.

“Lily,” Remus starts to say, but she’s peering past him to where Sirius and Juliette have arrived at Winnie’s other side. Sirius’ hair looks like he’s just run his fingers through it, locks out of his face, tucked behind one ear. A lump forms in Remus’ throat. When McGonagall turns to Professor Sprout, who’s head to toe in the most floral robes Remus has ever seen, Sirius slips the flask from his pocket, glugs down a hearty gulp, cringing in the process, and wipes away the excess that drips down the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand.

Winnie’s voice shatters Remus’ reverie. “Shut that mouth, Lupin, you’re drooling all over me.”

Remus’ hand flies up to feel at his chin as his eyes snap to Winnie. She laughs at him, claps her hands together. What she doesn’t know is that he does get rather drooly on occasion, or precisely once per month, but it’s more a worry for him than most. 

“I was joking, baby.” Winnie appears greatly amused. “But here comes Ms. Lyre, and Merlin only knows what I’ll do if you don’t give me a damn cute picture because you can’t take your eyes off Black.” A woman with a light pink bouffant, matching dress robes, and a heavy camera around her neck snaps a picture of Sirius and Juliette. The flash remains distractingly in Remus’ vision. “Come on, get behind me.” Winnie bats at Remus’ arm, and he complies. Winnie places Remus’ arms around her waist, and as Ms. Lyre turns toward them, she instructs, “You’re tall enough — put your chin on my head.”

“What?” Remus laughs.

“Just do it, Lupin!”

So he does, and the white light blinds him. “So sweet!” Ms. Lyre coos. As she gets her shot of Lily and Jules, Professors Sprout and Alnair draw open the doors to the Great Hall. 

“If the champions would follow me to their table,” says McGonagall, turning, and Remus is too caught up in taking in the magnificent hall to realize that Sirius is stuffing his flask into the pocket of Remus’ dress robes until it’s already happened. Mortified, he looks over at Sirius, who simply winks and leads Juliette inside.

“You better be sharing,” says Winnie as they follow.

The walls and floors of the Great Hall look to be made of ice, but Remus doesn’t slip, so they can’t be. The ceiling is black and blue like the night sky, flurrying with snow that never quite makes it to their heads, and before he can even spare a glance at the massive trees on all four sides, Winnie is nudging him into a chair at their round table. He falls into the seat, right beside an already-seated Sirius, and Winnie takes the chair on his other side. Remus, embarrassingly short of breath, is only able to force a close-lipped smile when Sirius turns toward him, extends his arm so he has his hand resting casually on the back of Remus’ chair. Behind them, the masses of students file in, filling in the tables. “This is too much,” mutters Sirius.

Remus shrugs. “Don’t most balls have several sentient walrus ice sculptures? We’ve only one.”

A grin begins to spread across Sirius’ lips until Ms. Lyre leans between them. “Hi, er — you,” she says to Remus, “Would you mind terribly if I asked our champion a few questions?”

Remus, unbothered, says, “You do know that you should expect legal liability for publishing someone’s information —” but Lisbeth stampedes over him.

“On behalf of the Prophet, I want to congratulate you again on your success in the first task, Mr. Black. We’re looking forward to the next. But my readers are simply dying to know more about you — what makes you tick, Mr. Black? What’s something few people know about you?”

Sirius, tongue in cheek, stares blankly at her. Then he smiles. “Well, I trimmed my nose hairs this morning, had trifle for breakfast, and then I went and dropped a massive fucking turd in the toilet — so much bloody pudding last night.” As Lisbeth gapes, Remus pinches at his lower lip hard, torn between crying laughing and stuffing Sirius’ napkin into his mouth. Steaming dishes of all sorts begin to appear on their table, on their plates, but Sirius hasn’t finished. “It’s — It’s funny that you speak of dying, actually, Ms. Lyre, because I didn’t learn it from the Prophet but instead from a Ravenclaw House student publication that two Muggleborn ministry workers’ families were murdered in Essex, Dark Mark left behind and all, just two days ago. Two days before fucking Christmas. And,” he lifts his finger to point at her, smile sardonic, “I’m sure you know there was an attempted killing yesterday — one of two suspects being my batty cousin — of one of your very own editors over there at the Prophet, a Pureblood engaged to a Muggle. So…” Sirius purses his lips, drums his fingers against the back of Remus’ chair. “Perhaps you could write about that. My big Christmas turd being of utmost importance, of course.”

Lisbeth, face as rosy as her hair, parchment now scrunched up between her fingers, stares unblinkingly at Sirius before stalking off. Sirius watches her go, and without removing his hand from Remus’ chair, drags his napkin onto his lap and picks up his fork to stab at a carrot on his plate. Remus exhales silently, watching him, the hardheaded, beautiful boy. “As amazing as that was, she’s either going to rip you apart or never speak a word of you again,” he says to Sirius, though a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

“Wouldn’t have done that if I gave a shit.” Sirius smiles, knocks his knuckles against the side of Remus’ neck. As Professor McGonagall strides past toward one of the many teachers’ tables, Sirius waits until she’s reached it to nod at Remus. “Quick, get some of that vodka into my juice, yeah, Moony?”

Remus rolls his eyes but does as he’s told, fishing for the flask in his pocket and sloshing some into Sirius’ glass, then his own, and when Winnie pats him on the arm, hers too. Miscalculating the angle of his wrist, he pours far too much into Winnie’s glass, stares at the flask, peers inside. “How much is in here?” he mutters, screwing on the cap and tucking it into his pocket.

Sirius’ fingers drum on his chair and he shrugs. “Undetectable Extension Charm.”

***

As expected, Remus is rubbish at dancing. He warns Winnie of this as the champions are directed to the clearing in the center of the room to take up a waltz, and she says, “I know you’ve got some rhythm in those hips, Lupin,” but he very swiftly proves her wrong. The room swells with the orchestra’s sound, and for an excruciating two minutes, the champions must dance with their partners before being joined by other willing duos, and Remus must step on her toes thrice even whilst staring directly down at the floor. Winnie isn’t as frustrated as she is exceedingly entertained, and when Remus trips, colliding back to back with Dumbledore twirling McGonagall, she drags him in close by the hips and says, “Let’s settle for swaying.” Sirius and Juliette are a beautiful sight gliding gracefully across the floor, even if they both appear uninvested and avoid one another’s eyes. Over Winnie’s shoulder, Remus watches as every now and then Sirius will say something — likely crack a joke — and Juliette will grant him a smile, but then her eyes will wander again. He loses track of them when the crowd grows all the more dense, but he does catch glimpses of Marlene and Dorcas in one another’s arms, faces close as they talk in hushed tones, Peter with his Beauxbatons date, who seems equally happy and shy, and James attempting to dip Mary Macdonald, head-to-toe in violet, who refuses to in the first place but nearly loses her footing when he pulls the move on surprise. She storms off then, leaving James to stand pensively in the middle of the dance floor as if reevaluating his life's decisions.

Winnie takes a seat at their table and asks that Remus go fetch her a plate of strawberries dipped in streaming white chocolate from the desserts table, which he does gladly. From the buffet table, he sees clearly as Lily and James ascend the platform upon which the High Table usually towers. It has now been cleared, and the rows and rows of seats that the orchestra occupy circle it, as if it is a precipice rising from the sea of musicians. Overly decorated with silver-charmed poinsettias and pine garlands, the platform still somehow only looks complete once Lily and James are there at its heart, flora swirling elaborately around them. Remus dunks his finger into the fountain rather than the strawberry he’s got on a toothpick, so he’s busy nibbling the quickly-hardening chocolate off his finger as Lily casts a Sonorus and clears her throat.

“H-Hello,” she says hesitantly. The orchestra hums to a stop. James arches an eyebrow at her, chuckling at the reticence in her voice, and Lily rolls her eyes and looks back out upon the Hall. “Good evening, everyone. I apologize for interrupting your festivities —“

“I hope you’re all having a good night,” James interjects, wand pointed to his throat. “You all look amazing. All of you. Especially Evans, don’t you think?” He steps aside, gesturing openly to Lily and grinning. A loud round of applause bubbles through the crowd, interlaced with whistles and laughter. “Right? I know.”

Lily, with her palm pressed across her eyes, stands that way for a while, the bared parts of her shoulders and her neck flushing, and eventually she drops her hand and clears her throat in such a way that it echoes through the Hall. “Apologies for the interruption, but the night isn’t nearly over yet, because it’s time to welcome our musical guest to the stage. We’re very fortunate to have her return to her alma mater exclusively for this evening, so please put your hands together for the Singing Sorceress, Celestina Warbeck!” Lily strides off the stage past James, who follows on her heels, and as if appearing from behind a disillusionment charm, Celestina glimmers into being centerstage, her hair massive and her deep red robes trimmed with fluffy red fur. While half the Hall is merely baffled, several professors and other students cheer wildly, rushing toward the stage to get a closer view. White teeth gleaming as she waves, she launches instantly into a slow, jazzy performance of Nothing Like a Holiday Spell with the orchestra as accompaniment.

Winnie is still seated when Remus returns with her strawberries.

“Thanks, Lupin.” She gives his knee a squeeze as he sits beside her, her eyes on the stage, shoulders rolling and torso moving mindlessly and naturally to the beat of the song. “Hit me with some more of the vodka?”

Remus smiles, slumping back into his seat. He’s able to lazily go about producing the flask as it’s guaranteed Celestina is holding McGonagall’s attention captive. On impulse, he takes a swig straight from the flask himself, nose wrinkling and lips puckering. “How d’you feel about Celestina?”

Winnie snorts. “I don’t. But it’s music.” As she nibbles on a strawberry, she shifts in her chair to face Remus. “Hey, listen, Lupin. Kingsley Shacklebolt, that dude in your House, is standing alone over there, and I have to capitalize on that. So, while I go and chat him up, you should know that I just saw Black slip out of the Hall.”

Remus is momentarily taken aback by her candor, but once he’s regained his wit, he nods, checks over his shoulder to see if she’s right about Kingsley. “He’s probably just gone for a smoke,” he murmurs absently, and then she’s rising, pushing her chair in and picking up the last strawberry between those impossibly long nails of hers, blue in the same shade as her dress.

“Maybe you’d like to join him,” Winnie says, brushing her hand along Remus’ shoulder as she leaves him. It takes Remus a moment realize that by him, she means Sirius and not Kingsley. Eyeing his hands, his upturned rough palms, Remus then looks over at the two of them, Winnie and Kingsley, now in the midst of introductions, and when it becomes clear that nothing will come of sitting alone at the champions’ table, he makes his way to the doors of the Great Hall, steps steady to the tune of Nothing Like a Holiday Spell.

Remus steps beyond the doors to the Entrance Hall, hands tucked into his pockets, and sure enough, Sirius is up against one of the pillars lining the courtyard, fag aglow. He can feel it on the tip of his nose how cold it is outside, but he’s otherwise insensitive. Setting his shoulders despite knowing they’ll return to their natural posture by the time he reaches Sirius, he sets off across the courtyard.

“Can I bum one off you?” Remus asks, mirroring Sirius’ pose, shoulders against the stone pillar and legs outstretched. Sirius doesn’t jump, so Remus thinks he must have seen him coming.

Sirius’ lips quirk. “Sometimes you do surprise me, Moony.” He offers him the pack, and Remus draws one out, flicks it to life with his wand, and takes a drag. Though he wouldn’t have expected to do it with Sirius’ same nonchalant air anyway, he coughs violently, clutching at his chest, but more so cringes at the dreadful, sour taste.

“Fuck,” he whispers and stares at the offending cigarette between his fingers. “Fuck. I don’t remember it tasting this terrible.”

Sirius smiles suddenly, runs his tongue over his teeth before he knocks his shoulder into Remus’. “May or may not be because I ran out and was forced to make do with scant resources, which meant transfiguring a pack from Prongs’ old Quidditch socks.”

Remus, with mild horror, lets out a bewildered laugh, but Sirius’ smile doesn’t budge. “You're joking,” he whispers.

Sirius tips his head back against the frigid stone of the pillar. “For once, I’m not.”

Remus’ gaze moves back to the fag, where it stays for a while. Then, “Fuck it,” he mutters, sucks from it again.

Sirius does the same, and when Remus looks at him, he’s breathing a swirl of smoke and condensation out his nose. “I never did thank you for helping me with the task. It’s been a month and I never thanked you,” he mumbles. With his free hand, he brushes his fingertips against the back of Remus’ hanging hand. He feels the hard surfaces of Sirius' nails run over the bony ridges of his knuckles, up and down. He also feels a little dizzy — either because it’s his third fag ever or because Sirius is in his veins, blocking all the blood from rushing to his brain.

He laughs, quiet. “I really didn’t do anything, Sirius. It was all you. I told you off for being lazy once, listened to you almost get knifed. That’s it, really.”

Sirius shakes his head insistently, and then his finger’s at Remus’ chest, digging in against his hard sternum. “I haven’t a fucking clue what I would’ve done, left to my own devices. Just me and my thoughts and nothing else? Fuck, Moony, I have instincts, but you remind me of what’s important.” He smiles wryly. “Sometimes literally when you remind me to do my assignments, but it’s mostly just you. You help me realize what’s important without even trying. Just the things you say, who you are.” He pokes at that spot on Remus’ chest, bites at the tip of his tongue, then suddenly pitches forward so he’s got his forehead on Remus’ shoulder. “Fuck, do you hear this gobshite? It’s gobshite that I mean, but it’s — I’m a bit tipsy.”

Remus, whose heart is in his throat, brings the fag to his mouth again. “I gathered.” He sighs out the smoke just so he can breathe in Sirius’ hair.

Sirius drops his fag and toes it out, stepping backward to hop up and down in place, shake out his arms. “It’s fucking cold.”

Remus doesn’t feel it. He smiles around the cigarette.

Sirius glares playfully at him. “Don’t give me that smug look, you hot-blooded fiend.”

Remus’ reflexes are too slow to have him bounce back when Sirius steps toward him again, draws an invisible line into the air with his wand down the trail of buttons on Remus’ robes, which fall open neatly. With his wand back in his boot, he worms his arms around Remus’ frame, wiggling to get underneath the folds of his robes, his face pressed half to his neck, half to his shoulder. “There’s gotta be a reason these are so big,” Sirius explains, and Remus can feel his lips move against his neck as he speaks.

Remus blinks at the ape of a man clinging to him, but all he sees is black, carefully yet carelessly tossed hair. Slowly, he takes the lapels of his robes, pulls them as far around Sirius as they’ll go, and he’s not surprised — Da’s got a bit of a gut and Sirius and Remus are both thin. He could hold them in place, close his arms over them, but to get the absolute closest to Sirius means getting his arms around his neck, which he does. Sirius hums a soft noise as his head is framed by Remus’ arms, and his cheek drops against his bicep, and they’re snug, so close, Sirius’ feet on the outsides of his own. Now his face is exposed, Remus can see the pores on Sirius’ skin, icy bluey-white in the distant light from the Great Hall’s windows.

“Thank you, Moony,” mutters Sirius, who he thinks might be looking at him, but there’s a great many lashes and a mess of hair in the way and the shadows are playing tricks on him and his heart’s rabbiting right out of his chest.

“Sirius —”

“Just let me fucking thank you,” Sirius hisses, and Remus feels his fingers sink into his sides, dig in hard enough to have him jolt, and then he laughs shrilly with a breathed Okay!, jerking his head away as far as it’ll go until it hits the stone pillar. Sirius just makes eye contact, smiles, self-satisfied. “Thank you,” he says slowly and with deliberate enunciation, chest puffing up against Remus’ as he breathes, as they both breathe, filling the air about their faces with the same warmth as their cocoon below. “Thank you, Remus.” Remus bats his eyes mockingly, but Sirius ignores this and kisses his cheek, the very middle of it. “Thank you.” Remus’ eyes close, a hand grasps at Sirius’ hair. His hair is cold but his scalp is warm against his fingertips. Remus isn’t so sure he would describe it as a kiss, not when several seconds later Sirius’ lips still haven’t left his skin and he’s whispered Thank you again, nosed in until he’s a weight against the side of Remus’ face and now the skin’s damp because he’s talking and breathing and puckering his lips to it. Remus can’t feel his feet on the ground, the soles of them have gone numb.

“You’re welcome,” he manages. He holds fast to the back of Sirius’ head, to his shoulder.

“Now, was that so hard?” Sirius whispers and it tickles his sideburns such that Remus has to choke on a ridiculous giggle.

“Are you warm?” Remus whispers back.

Sirius hums with his mouth against Remus’ cheek. Minuscule vibrations. Remus cracks open his eyes — in his field of vision swims the blur of Sirius’ close face. His eyes are closed. “I’m so warm.” Remus feels him shift on his feet. Remus can feel everything, because anything attached to Sirius’ body is tethered to his own.

“We’re missing Celestina,” Remus says idly.

Sirius is silent for a half-second. His hands shift low on the small of Remus’ back, but not quite that low. “Oh, bugger. What will we ever do?” he breathes, and Remus’ heart does a backflip when he not only feels it but hears it, that soft suction of Sirius’ lips as he kisses his cheek again. “I’ve… got a cauldron… full of hot, strong love…”

Remus, overcome unreasonably by a fit of laughter, presses his face into the crook of his own arm, chin against Sirius’ shoulder. “He knows the words,” he whispers, gasps with exaggeration. “He’ll never live this down.”

Sirius must turn his head, because Remus feels grinning teeth scrape his cheek. “And it’s bubbling —”

Pitter-pattering footsteps travel down the stairs and into the courtyard, echoing on the stone. They both lift their heads, looking toward the source of the sound, four eyes tracking a discontented Mary Macdonald across the courtyard, gauzy lavender robes billowing. She sags onto a bench. Sirius extricates himself from Remus, though the last part to leave is his arm from beneath Remus’ robes. With a wand flick, the buttons and holes interleave again. Casting him a wary look, Sirius nods toward Mary, and they set off across the courtyard, arms empty.

“Merlin almighty,” snaps Mary, her hand to her chest as they appear before her. “Oh, it’s just —” Her doe eyes assess Sirius and Remus. “Why are you out here?”

“Why are you?” counters Sirius.

Mary snorts. “My date is onstage with Celestina Warbeck, who’s helping him to serenade a girl very much not his date.”

Remus can see Sirius resist the urge to smile, because the mental image could do it for him so easily. “Prongs, that prat,” he breathes.

Remus puts his hands into his pockets. “Don’t take it personally, Mary. For James, everyone is a second choi —”

“I know,” Mary deadpans. Then she sighs. “Well, why aren’t you with your dates?” Her little lips purse as she studies Remus. “Strange of you to leave your champion alone.”

Remus blinks. He’s traded one champion for another. “Winnie’s just —”

“Someone needs to get Prongs off that stage,” Sirius says, touching Remus’ elbow, “or he’ll spend the rest of the holiday permanent-sticking our shoes to the floor because we let him make a dick of himself.”

“Too late for that,” says Mary.

Remus’ brows crinkle. “Mary, are you —?”

“I’m fine.”

Sirius nudges at his arm. “Moony, let’s go.”

Remus nods, eyes flickering to Sirius. “Okay.” He takes a step backward toward the doors as Sirius sets off. “Mary, you should get inside. It’s freezing.”

“In a minute,” says Mary, propping up her chin in her hands.

“Okay.” Sirius has reached the doors already. Remus stops. “Listen, when you come back in, if you’d like a dance, a really, really lousy, rotten dance, come find me,” he calls, raises his voice.

He’s too far and it’s too dark to tell, but he thinks Mary might smile. He wishes she would.

Remus turns to find Sirius watching him from the doorway. “Nice of you,” says Sirius, though there’s something about his tone that wasn’t there when Sirius was just now mumbling muddled words into his cheek. It’s cold now, his cheek, and the wet spot on it feels frosty, almost. Sirius waits for Remus to slip inside before allowing the door to glide shut.

Chapter Text

For the first time in his life, Remus sees Professor McGonagall amused by the birdbrained antics of one James Potter.

When he and Sirius enter the Great Hall, a great many of the students have already emptied out — unsurprising, as they’d just seen several of them escaping to neck in the dark corners of the halls — but a select few couples still wheel about on the dance floor alongside their very professors. James is onstage, mid-duet with Celestina, the latter of whose glittering wand must be casting a dual Sonorus. James seems to have his wits about him, too, so they can only blame this on love-drunkenness. They’ve moved on from Christmas singles to her classics — namely You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me — and Celestina places her feather-clad arm around James’ shoulders as they both croon, “To my whole life you hold the key!” Nearest the stage, McGonagall twirls Madam Pomfrey about joyously. 

Sirius’ hand digs in Remus’ pocket for the flask. As he’s swigging vodka again, he mutters, “Where’s a camera when you need one?”

Remus has been busily scanning the vicinity for Lily, but he’s yet to spot a dot of red in the sea of silvery decorations. He glances toward Sirius, whose nose and cheeks have gone rosy from the cold and Remus would rather like to kiss them warm, and smiles though whatever he’s said has gone right over Remus’ head.

“I was wondering where you’d gone off to.” Jules makes his presence known at Sirius’ side, lays a hand on his elbow. While Remus is taken aback, Sirius barely flinches, simply caps the flask and tucks it again into Remus’ robes.

“Smoke break.” Sirius smiles at him tensely. “Just… a smoke break. And now I’ve got to get that barking sod offstage.” He edges between Jules and Remus.

“Don’t talk about Ms. Warbeck like that,” says Remus, and almost sees Sirius grin, but Jules follows this quickly with an expectant, “But I’ll see you later?” as he watches Sirius pass.

“Alright,” throws Sirius over his shoulder. Remus holds eye contact with an overall dissatisfied Jules Verlaine just long enough for it to be awkward. He then bustles after Sirius.

Sirius moves too fast for Remus and he’s suddenly miles away, beelining toward the stage, when Remus hears the desserts table call his name. Quite literally.

He whirls around on the ball of his foot, wonders vaguely if it’s been charmed to know the dessert weaknesses of its passersby, muses how brilliant if not seven-deadly-sinful such a charm would be, when the tablecloth parts and Head Girl Lily Evans, on the floor beneath the table, pokes her vibrant head out. They lock eyes. She hisses, “Remus John Lupin, I will yell —,” but Remus complies quickly enough for her liking and she lifts the tablecloth for him to slip under, crawl on his hands and knees beneath the table. At least he doesn’t have to worry about ruining his dress robes.

It’s surprisingly roomy, though Remus swears as he bumps his head against the underside in an effort to get comfortable. He wraps his arms around his knees. Lily casts a Lumos and picks up another petit four from the plate in her lap. When Remus goes to open his mouth, probably to question their locale, he’s not sure yet himself, Lily clears her throat and dabs at the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“He dedicated this one to me,” she murmurs, not looking at him.

Remus’ lips twitch reflexively. “I’m shocked that you’re shocked.”

Lily’s lips purse. “I’m not shocked.”

“I swear, three months ago, he was so intent on getting over you. A shite job he’s done at that.”

She flushes in the warm light of her Lumos — Remus swears it’s yellower, has more of a gold sheen than his own — and then he sees her smile. “A guidebook on how to sensibly react would be real bloody helpful right now.”

Remus grins, pokes her knee. “Funny you mention that, as I wrote it. Chapter one is all about hiding under the desserts table. Chapter two, subheading James Potter, is about acceptance of the fact that your life will be nothing but public displays of affection and humiliation until you confront him and confess you’d like to keep those… between you two.”

Beyond their hideout, James hits an ungracious high note. They both stare at the tablecloth in the direction of the stage.

“I can’t fault your logic.” Lily sighs and rubs at her right eye. Her makeup smudges onto her temple. “But not tonight. I’ve had enough of Jules dragging me about like a puppet.”

Remus smiles sympathetically. He thinks of Winnie, who’s likely put Kingsley Shacklebolt under a spell. A non-magical one. “Walk you up to the tower?”

Silvery light floods their under-the-table cave as the tablecloth is lifted hesitantly and Mary Macdonald peers in. “Oh. Hi.” She glances at Remus. Her nose is rubbed red at the tip. “I thought I’d lost it when I saw Remus Lupin crawl under a table.” She then scoots her way underneath when Remus makes room for her. “And Lils, your worse half makes for a god-awful Ball date.”

Lily wraps an arm around Mary and rubs at her shoulder. “If it makes you feel any better, my date forgot about me the moment after we’d waltzed.”

Mary tilts her head against Lily’s. Remus feels like an intruder. But very soon after, Mary taps the toe of his worn shoe. “I do believe you offered me a dance, Remus Lupin.”

Remus rubs the top of his head, which he’s knocked again against the table. “I did. I did offer that.” He fumbles for a moment, head filled with thoughts of Mary in the bloody Astronomy Tower, and unearths the flask from his pocket, which he hands to Lily. “I’ll, er. I’ll dance with Mary. And then we can all head up together.”

Lily accepts the flask and says nothing, but the nod and smile she gives him are grounding. Remus lifts the tablecloth, clears his throat, and gestures outward. “After you.”

***

While Lily and Mary walk together toward Gryffindor Tower, Remus ruminates three steps behind, his skin feeling like overheated glass. During their dance, Mary had, boldly and straightforwardly, informed him that If there’s some other girl you fancy, Remus, you should just tell me now, which had already taken him aback, not having realized he’d owed her that, that he could’ve possibly been stringing her along all this time. But Remus still tells her there is, just to cover his arse. They’d swayed for a minute in a clumsy waltz with Mary peering nonchalantly over Remus’ shoulder and Remus mentally plummeting into an apologetic abyss, wondering just where he’d gone wrong and how he could’ve been so cruel, so oblivious, until Mary had cleared her throat and fixed her eyes on his again. This time she’d told him that the Astronomy Tower had been a good effort on his part, she’d had fun and he’d tried his hardest and it’d been very cute, but she hadn’t actually orgasmed. “I just didn’t want let you out into the world thinking you knew how to satisfy a woman.” Then the orchestra had played the final note of their waltz, held the fermata as long as Remus had held her eye contact, and then they’d separated to pick up Lily from her dessert hideaway and head to the dormitories.

Remus is the first to arrive. He hasn’t seen Sirius or James since they’d parted, nor Peter for at least an hour — Godric knows where he’s gotten off to, or who he’s getting off with, though it could well be the Beauxbatons friend of Juliette Verlaine.

Remus washes up mechanically, tosses his dress robes into his trunk, and collapses onto his bed, willing his overactive mind to turn off. He’s just about asleep behind his bed curtains when someone enters the room, humming a distinctly Pettigrew cover of a Celestina song, and it’s the last thing Remus remembers before nodding off.

“Moony.”

Remus grunts, rubs at his eye but doesn’t open it.

“Moony. Hey.”

Then his mattress dips and he’s almost sent rolling in the direction of the weight before it steadies above him. Onto him. Warm and a little bony and a lot urgent.

“Remus.”

He cracks open his eyes, brows furrowed, arms stretching to full length at his sides. He can hear James’ telltale snores. And in the dark above him is Sirius, it’s got to be, because it smells like his swank cologne. Sirius lifts a hand, starts to smack gently at Remus’ cheek, and that’s when Remus begins to sputter, grabbing Sirius by the wrist. “I’m awake!” he croaks in a half-whisper, then shuts his eyes again, eyebrows still creased.

“Ah, splendid,” comments Sirius. “Go back to sleep, then. Only wanted to check that you were alive.”

Remus sighs, allows his head to loll to the side onto the cool part of his pillow. “Alright.”

Sirius scoffs. “I was clearly joking, you fucking git.”

Remus fails to respond, proceeds to ignore him and shifts to get comfier — though his definition of comfortable is radically altered by the pressure of Sirius’ arse against him — but the slapping starts up again and he’s forced to open his eyes. He sits up on his elbows, blinks away dregs of precious sleep, and looks Sirius up and down, though in the dark simply seeing is near impossible. “What’s going on?” he whispers.

“I have things on my mind.”

“Okay.” Remus frowns. “Why are you on me?”

Sirius hesitates a moment. Remus thinks he catches a grin. “Wanted to see if you’d get excited.” Then Sirius flops onto the mattress beside him, where there isn’t much room to begin with. Remus doesn’t move but to lower himself back down and rest the crook of his elbow across his face. He can’t be positive whether the excitement came before Sirius — while he’d been dreaming — or during.

“Did you just get back?” whispers Remus. The sweaty inside of his elbow sticks to his forehead, so he lets it flop against the pillow above him. Remus, with his sheets kicked to the foot of his bed, clad only in a thin t-shit and his boxers, can feel the heavy fabric of Sirius’ clothes against his side.

“Took me ages to throw Jules off my scent.” Sirius props his head up.

Remus cringes visibly. “I don’t want the details.” The last thing he needs is an irritably conspicuous hard-on. And to send Sirius running for the toilets again.

“There are no details.”

Remus closes his eyes again, resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Then what things are on your mind?”

“I can’t tell you if you’re not looking at me.”

“Bloody hell.” Remus worms onto his side, makes a show of holding his right eye open with his thumb and finger. “Better?”

Vision having adjusted to the light, Remus sees it when Sirius’ eyes narrow. “Marginally.” He undoes the top few buttons on his dress robes, the ones tight to his neck. “Do you remember my birthday?”

Remus rolls his eyes sleepily. “If you’re going to quiz me —”

“No.” Sirius chuckles breathily. “No. I mean this year. The day before my birthday. Or night, rather. My birthday party.”

Remus settles on apathy, opens both his eyes. “I do.”

“Well, I made a mistake.”

Remus waits a full second, then cracks a sardonic smile. “My absolute favorite thing you do, Sirius, is when you open with some ambiguous-as-shit aphorism and then refuse to elaborate until someone indulges —”

“Fucking — shut up, Moony.” Sirius shoves at his chest. “I’m getting there. I should’ve spent the night. See? There. That’s the punch line.”

Remus wonders what time of night it is. Or morning. “Spent the night where?”

“With you. Here.” Remus can only describe the glint in his eyes as desperate. Sirius gestures between them and his fingertips graze Remus’ sternum. “We — we shagged. You and I. You and me. Fuck’s sake. And I got right up and ran off after.”

“I’m sure you weren’t quite running anywhere,” Remus rumbles, though as he eyes him hesitantly, he can tell this doesn’t amuse Sirius. He glues his palms together, slides them between his cheek and the pillow and tries to swallow, though it’s growing increasingly difficult. “You didn’t hurt my feelings, or anything, if that’s what you’re concerned about.” This is debatable, but Remus would rather do anything other than crawl into the oversexed, confused headspace of that full moon’s eve.

Sirius swallows audibly. “I don’t feel, like… guilty, you know? I mean, I do, but that’s not what’s…” He sighs out his nose, and Remus tries not to find the whistling noise sweet. “I just regret it. For me. I regret not… staying.”

Merlin, does Remus wish he was asleep. Confrontation is a bitch, and it prickles hot along his skin and pounds at his heart when he could be asleep, drenched in fantasy, the worries of which usually disappear the moment he wakes. He’s awake now, though, fully, and it takes Remus too long to ask with a dry throat and dizzied head, “Why’s that?”

Sirius isn’t looking at him any longer. “I know you’re not thick, Remus. You don’t need me to spell it out for you.”

Remus watches Sirius’ mouth form the words. He says nothing and neither does Sirius. The moment he sees Sirius’ hand twitch, though, he shuts his eyes, and it’s three seconds into holding his breath that he feels it make contact with his chest, touch shy and light. Remus, no longer in control of his breathing, feels his stomach rise and fall into the shape of Sirius' hand between shaky inhales. Sirius’ fingers dig in — Remus’ abdomen twitches — and drag lower, tracing the shape of his navel through his shirt, jagged edges of his nails scraping his lower stomach where his old shirt should be much longer. Sirius sighs again, louder this time, and the bed creaks and Remus can’t be sure why, not when he’s blinded, self-inflicted. Fingers linger at his tummy and Remus’ ankles lock tensely and his toes curl. His big toe knuckle cracks. Sirius laughs, or then it’s just another breath. Remus is reading into things, he always reads far too deeply into things, but then there’s definitely pressure on his crotch, the heel of Sirius’ hand digging in, fingers cupping Remus through his boxers. He gasps, soft, and then, “Fuck.” 

Craving an anchor, his hand whips out from beneath his cheek to find something, anything to grasp onto, and what makes it all the more real to him is that Sirius’ extended arm is the closest thing. Remus latches onto his bicep, squeezes frantically at the muscle as Sirius rolls his palm and Remus’ cock jolts in his boxers. Christ. It’s hardly anything, it’s pale and virginal next to how Remus gets himself off at times, but then Remus lifts his heavy eyelids and Sirius is there, a bit closer than before, the gray of his irises consumed by heady depthless blackness. Remus licks his lips, finds them already parted. Sirius blinks lazily and rubs his unholy hand against him, up and down, and they lay in such pindrop silence that Remus can hear the grating, teasing graze of his hand against the fabric. His cock strains, fat and heavy now, almost leaking, and Remus wants to cry and shout and tackle Sirius and gather him into his arms. Instead he digs his thumbnail into the hard jut of Sirius’ bicep.

“You’re killing me,” Sirius says, words weighty but near-silent. Remus is slack-jawed and not reciprocating and at a loss for words. Sirius licks his lower lip and it’s glossy and wet, Remus can see. He’s sure now that Sirius can feel the wetness forming against his palm, seeping through his threadbare underwear. “You’re always. Fucking. Killing me.”

Remus makes a noise, something like Augh, and Sirius feels at the shape of him, torturous and utterly punishable were Remus coherent and capable, but he’s far from. Remus moves out of instinct, slinks his leg across Sirius’, shuts his eyes at the tangible weight of his own balls between his thighs.

“Moony.” Sirius releases him. He pries Remus’ hand from his own bicep, guides it downward, nudges the hem of his dress robes aside — he’s beautiful, intensely beautiful in them, and thoughts of Sirius in motion at the Yule Ball flicker through his mind like a montage — to press the flat of it to the bulge in his trousers. “This is what you do to me.” Remus cracks his eyes open again, moves his thumb against the shape of the head of Sirius’ dick. “Did that.” Remus’ huffs are soft, scattered, helpless, tired but imploring. Sirius’ head lays on the other side of Remus’ pillow, eyes wild, hair sticking to his face at the temples. He ruts against Remus’ hand, but just once, because then he’s squirming closer, breath so wet it fans moisture across Remus’ face, and ponderously flattens both their palms against Remus’ crotch again. 

“Wanna suck you,” whispers Sirius.

“H-holy shit.”

A wry flash of white teeth.

“You — do that now?” Remus tries to entwine their fingers, but Sirius escapes his grasp to give his bollocks a squeeze. Remus’ whole body jerks.

“Couple times.” Sirius’ eyes scan his face. “Wanna ride you.”

“Oh,” breathes Remus, eyes wide, unoccupied hand scrambling to grab at Sirius, at his hip, his clothed bum, dragging him in greedily. “You —,” he swallows against a sickly, bitter feeling, “— do that with ‘im?”

Sirius shakes his head. “No.”

Remus drags nails over the meat of his arse. “No?”

“No.” A brief pause, and then he whimpers, “Please.”

Remus shakes his head rapidly, as if the windows to his brain have slightly unfogged. “Not now, fucking hell, they’re —“ He thrusts his chin toward Peter’s bed.

“Muffliato, smart one.”

“I don’t — my wand’s —”

Remus hisses with need when Sirius unhands him, produces his wand from — his sock? His pocket? He casts in muffled tones, then ditches the wand and huddles close to Remus.

“Did it work?” presses Remus, eyes frenzied.

“Of course it did,” mutters Sirius.

“Test it.”

“Test it?” Sirius frowns deeply. When Remus’ immovable albeit hazy expression remains unflinching, Sirius sighs. “Fuck. Fine. Pete!” he calls at full volume, startling Remus.

“What, Pa’foot?” Peter groans back. James’ snoring quiets, then resumes once he’s rolled about.

“Oh, shit,” swears Sirius, who ducks and hides his face against Remus’ chest. Remus thinks he’s trembling, but comes to realize it’s with silent laughter.

Remus bites back a smile, tucks his nose into Sirius’ hair. His eyelids fall shut. “Well done,” he breathes, going for dry but sounding pathetically fucked out.

“At least I tried.”

“My wand is —”

“Suuure.”

“Fuck you.”

“Some other time. I’m, mm.” Sirius curls into him. “Knackered.” There’s a short silence in which Sirius breathes deeply, yawns, and his arms loop around Remus’ waist. “And you’re the strangest combination of really hard and cozy.”

Remus still feels like he’s throbbing in his pants. Oh, he’s fucking hard alright. “I’m…”

Sirius’ chuckle is low, almost dirty, and it doesn’t help at all. “Think about Snivellus in the buff.”

Remus does as told. “That’s just… Oh.”

Sirius is silent.

Remus strokes at his hair for a while. Niggling, nagging thoughts fly around his head, but he’s too numb to process them, so they continue to flurry, fill his brain with useless fluff and eat up his energy as if it’s an ample commodity. Fatigue triumphs over arousal, though breathing in Sirius’ hair, lips against his warm head, means he must still be sporting a half-chub by the time his eyes close. Remus passes out with his cheek on Sirius’ head and his palm down the back of Sirius’ trousers, cupping his arse.

***

It’s Boxing Day morning and Remus is overheating. He scrubs at the sleep in his eyes and goes to roll onto his stomach, but there’s something in his way. His eyelids fly open.

Sirius is there, half-underneath him with dress robes rumpled and pillow marks on his cheek, eyes puffy and squinted as he smiles… about three inches from Remus’ face. “Thanks for keeping my assets warm overnight, Moony.” He’s pulled the sheets up over himself but left Remus in the open air and his breath smells like stale vodka. “I appreciate it.” Remus isn’t sure what he means, blinking his eyes and stretching his legs, until it’s out of Sirius’ trousers that he begins to drag his hand. Realization dawns on Remus’ face and Sirius grins, which is heart-clenching enough that Remus hasn’t the just-awoken emotional capacity to be embarrassed. He’s just warm, fluttery-chested, lightheaded.

“Sorry,” he breathes. Sirius just quirks an eyebrow.

He proceeds to sit up, hand on Remus’ shoulder. “Don’t go back to sleep. We’ve a library to raid. Evans says she’s a note from Slughorn, but fuck if I’m going to wait for Pince to get back from her island holiday just to get into Restricted pseudo-lawfully.”

Remus sits up as well. His knobby knees dig into Sirius’, and it’s just them there in the morning-cold of their room, hidden by the bed curtains with frozen toes tangled in sheets. “Any…?” he starts, and his train of thought must encounter a roadblock in the form of Sirius’ undivided attention on him, because no words come. He chuckles bashfully. Sirius bats his eyes, amused. Remus tries again, “Any plans for the half-dozen protective spells?”

Sirius gives him a somber nod to acknowledge his rational question. “My dear, I haven’t given it a single thought,” Sirius murmurs, squeezing Remus’ shoulder.

Remus’ lips twitch, but he absolutely doesn’t smile. “Fucker.”

Sirius smirks. “Not yet.”

Then he slips out of Remus’ bed to tiptoe across the room. To where Remus isn’t sure, staring down at his hands with a secret smile. Then a mattress creaks and the telltale sounds of a struggle issue from the direction of James’ bed. Remus peeks between the drapes, watches as a harried hand smacks about on James’ nightstand, failing to grab the glasses and instead knocking them to the floor. “Get off me, I can’t fucking breathe,” James groans, and then pauses. “Did you sleep in your dress robes?”

“I was breaking them in.” Sirius clears his throat. “Wakey wakey, Wormtail!”

***

Remus, being the tallest, is exiled from beneath the cloak. It’s been several years since they could all fit underneath, and Sirius is now a head taller than Peter, so as the three of them shuffle down the hall ahead of Remus, Sirius’ disembodied feet are visible, cut off at the ankles by the cloak’s hem. Remus is their caboose, ten steps behind with his prefect’s badge in plain sight to mollify any authoritative eyes they might pass.

“You’re doing great, Moony,” he hears James hiss.

“I feel stupid,” Remus replies. A shepherd in the portrait he’s passing peers into the hall, curiously in search of the source of James’ voice.

“Remus?”

Lily stands against the solid doors of the library, arms folded over her chest. She’s got on snowflake-dotted knee socks under her goldenrod corduroy skirt. Remus stops short, and his nervous glance at Sirius’ feet only draws Lily’s attention to them. “Lily. What’re you —?”

She sighs, pushes up off the door. “I told Black last night that I’d gotten myself a note for the Restricted Section and that we could go look into his potion when Pince got back. He didn’t seem too enthused about waiting. And he’s predictable.” With her arm extended, she approaches Sirius’ feet, eyes in a squint. “What is this? A spell?” she mutters, and there’s an Ow! from thin air as Lily’s fingers jab into the mass of boys under the cloak. James whips it off.

“Poked my bloody eye out with your harpy talons, Evans,” Sirius gripes with his hand as an eyepatch.

“I saw your feet,” Lily says blankly. She eyes the cloak bundled against James’ chest and turns to him expectantly. “You have an invisibility cloak?”

“Used only for noble means,” says James. He’s a little red in the face, perhaps recalling his duet with Celestina, fresh in everyone’s minds. “Good morning, Evans. If you’re here to try and stop us, I’d just give up while you’re ahead. Peter’s been practicing his hexes.”

“Yeah,” huffs Peter. “Wait — I’d never hex Evans!”

“I’m not here to stop you. On the off chance that you do make it in, I’d like to read up on psychoactive potions myself. And if not, it’ll be a right laugh when Filch catches you. I’ll just tell him I was trying to stop you.”

Sirius and James make eye contact. Peter and Remus do too, if simply to roll their eyes. Finally, Sirius nods at Lily. “Fair enough. After you, then.”

The library is dark, the lack of light bathing every surface in shades of blue, and smells like it hasn’t seen life for days. They could draw open the curtains, but it’s safer not to. Filch, daft as he is, has eyes everywhere, and should he be out for a stroll in the snow and spot the library’s windows uncovered, he’d throw a strop. The old doors creak shut behind Remus and he follows as the troupe creeps toward the back of the library, closer to the velvet rope. Sirius draws to a stop at the shelves of the Legal Section, which lie just outside the ten foot radius of Madam Pince’s claxon charms. Lily arches an eyebrow, walks directly through them unharmed. Remus should be able to as well, but the other three are well-acquainted with the fact that they cannot.

“You do realize I could just go jump the velvet rope and fetch the books for us,” Lily says from the other side of the invisible barrier.

James is on the verge of a reply when Sirius interrupts with a contemptuous chuckle. “First of all, Evans, you’re taking all the fun out of this. Second, she’s put up the same set of charms where the rope is, to keep everyone out, so you’d be out of luck there.”

Lily narrows her eyes stubbornly. Sirius’ smile is easygoing. He turns toward Peter. “Pete?”

From his pocket, Peter unearths a bottle of greenish substance. Uncapping it, he shakes a heaping helping onto his palm.

Lily steps closer. “What is that?”

“Shrivelfig powder,” he answers absently. “I’d step back if I were you, Evans.” The creases by the corners of Lily’s mouth deepen but she obeys, and once she’s at a safe distance, Peter blows on his cupped hand, sending the powder billowing into the air before them. Remus sneezes. Gradually, as the powder settles, the air in the negative space between the boys and Lily begins to sparkle with color — a red, hazy net of light intersected by blueish and greenish laser-like lines. Together, they form a dense, glowing wall of magic.

“Wow,” says Remus in awe. His gaze follows the barrier all the way to the ceiling. “She must really hate you, James.”

James snorts sourly. “The old biddy has it out for me.”

“Where did you get shrivelfigs?” Lily demands from the other side, almost shouting now, as if the magic might dampen her voice. “And how did you know they did…” She flaps her hand at the glimmering wall. “This?”

Peter shrugs. “I took them from Potions, dried them out, ground them up. Failed the Shrinking Solution, but Dorcas wasn’t in class that day, so I reckon she can get her mark up by blaming it on me. Slughorn would understand.” James claps a hand onto Peter’s shoulder proudly.

“Something about the drying process chemically alters the figs,” murmurs Sirius with his hands on his hips, stepping forward so he’s nearly got the tip of his nose to the barrier. “React to contact with any magical energy by turning fluorescent, so in a way, they reveal hidden magic. We tested it on the cloak when James was under it. Lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.”

Though Remus cannot fully see her, he can tell Lily’s proverbial forehead vein must be throbbing at the notes of know-it-all in Sirius’ tone. But it’s battling with her curiosity. She moves closer to Sirius. “And how could you have possibly known about that?”

Sirius hovers the flat of his hand perilously close to the barrier. “Previous trips to the Restricted Section, that’s how.” He tuts. “Enough with the questions. What do we do, lads?”

James draws his wand confidently. “Finite Incantatem.” They all stare at the very much present barrier. He shoves it back into his trousers’ waistband. “Worth a try.”

Remus pulls a book from the nearest shelf. Magical Law of Ancient Scandinavia. He turns it once over in his hands, squats to the floor, and very carefully sends it sliding through the barrier along the floor. Several intakes of breath transpire, but no sirens ring and Sirius laughs a pithy laugh. “If you and Evans can pass through, of course a book can. It’s selective.”

Remus, elbows against his knees, stares at the glowing red, at the streams of blue and green. He traces his fingers along a shape in the rug beneath his feet. “I have an idea.” His eyes track warily to Lily, then to Sirius. “Not only for this charm but the next. The one at the rope. If it’s — magicked to identify just you three, but not books or — or other inanimate objects, then the other charm must be programmed, in a way, to detect the entry of all students.” He rubs at his chin. “Students. Young humans. Wizards. That is, not… animals.”

Sirius snaps his fingers, points at Remus. “That’s…”

“Minor issue,” singsongs Peter, eyes wide and fixed on Lily.

“What?” Lily looks at them all in turn. Her eyes linger on Remus.

James steps forward, chest puffed out. “Evans, do you remember how I once said I wouldn’t trust you with my life?” he asks. Sirius’ head whips toward him warningly.

Lily’s expression is deadpan. “I do.”

“Well.” James rubs at his hair. “I’m going to need to. We all are.” He looks expectantly at Sirius. “I can’t do it. Stag in a library, bull in a china shop — I’ll stab twenty books and leave marks in the carpet. Wormtail can’t do it, he can’t carry any books back out.”

“What in Godric’s name are you on about?” hisses Lily as she steps through the charms.

“You’re mad,” mutters Sirius. “I’m not… Mate, I know you’ve probably written out your vows to this cow, and I know honesty is important for a healthy marriage, because Merlin, do my parents live a fucking lie, but I’m not marrying her.”

“I haven’t written any vows.” James gives Lily a side eye, but focuses still on Sirius. “And nobody’s asking you to marry anybody, you twat. We can trust Evans.” He points at her without looking. “We can, can’t we?”

Lily rubs her pale hands down her face and drops them to her hips, exasperated. “Yeah, sure.”

“See?!” squawks James.

Sirius roars, “I won’t,” stopping cold when Lily’s back thuds into the closest shelf, her face paper-white as she watches Peter, now in rat form, scamper through the barrier and toward the rope. Once on its opposite side, within the safety of the Restricted Section, he transforms again and clambers to his feet. After a brief hesitation, a heavy silence, he shrugs. “Moony was right,” he calls to them.

Remus casts his eyes to the floor, feeling Sirius’ gaze on him.

“Damn you, Wormtail,” whispers Sirius under his breath.

“He’s an Animagus?” breathes Lily. “Pettigrew. You’re an Animagus?”

James bounds toward her lightning fast and takes her by the arms. “You can’t tell a soul, Evans. Please.”

“He’s an Animagus,” she says again, hushed, less aghast now, more mystified. “Does that mean — are you all? You’re all Animagi? Why? How? When did you —?”

Sirius presses the pads of his fingers to his temples. “I thought we were done with the questions.” After a delay, in which he must’ve undergone a mental Fuck it, Sirius sighs and morphs into Padfoot, trots across the first barrier, then the second barrier to join Peter.

Lily gapes, still trapped in James’ grasp. “The mandrake leaf,” she utters mindlessly. “You all… That’s exceedingly difficult magic.”

“Moste Potente Potions?” Sirius waves the book at them, then adds it to the pile he’s hugging to his chest.

“Evans, I need you to promise me,” James insists, shaking her a bit. Remus settles onto the floor, his back against a bookcase.

“You’re not registered, are you?” She blinks. “Who am I kidding? Of course you’re not. You’re the only four fools in this school who’d risk life in Azkaban to be able to change into a fat rat at will.” Wheeling around and out of James’ arms, Lily sets her sights on Remus. “Remus, I cannot believe —“

“I’m not,” he supplies meekly.

“Oh.” She frowns. “Really?”

“Evans,” whines James, and she smacks at his reaching arm.

“Oh, piss off, I won’t tell anyone,” Lily barks. “You really think I’d waste the cells of Azkaban on you idiots? It hasn’t got iron walls and Dementors to keep Black away from his mirror collection or Pettigrew from robbing Muggle homes for their stale cheese. They’re for genocidal megalomaniacs, psychopaths with unbridled power.”

James steps away in swift surrender, though his shoulders have dropped now that he’s appeased.

Lily gives him a once-over. “Well, aren’t you going to show me yours?”

James is hesitant for all of three seconds before his cocky smirk assumes its natural place. “Just remember that you asked for it.” Through a twist of limbs, a sprouting of antlers, and an unexpected growth spurt, a majestic red stag appears to stand in James’ place, no negligently-stabbed books in sight. Hooves click against the floor as it approaches Lily, who stumbles backward a foot but with shaky disbelief touches her hand to the stag’s wet nose when it bows its head.

She giggles breathlessly and looks over her shoulder at Remus. “I feel like Snow White.” When she turns back to the stag, or, rather, James again, she scoffs and retracts her hand. Hugging it close to her chest, her lips purse, holding back words until she finally says, “Impressive, I’ll grant you that. And we have research to do, but trust me when I say we’ve not finished with this topic.” She stalks over to the charm barrier, which Padfoot has just breached, nosing several books along the floor. Some are covered in slobber that Lily spells cursorily away.

Sirius changes right beside Lily, giving her a right fright when he appears, head close to hers, on his hands and knees. He pushes Moste Potente Potions toward her. “That looks like the most promising one, and out of everyone here, I trust your skim-reading abilities the most.” It looks like it pains Sirius to say it, but Lily doesn’t react. He picks up two of the books in his pile and hops onto his feet. When Remus realizes it’s him Sirius is approaching, he sits up against the shelves, breath held stupidly. Sirius lowers himself down beside him and drops a heavy book into his lap. If Remus had a lower pain tolerance, it might hurt. Lily casts a Lumos Maxima, throws her warm ball of light toward the dark ceiling.

“What about my skimming abilities?” asks Remus, opening the book to its table of contents.

Sirius chuckles. Their shoulders knock together, or rather, the bone of Sirius’ shoulder digs into his arm. And stays there. “You’ve never skimmed a book in your life, Moony.”

He frowns because it’s true. “I like to be thorough.” And it’s not entirely his fault. Should he be reading in the same room as Sirius, waffling on or doing something otherwise distracting, he inevitably has to read every sentence at least thrice to get some semblance of understanding.

“And we love that about you.”

Remus rolls his eyes. Chapter Five: Psychotropic Potions. “Chapter five,” he mumbles to himself, leafing through the pages in search of it.

“Last night,” whispers Sirius. Remus’ eyes flit upward. Peter is on his stomach on the carpeted floor, poring over a dusty tome, and Lily sits close to Madam Pince’s desk, a ways away from them. Expectedly, James at a casual but short distance from her.

Remus feels his neck heat up. He runs his fingertip over the chapter title on the page. A beautiful illustration of an ayahuasca vine — labeled as such, Remus could never identify it himself — runs from the top to the bottom of the page. He breathes deep out his nose. “Yes?”

“Er.” Remus can see from the corner of his eye that Sirius has yet to open his book — funny, as all of this research is really for his sake. “I’m sorry.”

The hot flush on Remus’ neck turns rapidly to a cold, shameful sweat. Apologetic already, Sirius? Regretful so soon? It’d only been hours ago that Sirius had admitted regret about running out on him. Lily had called Sirius predictable. In some ways, yes, as in predict the absolute worst, the absolute maddest you can dream up. But this is about Remus, Sirius’ thoughts on Remus. He should’ve seen it, used his substandard Divination skills and his nonexistent Inner Eye to see that Sirius would go back on his word — which he never does — but would this one time, simply because it’s about Remus. His feelings for Remus, or his attraction to Remus, at the very least. Remus wants to laugh, and manically at that, but doesn’t want to scare Sirius off with the serrated edge of his emotions. He prefers to maintain the illusion of a butter knife. Goosebumps rise along his arms.

Sirius chuckles again, though. “It’s just. Bloody hard, isn’t it? Can’t catch a moment alone.” Remus turns his head to look at him. This means meeting Sirius’ eyes, which are cast in the shadow of his eyelashes by Lily’s Lumos. “I’ve heard some people get off on it, but it just doesn’t get me going, Remus, the though of Wormtail in the next bed over.” Like he can’t quite believe his own words, Sirius’ eyebrows rise as he laughs, quiet and breathy.

Remus’ mouth is dry. He sees where Sirius is coming from. Coming. Merlin, Lupin, don’t think about that. “Don’t apologize for that.” It’s all he can say, blood rushing through his ears again, sweat gone warm.

Sirius shrugs just one shoulder, the one that’s against Remus’. “Fine. Then I apologize for hogging your bed,” he whispers. The ‘d’ in bed is hard and excessively enunciated, as if he wants to make sure Remus catches it.

Remus clears his throat, turns his attention back to the book to read the chapter title a fifth time. He feels almost dizzy with warmth. And Sirius’ thigh is glued to his — when did that happen? “It was no problem.”

“You never sleep under your covers. As I see it, someone’s got to use them.”

Remus wets his lower lip. “I get hot.”

He can hear Sirius’ grin. “I know. I felt it.”

“I’ve got something!” announces Lily. She summons her Lumos closer to her as she waves them over. James is by her side first, but he has an unfair advantage (Lily magnetism). Remus begins to rise, but as Sirius is on his feet first, seemingly invigorated by his talent for getting Remus this flustered, he ends up taking Sirius’ proffered hands and is hauled upright. Sirius holds onto his right hand as they make their way over, only letting go to kneel in front of Lily.

“The potion Black got at dinner was blue, yes?” Lily’s eyes scan the four of them. Upon receiving several confirming nods, she says, “Good,” and looks back down.

“I remember it had this… this iridescent film over the top,” murmurs Remus. “Like petrol spilt on pavement.”

Lily nods again. “This is a match, then. It must be. The Adaugeo Potion. It’s typically not taken on its own, this says. Often it’s in conjunction with other magical drugs, potions or not. Common uses include dosing oneself with Adaugeo before administering Elixir to Induce Euphoria, the combined effects of which have been compared to those of the Muggle drug Ecstasy (MDMA).”

“You were dead-on, Evans,” mutters James.

Lily’s lips twitch at a smile. “Basically what it does is enhance and exaggerate any magical experience for a duration of time, depending on the size of the dose. For the sake of the Triwizard task, I don’t think we could dependably say that it’ll be used alongside another potion. It could be for any magic. When… when Potter took it and I cast around him, he felt everything I did, just… intensified.” Her head cocks to the side. “It’s an interesting brew. I suppose the reason we don’t learn it is because it’s mostly become associated with magical opium dens. Wizards and witches have been known to drink so much of it while under magical opiates that they induce a coma and don’t wake up for years. They’re alive when they do, but just barely.”

“Dumbledore’s setting this challenge, I heard. He’d be swarmed by owls from angry parents if he gave wizarding opiates to three kids,” murmurs Peter.

“He wouldn’t,” says Sirius. “It’s Dumbledore. The old codger’s mad, and he’ll do something mad with this. Just… sanctioned-mad. Torturous-and-creative-mad.”

They all sit in silence, staring unseeingly at the page in Lily’s book. “Do you reckon the other champions know about this?” she asks quietly.

James snorts. “No fucking way. I’m willing to bet Cassady knows of the potion, probably used it himself, but hasn’t told Winnie. That’d be some sort of conflict of interest. And there’s no way they’ve come into the library and read this book. Do you know how protective Pince is about her collection? If she won’t let you through to the Restricted Section without a note, no fucking way she’d let an outsider, neither American nor Frenchman, put their fingers on her books.”

Sirius rubs at his chin. “I should tell them.”

“You should tell Winnie,” says Lily.

“I’ll tell them both,” Sirius says.

James’ eyes narrow. “Jules? No way.”

“He deserves to know.”

James snorts, shaking his head. “What makes you think he deserves anything?”

Reluctant as Remus is to defend Jules Verlaine — with whom Sirius has… practiced blowjobs, if he remembers correctly — he speaks up. “If Sirius was going to be force-fed some potion, else risk forfeiting the challenge — dubious ethics, by the way, if you ask me — and they knew what it did, Winnie or Jules, I’d want them to tell him.”

Lily shuts the book. Every mention of Jules seems to make her frown deeper. But she eventually says, “Remus is right.”

James turns to look at her. “And I suppose you had a grand ole time at the Yule Ball with Jules Verlaine, did you?”

Lily sneers at him. “At least he didn’t hijack the stage of the most celebrated wizarding singer of our century to serenade me.”

Peter stifles a laugh. Remus watches Sirius smirk. He has to suppress a smile himself. James rubs at his eyes underneath his glasses, keeps them covered for a moment by his fingers. “She was happy to share her stage with me,” he mutters with his chin upon his knees. And, boldly, despite the redness at the tip of his ear that pokes out through his messy hair, he drops his hands and fixes his gaze on Lily. “Said I needed to work on my pitch, but that she appreciated my enthusiasm, even if you didn’t.”

Lily stares back at him, mouth slightly agape. Sirius pretends to gag. “I never said I didn’t,” she says, blinks, and then rises onto her feet, sending the four crouched around her scattering in different directions. James leans back against Pince’s desk like the wind’s been knocked out of him. Lily marches past the Legal Section to idle by the velvet rope, Moste Potente Potions tucked under her arm. “Let’s get all these back on the shelves, Black. And be gentle. Dogs have long cuspids. Don’t bite holes into the covers.”

***

As much as Sirius is frustrated that he can never seem to find more than a few minutes at a time alone with Remus, he’s also grateful.

Not merely because he wouldn’t know what to do should he find that time, those fleeting, precious, golden, stolen moments, the ones he has daydreams and sex dreams about.

Jules… He and Jules had fooled around quite a bit. It’d been exciting, thrilling to the core at first. It’d very quickly become clear, however, that Sirius didn’t know his way around a boy’s body whereas Jules very much did. Sirius had begun to question if he even knew his way around a girl’s body, as the kind of attention and focus and intent with which Jules lavished him was unlike anything Sirius had ever done for a girl. Hasty, sloppy fucks were all he’d known — aside from, well, Remus, the one time with Remus — and even those were numbered. He could count them on one hand. Sirius had thought he’d eventually bore Jules, that he’d rail on him the tenth time Sirius let teeth catch on his cock or fumbled the lube spell and got it all over Jules’ silken sheets, but he never did. Sometimes it would turn him on, and if it didn’t — take the cock-nipping, for example — he would find some way to laugh it off in that airy, aristocratic crow that reminded Sirius so of dinner parties at Grimmauld Place. “You’re so Pure, aren’t you, Sirius?” Jules would taunt, though not unkindly, and then he’d turn over in bed, sit up and roll them a joint in gold fucking rolling paper. This was the point at which Sirius would typically get pouty, make compulsive arguments against his Purity on which he’d later alone reflect and question why he’d even bothered when no one but his temporarily-bruised ego gave a shit. How should he have known how to suck cock? A number of things run rampant in the Black family tree, namely incest-borne genetic disorders and infant mortality, particularly among his third cousins, but queerness and innate cock-sucking skills do not seem to be among them, at least to his knowledge. Once, at an aforementioned Black dinner party, he’d seen Bellatrix — fifteen at the time to Sirius’ seven — snog some distant-but-not-so-distant female cousin on a dare. Aunt Druella had given her a heavy-handed spanking for it, but not because she’d been a cousin.

That is to say, Sirius’ experiences with the same gender in that way had been severely limited before Jules. No one is out at Hogwarts the way Jules, in his blasé tones, describes them to be at Beauxbatons. Sirius reasons that he can’t be embarrassed, shouldn’t be, and that it’s fine when at mealtimes, he’s got his chin in his hand, thinking about the boy across the table pinning him down into his mattress. Sirius knows just what he’d want to do to him, for him, how he’d emulate what Jules does to make Sirius twist and tremble and cry, but the thought of doing it, try to do it again, this time around sober and uninterrupted and with feelings, with desperation in an entirely different context, makes Sirius feel certain he’d choke.

But it’s not merely that.

Not finding a moment alone means never being without some combination of James, Remus, and Peter, and, by extension, always being without Jules, whom Sirius has been semi-actively avoiding since the Yule Ball. He could be running from something worse — Merlin knows he’s run from much worse — but it weighs on him. Jules is good, he’s fit, he can make Sirius come twice easily and he’s willing to, he can teach him shit he wouldn’t know where to begin to learn on his own. He’s also an arrogant prick, but Sirius has experience with those. James, for instance. And with being one himself.

But Sirius is concerned about disappointing Jules. Funny that, as he still feels like he hardly knows him. He knows that Jules is from London but was shipped away to France for school, that he’d known Dorcas as a kid, or so Sirius had guessed from her one offhanded comment in Potions. He can’t say much more with confidence. But after weeks of sneaking down from Gryffindor Tower to see him, confronting him would mean confessing, but confessing what?

He only thinks about that question when there’s nothing left to think about. If the question had a color, it would be muddied greeny-brown, like swamp grime growing on the surface of a mirror. And Sirius doesn’t much like that color.

The morning after Boxing Day, Sirius had awoken with the intent of sharing with Winnie his newfound knowledge on Adaugeo. When she and her many swinging plaits had eluded him at breakfast, lunch, and dinner, he’d gone and prodded a girl in an Ilvermorny-colored scarf who’d informed him she’d gone down to London to spend New Year's with a friend. Sirius had wondered if said friend was Kingsley Shacklebolt. They’d been rather cozy at the Ball right around the time Sirius had been wrangling James off the stage.

So he’d waited. He hadn’t told Jules, though he’d caught glimpses of him around the castle. Sirius had wasted the daylight of New Year’s Eve by the fire in the Gryffindor common room, passing back and forth Benjy Fenwick’s disgustingly unclean pipe, him and James both daring the other to drop acid, though in the end there was plenty of daring and no dropping. The full moon fell on that night, poor Moony, and they’d all kept him company for what felt like two nights rather than one, it’d been so bleeding long. Remus had slept for nearly a day in the Hospital Wing after that. Then he’d woken up, ravenous and pale, found Madam Pomfrey at his one bedside, Sirius, James, and Peter at the other, and he’d rasped at her in typical Remus fashion, completely dehydrated and slightly delusional, about how she should be off enjoying her winter holiday, how she should’ve left him for dead in the shack, he’d just as easily have slept twenty-three and a half hours on the splintery floor there as in this bed. And she’d said, “Mr. Lupin, so long as you’re on my grounds and your condition doesn’t rest, neither do I.”

It’s when classes recommence that Sirius spots Winnie again. Remus, with the excess of Christmas chocolates bestowed upon him by Peter, has taken to melting them into his porridge. Sirius abandons his post of watching this happen, both impressed and appalled — he loathes porridge — to scramble out of the Great Hall in time with Winnie. He drags her into an alcove, one of those hidden behind the old suits of armor, and tells her everything he can dredge up about Adaugeo from memory.

She looks at him, hands on her hips and shaking her head. “Thank Morgana for you, Black. Mayra said she’d test it for me, drank the whole damn thing before we went to bed. Nothing happened. Guess we didn’t… do any magic. And she just slept it off.”

Sirius nods, anxiously rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I need you to tell Jules.”

Winnie folds her arms over her chest. Blankly, she asks, “Say that again?”

Sirius scoffs. “Please.”

“You know I don’t trust him.”

Sirius prepares to put on a pout. “But he needs to know.”

“And I need quality Mexican food, Black, but they don’t have that here.” She shifts her weight, leans against the wall. “I don’t wanna go near him. He’ll find a way to get his slime on me by just talking to me. You’re the one boning him, Black. Is it that hard to come up for air once in a while, maybe talk about the tournament?”

Sirius drops his gaze to the floor. “I’m not…” Winnie waits. He harrumphs. “If you don’t tell him, I’m going to have to do something daft like write him a letter and owl it to him. Or pass him a note at dinner. That’s pathetic.” Sirius can’t recall the last time he set quill to parchment, which may be more pathetic. Winnie’s eyebrow quirks, and it’s terrifying. Her brows have incredibly high arches. “I’m avoiding him,” he confesses through gritted teeth.

Winnie’s smile grows gradually. “I leave for one week,” she starts, but Sirius interrupts her.

“Yeah, what the hell was that, Winifred? You jet off with Shacklebolt? Did you see Muggle fireworks? Snog on the Eye? I noticed he wasn’t back ’til today, just like someone else.” He bats his lashes at her.

Winnie’s eyes narrow, but a smile plays at her lips. “Portkey, actually, from Hogsmeade. He was meant to go alone to London, see his Muggle friends who’d just started college, but we made new plans.”

“I still can’t believe you asked Remus to the Yule Ball.”

Winnie laughs, loud in the cramped alcove. “I just wanted to give you a taste of your own medicine, baby. I got a sweet picture out of it; cut it out of the Prophet and owled it to my parents. No worries, though. You looked real good that night, and Lupin seemed to think so, too.”

Sirius looks at her straight-on. “Did he say something?”

Her head tilts to the side. “He didn’t have to.” The grandfather clock on the opposite side of the hall, visible over Winnie’s shoulder, tells Sirius he’s spectacularly late to Herbology. Fuck plants, he almost thinks, but he really needs to start running down to the greenhouses now if he has any desire of slipping in unnoticed and evading Professor Sprout’s special impromptu pop-quiz for latecomers on invasive or carnivorous species, species to which he hasn’t paid attention in months.

He hugs Winnie and dashes. And by candlelight that night, he writes Jules a formal but enlightening letter about Adaugeo that he trudges all the way up to the West Tower under James’ cloak to owl. Reading over his summary, he considers making a copy and forcing Slughorn to give him extra credit in exchange, as it’s probably the best damn thing he’s written all year.

***

Sirius tracks how close NEWTs are getting by the steepness of the exponential curve of Remus’ revision. James has begun to slip it more often into conversation, as well, that they should be polishing up their qualifications for the Auror trainee program. Stellar NEWT scores are involved. To James, this becomes of increasing importance as the Aurors are the one place that his family name can’t get James a foot in the door — entry based solely on skill, competence, and determination — and it’s precisely the door in which James would like to cleave a James Potter-shaped hole. Sirius isn’t so set on joining the Aurors himself. From what he reads in the paper, the Aurors have got it all backwards; they arrive on the scene of Death Eaters’ crimes to Obliviate Muggles and scrape victims off walls if things got particularly violent. Otherwise, if there’s no mess to Scourgify away, they wait with the rigor-mortis-rigid bodies of the AK’ed Muggleborns and blood traitors until white-robed wizards from the St. Mungo’s morgue turn up, cast preservation spells, and cart them off for later identification.

The Aurors should be there before the murders can happen. While they’re happening. Sirius wonders precisely what’s in their job description, what side of the story the Ministry is feeding them, if they’re trying to connect the dots between the murders, if they’re trying hard enough. If they’re trying at all. There are enough dots, they should have enough data. But perhaps they aren’t willing to risk everything Sirius expects them to risk. James nods and begrudgingly agrees, but says it’s their only ticket to the warfront, where they could have an actual impact, the next best thing to finding Voldemort himself and giving him a piece of their minds, which James would do if he knew how. But it takes three years of training to become an Auror, and three years is a long time. A war could end and begin again in three years’ time. Or it could just end, and it could be a foul end for the Muggles, Muggleborns, and their allies, and they would’ve done nothing about it, trapped under the label of trainee.

Of course, NEWTs and trainee applications are far off compared to the Triwizard challenge riding up on Sirius’ coattails. Come February the twenty-first, a Saturday, the Great Hall has been transformed.

Sirius is in his stupid red tracksuit again. The dining tables are gone, save for the High Table where the professors and judges are seated. Stands for the spectators line both lengthwise walls. Winnie and Jules are already present and tracksuited by the time Sirius arrives. He reluctantly withdraws from his friends, parting with a painful hug, an “I love you, man,” and a hearty pat on the shoulder from James. Remus nods at him and gives him that smile, that smile that he reads as You’re going to be okay; I may be panicking on the inside but the fact that I appear indifferent on the outside means you’re going to be okay and this could be much worse. Peter messes up Sirius’ hair, which is strangely comforting.

It had been mandated that all students but the Triwizard champions leave their wands behind should they choose to spectate the challenge. Evans had said it’s likely to prevent the interference of students’ magic with that of the challenge, the target of the Adaugeo Potion. 

Standing in the Great Hall quickly becomes stifling. There’s something in the air that makes Sirius feel like he’ll cave in on himself at any moment, as if something is squeezing his heart dry and there’s just barely enough blood to make the full circuit through his body.

He joins Winnie and Jules at an altar of sorts. Before them is a small table, lined with three stemmed crystal glasses. Inside of each is the familiar blue liquid, bright under the sunlight streaming through the windows, with the surface like… like petrol spilt on pavement.

“Thank you for your letter,” Jules says evenly. Sirius doesn’t look at him.

“Of course.” He feels Jules’ finger curl around his pinkie, squeeze, and then release.

“Champions!” booms Dumbledore, striding toward them down the middle of the Hall. Sirius takes a moment to digest the landscape of their challenge.

There isn’t much. Three glass cases. Transparent rooms, almost, with doors on one end. They’re large, easily the size of bedrooms, containing nothing but one heavily padlocked trunk each. Sirius’ eyes sweep over the students in the stands. Not a seat is left unfilled. There’s something unsettling about anticipating spending his next however long trapped in a box for all to see.

Dumbledore steps onto their altar. “Champions,” he says, softer this time, just for their ears, and does a flourish with his fingers that sends the glasses gingerly floating up to their mouths. “Drink up.” Sirius takes hold of the glass compliantly, tips it back, but once he starts drinking, he finds he can’t stop, can’t move it away, not until the glass has been drained and he’s choked slightly on the potion, sent it burbling out of the corner of his mouth. Dumbledore smiles, eyes squinted crescents, as the glasses descend to the table. “This challenge will be shorter than the last, but far more difficult,” he calls to the room, turning to face his captive audience. “When the clock strikes eleven, our champions will have three hours to face their greatest fears. To surrender and thereby forfeit the challenge, you may cast the Red Sparks Charm to eliminate any immediate dangers. The sooner a champion conquers their fear, the higher they will place.” Dumbledore strides down to the glass cases, opens their doors manually. “Champions, if you’ll each enter a cubicle.”

Sirius hears Winnie grumble, “I’m gonna be sick.”

He steps off the altar and approaches the cubicle nearest to the right side of the Hall, where James, Peter, and Remus are sat. It could be a rotten idea, giving his friends front row seats to watching Sirius face his greatest fear.

Stepping through the door, Sirius feels the weight of the dense, deadening magic of the Great Hall lift. He twirls his wand between his fingers, tilts his head back, takes a breath that finally feels like it fills his lungs to full capacity.

The glass door slams shut begin him. He whips around, sees that Dumbledore has just passed by his cubicle. He can’t hear it when Jules’ door closes, nor Winnie’s. But he can hear his heart pounding in his ears. Shut up. Stop that. He spares a glance at the row of first-years seated on the lowest row of the stands, close to his box, eyes wide and shoulders hunched. He feels like a zoo animal.

Dumbledore stands within view of them all, raises his arms to call them to attention. Sirius feels like he should say a prayer, but he doesn’t know any, doesn’t even know what he’d be praying he survives. The trunk rattles. And then he knows. “Fuck.”

Dumbledore motions with his hands. The lock on the trunk unlatches. Sirius takes a step back, but the glass wall is surprisingly close and his heel catches on it. The trunk flies open, and Sirius is consumed.

***

Sirius is on his back when he comes to. Is the challenge over? Did I win? As he peels his eyes open, it’s to the sight of a crystal chandelier hanging high overhead. It’s massive and peculiarly clean for something that hangs so high and out of reach. Of course, magic makes it easy to go beyond one’s own reach, but this chandelier is antique, has hung in the entryway for decades and has been in his family for even longer, so a plebeian cleaning spell won’t do the trick.

The blood drains from Sirius’ face slowly. Without making a sound — he avoids the creaky floorboard three inches from the door — he sits up. The lights are on in the kitchen, down at the far end of the hall, but the door is shut. Someone’s there, though. He can see the shadows of their feet pace past the beam of light along the bottom of the door. The walls are lined with faces he’d never wanted to see again, sneering depictions of relatives stuffed into double-breasted jackets and feathered hats.

“Well, someone was gone a while, weren’t they?” croaks great-great-grandmother Violetta from her gilded frame. Sirius grimaces at her papery bullfrog chin.

“Sirius?” At the top of the stairs stands Regulus. He looks younger, though he’d always been small before he’d hit fifteen just last year. Maybe around ten, eleven. He clutches the banister, barefooted and clad in green pyjamas.

“Hey,” Sirius whispers, gets onto his feet. He doesn’t feel any younger, and he isn’t when he catches his own eye in the nearest mirror. But he’s not in his red tracksuit any longer; he’s in black cords and a tight jacket and an itchy black jumper. The sound of clicking footsteps echoes down the hall, but they’re still confined to the kitchen. Sirius takes a step toward the stairs. “Go to bed,” he murmurs levelly.

Regulus’ face pinches so his lips disappear, mouth crumpling. “But I’m hungry.” He sits down on the top step. “My stomach hurts, it… Mama said we can’t eat until you get back. Where did you go?” he whines.

Where had he gone? Any number of places, probably. He couldn’t have Flooed to the Potters’, as only Mother knows the spell to reconnect their fireplace to the network should they need it. He might’ve been at the park down the road, or in the neighbors’ backyard. They’ve a decent treehouse. “I’ll get you something,” he says. “Go to bed, and I’ll bring you a snack.”

Regulus shakes his head no. His hair is getting long, curling around his ears. It’ll be sheared off soon enough. “You know I always try not to leave crumbs,” he whimpers. “But Kreacher still finds them and he tells Mama.” Regulus, stiff as a board, kicks at the top step with his heel. Sirius winces at the sound, instinctively looks toward the kitchen door. “Mama said we’d eat when you got back. And you’re back. So now we can have dinner.” Sirius recalls wondering how Regulus ever made friends with the pampered temperament he called a personality for so long.

“Regulus,” Sirius whispers tersely. “We both know what you’ll see if you go down to the kitchen with me. And I know you don’t like it, and it’s scary. So go to your fucking room.”

“But she promised she wouldn’t,” Regulus whispers. “Mama promised, she told me, she promised she wouldn’t get scary.” He’s crying now, cheeks flushed hot and eyes dripping. “I want us to have dinner, all of us. For once, Sirius.”

“Hey,” Sirius warns. “Hey, don’t.” He jogs up the stairs, squats on the step below Regulus, squeezing his knobby knees. Sirius forces a wobbly smile. “Don’t do that. You remember why you shouldn’t? Do you remember why you shouldn’t ever cry, huh? Do you?” He swipes his thumb under Regulus’ eye and then licks the pad of it. “Mmm. Salty. Because when you cry, the sea starts to comes out of your eyes, and you know what lives in the sea, hm? What loves saltwater? Kelpies. They can smell it, smell the sea in your eyes. And you know what the Kelpies want?” He grins, wipes Regulus’ other cheek.

Regulus goggles at him. “To eat me.”

“Almost.” Sirius licks off the rest of the tears. “To eat everything but your guts.”

Regulus touches his stomach. Sirius nods knowingly. Then Regulus wipes at his eyes with his sleeves. “I stopped,” he tells him quickly.

Sirius smirks, leans in close. “But it’s too late. The Kelpie’s already here.”

Regulus screams as Sirius lifts him up, tosses him over his shoulder, marches him up the stairs and toward his bedroom. He’s winded by the time he reaches the door.

“Don’t eat me!” squawks Regulus, pounding with ineffectual fists at Sirius’ back. “Just take my guts instead!”

“But your head’s my favorite part! Mmm, crunchy brains.”

Regulus gives him an insulted look once he’s been tossed onto his bed. “Brains aren’t crunchy, Sirius. They’re like jelly.”

Sirius places his hands on his hips. “Goddammit, you’re right,” he muses.

“Sirius.”

The voice doesn’t belong to Regulus. It’s low, vigilant. Tremor-like chills travel down Sirius’ spine. And it calls again from the downstairs.

“Sirius, is that you?”

Sirius raises his palms toward Regulus as if to will him to sit still. “Stay here.” He takes a backward step toward the door. “I’ll bring you a snack.”

Regulus slides off the bed, rubs at his reddened nose. “But now we can have dinner.”

Sirius works on formulating a response to that, but before he can speak, the cold, clawing, bone-chilling hands of his mother’s magic wrap around his neck and drag him out of the room. Regulus’ door slams shut between them, and he hears his brother sob in alarm behind it.

“I’m fine,” he wheezes, touches his fingers to the door, rests his forehead against it. “I’m fine, Regulus. Remember the Kelpies? Don’t —“ His voice cuts off with a gasp, because it’s pulling again, the icy clutches of her magic, at the part of him she hates the most. Or the second most. His voice might come second to his mind, the source of his traitorous values. Sirius grapples for Regulus’ door knob, but he’s choking, he can’t breathe. “No,” his voice cracks, and when his fingers slip off the door, he’s flung off the landing, down the stairs, several flights of them, walls rushing past, thudding bodily to the floor at the foot of the stairs. At last he can breathe, clawing in vain at his neck, but upstairs Regulus is pounding on his door, screaming, “Mama,” and Sirius has just hit his head against the floor, brain rattling about in his skull.

“Get up, you miserable parasite.”

Sirius’ eyes roll open. He hauls himself onto his knees at first, catching his breath. His mother’s trademark floor-length skirts make her into a physical contradiction. She always looks to be gliding, feet invisible like some sort of apparition, but shatters the illusion by walking with a purposeful stomp. He stares at these skirts, smiling bitterly to himself, and staggers onto his feet. Her hair, glossy and black, is pulled into a knot so tight Sirius always assumed it was for a natural facelift. Her eyes are piercing, lips blood red, and only frown lines betray her age. Mother. Sirius brushes off the sleeves of his jacket. “As you wish.” He’s her height now, perhaps a bit taller. He’d still been shorter when he’d… left. He’d left.

He grabs his wand from his boot, knocks into the nearest table. The whisky decanter clinks against glasses. “Riddikulus,” he utters, voice broken, but he’s not visualizing hard enough. He’s not visualizing anything. All he sees are cold eyes.

Mother huffs a laugh without smiling, rests her fingertip on the end of Sirius’ wand to push it downward. “Don’t be ridiculous,” she mutters.

Regulus’ door opens and he comes bustling down the stairs, barefooted steps sticking to the cold floor. “Don’t curse her!” he shouts at Sirius. “Sirius, put — put down your wand!”

“It’s okay, darling,” says Mother. She gives Sirius a once-over. “Your brother won’t do me any harm.”

Sirius reflexively points his wand at her neck. “Would you like to see me try?” he hisses.

Next he knows he’s flying, cold grip at his neck, his back colliding against the wall behind Mother. Regulus screams, cowers behind the banister. Sirius slumps to the floor, coughing pitifully. He’s dropped his wand. It’s by Regulus’ feet. Mother lowers her wand but doesn’t turn to face him. “I don’t ask much of you, Sirius. I really don’t. And yet, it doesn’t come as a surprise to me when you fail to do the bare minimum asked of you, and instead act like nothing more than a senseless wastrel, an embarrassment to this family.” Then she turns, skirts swirling like a bottomless, black whirlpool, and her eyes gun him down. “I’d told you earlier this evening, Sirius, that all I’d needed for you to do while the Greengrasses visited was to talk to Calliope Greengrass. Hold a civil conversation with her. Your greatest luck in courting a Pure girl lies with her. She’s foolish enough to think you charming, she’s sturdy enough to eventually carry a child, unlike her weakling sister, and our relations with the Greengrasses have always been amicable.”

Sirius stares in mortification, his blunt nails scraping the cold wooden floor. Calliope Greengrass had been — still is — three years younger than Sirius, younger even than Regulus. “She’s a fucking child.”

“So are you!” Mother bellows. “I ask you to talk to her, Sirius, and you set her skirts on fire!”

It’s as if Sirius can’t block the influx of long-buried memories pouring into his head. “It was an accident,” he says as he scrambles to his feet. “I was trying to — to conjure a flame, to show her, and —”

“And then you ran out on her. You ran out on guests in our household, off to Salazar knows where, like some insolent animal. Someday, Sirius, you’ll have problems of greater magnitude, you’ll have children and a wife and a name to uphold, and you won’t be able to choose flight over fight, to run from your problems the way you do —” Her lip twitches as Sirius eyes his wand, makes a dive for it. “Enough! Crucio,” she shrieks.

Sirius thuds to the floor, muscles seizing up, agony searing hot through his body. He howls in pain, vision flooding with tears that sting and fuzzy spots that make him nauseous. Mother drops her arm and the curse breaks and he rolls onto his stomach, dry-heaving, saliva pooling below him on the floor. He watches it drip, knows it’s coming from his mouth, knows he must look like a blubbering baby. His wand is within arm’s reach.

Regulus peers at him from behind the banister, wan-skinned and red-eyed.

“Get me my wand,” Sirius whispers, getting onto his elbows. He can feel Mother’s eyes burn into his head. “Regulus —”

Regulus kicks it to him. A flash of green light, and Sirius braces himself, ducks underneath his arms as if it would help at all, casts some meager shield spell, but when he lifts his head, it’s Regulus who’s sobbing, clinging to his head which Sirius had heard smack against the wall.

“Don’t encourage him,” Mother says sharply, her wand pointed at Regulus. “Don’t encourage him. You won’t be like him. You’ll be better than him, darling. You won’t befriend deplorable blood traitors or mudbloods or filthy half-breeds and live to gloat about it.”

It’s not real. It’s not real. “Regulus, go to your room,” he murmurs. It feels like his bones snap as he rolls over, drags himself, mops himself up off the floor. “Regulus. Go. Now.”

Mother’s wild eyes dart to Sirius, but her wand remains aimed at his brother. “Don’t listen to him.”

“Regulus, go!” Sirius staggers toward her until the point of her wand digs into his chest.

“Don’t hurt Mama, Sirius,” whispers Regulus.

Mother shakes her head, scanning Sirius’ face. “You’re a mess.”

“You’re a bitch,” he whispers, and he grabs her by the shoulder, and she feels real, so incredibly real, there’s human warmth even under her icy porcelain skin. “Ridikkulus,” Sirius tries again, wand at her throat. “Please. Riddikulus, Riddikulus, Riddikulus.” He can feel his jaw quiver around the incantation, can hear his teeth shatter, and Sirius isn’t an idiot, he knows how to cast it, he’s read all about it, but the dark baroque wallpaper and his mother’s lacy collar and the mole above her upper lip, the venom in her eyes, it’s all real. He’s home. There isn’t a humorous bone in his body.

Mother sneers and shakes his grip off. Sirius feels weak. Regulus’ footsteps scamper up the stairs. “Get back here!” she screeches, and Sirius stumbles backward toward the stairs, crying Protego, or Run, or both, and Riddikulus, again and again and again, but it’s never right, he can never get it right.

Mother’s stare is vicious. He hears Regulus’ door close, somewhere distant. He’s safe. Sirius drops his wand — his hands are clammy. The smell of something sharp and ripe burns in his nose. He hopes he hasn’t pissed himself. He trips, falls into a heap at the bottom of the stairs. For a split second, Sirius just stares at the ceiling, pictures Father in his study two floors up, listening to the muffled madness and pouring himself more whisky.

He laughs though it hurts. “It's been a bit, Mother. So allow me to get you up to speed,” he says. Mother looms over him. “My favorite blood traitor’s succeeding at wooing his favorite Muggleborn witch, I think. It’s sickening, you know, because they’re gross about it, but he’s sick in love, Mother, James thinks that Muggleborn hung the moon. It’s possible she might’ve, but if she had, if she knew much about lycanthropy, about Remus’ lycanthropy, she would’ve found some way around it, so, actually, maybe she didn’t hang the moon.” He lets his eyelids sag shut when they get too heavy.

“Stop it. Stop that,” Mother shouts. It hurts his ears. What hurts more is when she Crucios him to boot.

Sirius can taste blood now, but it’s just from his nose, trailing down to his mouth. He cracks his eyes open to watch her lower her wand again.

“I dare you to speak another word,” she whispers.

“Okay,” breathes Sirius, head sagging against the stairs. His whole being is limp and throbbing. He lifts one side of his mouth into a grin. “I… fucked a werewolf. Oh. That’s four.”

Green light again. Then black.

***

Everything is bright. Anything is bright after one steps out of number twelve, Grimmauld Place.

The floor is glass and smeared with spit and blood. It’s crusted over on Sirius’ upper lip, the blood, so at least he knows the bleeding has stopped. It’s silent, silent as it was when he’d first been shut into his glass cubicle.

In the cubicle beside him, Jules has his hands in his pockets, pacing leisurely to and fro. Even farther, Sirius can see Winnie huddled into the corner of her own cubicle, face hidden in her knees. He turns dizzily to look at the trunk, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth. The trunk. The Boggart. It’s been locked up again. His ears pop. It’s because his glass door has been opened.

“Mr. Jules Verlaine of Beauxbatons Academy demonstrated acute mastery of the Boggart-Banishing Spell, completing his challenge within seventy-four minutes. Being the first to complete it, he places in first. Miss Winifred Reid of Ilvermorny School made the decision to forfeit the challenge after one hundred and twenty two minutes, earning her third place. Therefore, Mr. Sirius Black of Hogwarts School takes second place,” Dumbledore announces to the Great Hall.

Sirius watches as Winnie’s navy-robed friends flock to her from the stands. She hasn’t moved from the corner of her cubicle. On his feet now, Sirius grabs onto the door frame to maintain his balance. Regulus. His eyes search the stands. He can’t see him, not on either side. A camera flashes not far from his face and he winces at the light, flips the bird in its direction, and covers his eyes with his hand.

“Black?” A tentative hand touches his arm, then holds fast to it to assume the support of the door frame. He turns and looks. It’s Evans.

“Hi,” he exhales. The Hogwarts students, still seated, gawk at him, even though he’s no longer an animal trapped in a vitrine.

“Alright?” asks Evans. Sirius meets her eyes. Unexpectedly, she draws him into a hug. Sirius tucks his face into the softness of her hair. “You’re finished,” she whispers. Solid arms wrap around his back. James. Peter must sneak in, as there’s an arm around his waist. Warm hands bring feeling back to his own. Remus. He can smell him as he steps up behind Lily and James.

Chapter Text

Remus follows Peter and James up into the stands. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mary approaching with Alice and Lily, and briefly considers doing something awfully cowardly like urging Peter to switch seats with him, but ultimately it’s Lily who takes the seat on his other side. Remus remains embarrassed about Mary’s Yule Ball confessions, and he’s lucky that Arithmancy isn’t the most social of subjects and that Mary hasn’t had trouble with her assignments for weeks. She’s better off going to Lily with her questions anyway.

“Why is it that Jules always looks so bloody smug? The last challenge fucked him over. He’s at the bottom of the leaderboard. What’s he got to be so pleased about?” James mutters.

“I swear that trunk just moved,” says Peter.

“Just look at him. He walks like a pompous fucking prizewinning racehorse.”

Peter looks at James from the corner of his eye. “Horses are too stupid to be pompous.”

“Says the rat. And — yeah, he’s stupid, but smart enough to be pompous. But still stupid. Anyway, when’s the last time you met a bloody horse?”

Peter covers his face with his hands, sneaks a look at Remus long enough to give him an eye-roll. “Got me there, mate,” he grits out to James.

Remus bites down on his smirk and knocks his shoulder into Peter’s. His eyes find Sirius again, though, standing with his hands in his pockets beside Jules Verlaine. 

“Champions!” calls Dumbledore, stalking across the Great Hall toward the champions’ altar.

“That other trunk just moved. A different one,” whispers Peter.

Remus flexes his fingers, settles them on his knees. It feels strange to be walking about wandless, but there’s something about the air in the Great Hall that makes it feel as if it’s got half as much oxygen in as it should and as if gravity is operating with more persistence than usual.

Lily’s head turns toward him. “Can you feel it, too?” she whispers. Dumbledore is addressing the champions.

Remus nods, looking at his hands, then at Sirius. “I don’t know what, but I feel something.”

“Spell suppression enchantments,” Lily murmurs. “Sort of like Anti-Apparition Charms. It sounds odd, doesn’t it? Magic to suppress magic?” She follows Remus’ gaze to the altar. “It’s a second layer of precaution. Should anyone still have their wand on them, try to perform any kind of magic while the champions are on the potion, the enchantments will stifle it. Swallow it up, almost.” She gulps, like it’s hard to. “Makes it a bit hard to breathe, though.”

Remus gives her a curious look. “How do you know all that?”

Lily bites her lower lip. “McGonagall asked me to help with casting them. It was pretty cool, actually.” She grins, then peers past Remus for a second. “Potter was asked, too, but he said he overslept. Missed opportunity, I say.”

“Remus,” says Peter. The champions have just downed their Adaugeo.

“When the clock strikes eleven, our champions will have three hours to face their greatest fears,” explains Dumbledore.

“Merlin, Remus,” says Peter again, panic-stricken.

“What?” Remus watches Sirius step into his glass cubicle. He tousles his hair out of his eyes. Remus swallows thickly.

“Boggarts,” Peter hisses. “Boggarts. That’s the challenge.”

Remus’ heart drops to the pit of his stomach.

The doors on the glass cases shut, swallowing up their champions. Dumbledore’s words blur into what sounds to Remus like a chorus of incongruous underwater trumpets.

“What will it do, Evans?” James shoves against Peter in a distressed effort to locate Lily. “The potion? For Boggarts? What will it do?”

Lily shakes her head, looks guilty for not having an answer. The trunks open, and for a moment, nothing happens, nothing comes out. Within five seconds of one another, every champion collapses into a heap on their glass floor, limp-limbed. Remus wonders how thick the glass is, how heavy the spellwork on it, because no one in the Great Hall hears a sound. And within the same time interval again, they all awaken. Sirius looks groggy, as if he’s just snapped out of a nap, but as he takes in his surroundings, it’s clear he sees something everyone else cannot. And out of his trunk steps Regulus Black, years younger, hair longer, cheeks rounder, in pyjamas. Like a rolling wave, the shuffle of turning heads undulates through the stands around them. Remus, not understanding, looks behind him toward the higher rows. At the epicenter of attention, Regulus stares coldly at Sirius’ capsule. His gentle voice stands out above the low murmurs as he Excuse mes himself out of the stands, pushing students aside. The doors to the Hall click shut behind him.

Sirius talks for a while to the young Regulus. He smiles, even. When Regulus cries, he rubs the tears from his face.

“For the next three hours, each of our champions will face off with a Boggart,” Dumbledore explains solemnly from behind the podium at the front of the Hall. “For our younger students, a Boggart is a shape-shifter that, upon exposure to a victim, takes the form of the victim’s greatest fear. The only defense against a Boggart is the Boggart-Banishing Spell, a charm that requires strength of mind as well as the ability to call upon the power of amusement in a time of distress.” With his palms flat against the podium, the headmaster regards them all. “I can see the confusion on some of your faces, yes. At the moment, our champions are under the influence of the Adaugeo Potion, which will intensify their Boggart confrontation experiences to a point at which they will see and hear things we will not, far beyond the corporeal presences of their Boggarts.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be watching this,” Lily says uneasily.

James starts to say, “That isn’t what I remember…,” when Sirius is yanked into the air by his throat. Little Regulus begins to bawl, but then the Boggart inverts itself, swirling in a cloud of black dust into the shape of Walburga Black. Remus has only ever seen her twice, both at King’s Cross at the outsets of second and third year. After that she’d stopped coming and sent Kreacher in her stead.

Sirius struggles blindly, legs kicking out in all directions, and James heaves a breath choked with frustration before shooting upright in the stands. Remus digs his nails into his knees, feeling overcome with dizziness. James shakes his head, fishmouthing before he can get words out, and when he does, they’re a scalding shout toward the professors’ table, “You can’t just let —!”

“Sit down, James,” Lily interjects tensely, though her voice falters. “There’s nothing you can do.”

It’s either because Sirius crumples to the floor or because Lily has never addressed James by his first name that James, tight-lipped, is compelled to sit back down.

“Is he okay?” Peter whispers. Sirius doesn’t move.

“He’s fine,” James says, though it doesn’t sound like it’s Peter he’s trying to convince. “He’s just knocked out. He’ll be fine.”

Remus lowers his face into his hands. Between the cracks in his fingers, he peers out at Sirius, lifeless but visibly breathing on the floor. Walburga — the Boggart — steps closer to Sirius’ lank body.

In the next cubicle over, Jules Verlaine appears to be reasoning with a black-cloaked figure, the self-satisfied smirk wiped clean from his face. Winnie’s Boggart is nothing but a small, black hole, as if a portal to another dimension floating there before her, but she’s on the floor, sobbing and crawling but getting nowhere.

It’s several minutes before Sirius comes to, rolling over and struggling onto his feet. “Yes!” roars James, on his feet, fists pounding into the air. His overexcited up-and-down jumping rattles the risers. “I knew he’d do it! I knew you would, Padfoot! Do her in! Do her the fuck in!”

Not even McGonagall bats an eye at James’ swear. They’re all rather reserved behind the High Table. Lily reaches out, but recoils her hand. “Pettigrew, can you —?”

Peter tugs James down by the shirttails, but he’s hopefully focused on Sirius.

Another wave of Walburga’s wand sends Sirius flying into the wall of the glass cubicle, which doesn’t budge. He’s out again, slouched but upright.

“Poor Black,” sneers Snape, three rows back. “Can’t even stomach mummy’s tough love. One blow and he’s dead to the world.”

Remus knows Lily hasn’t properly spoken to Snape since fifth year, yet she whips around to glare at him. “Severus, don’t,” she says, stern but soft. James mirrors her.

“What was that, Snivellus?” James presses. “All I heard was dead to the world, and if that’s what you’d like, I’d be glad to be the one to carry it out.”

Snape snorts superciliously. Beside him, Avery laughs. “Empty threats, Potter. We all know you’ve gone soft. And so has Black, apparently. Who the fuck’s Boggart is their mum?”

“That’s rich coming from someone who screamed at a unicorn in Magical Creatures,” challenges James. “As for Snivellus? I’d bet fifty galleons that if your Boggart’s not Evans, it’s your puppet master You Know Who, who’s gonna be shit out of luck when he discovers what a spineless ball of slime you are.”

Snape stands suddenly, and just as fast, James is on his feet, clambering up the stands. It’s three against one, or two, rather, because Avery and Mulciber both leap at James while Snape ducks out of the way. He’s nothing without his wand. “I’m gonna make you bleed,” James spits. To Remus’ left, Lily shouts at both sides, and the veins in Remus’ hands bulge as his nails curl into his palms.

“Remus, don’t,” Lily pleads, but he’s already shoving aside the heads of two third years to get between them, latching onto the back of James’ collar to haul him backward. James makes a choking sound and swats at Remus, but he doesn’t care, James will survive. Mulciber swings a punch at him and Remus grabs him by the wrist, doesn’t let go, twists his arm enough to incapacitate him.

“Watch it, you mutt,” growls Mulciber, wrenching back his arm. “One Floo call and I could have the Capture Unit here for your sorry arse —”

“That is quite enough,” McGonagall says shrilly from the foot of the stands. “Detention tonight, all five of you.”

“I didn’t do anything,” wheezes Snape.

“I understand that tensions are running high in this room, but if you don’t all take your seats in the next ten seconds, I will ask you to leave, forbidden from attending any future Triwizard events.”

James gives Snape another look. McGonagall’s threat is enough to have him stumbling back down to his seat. Remus does the same.

McGonagall, oddly hesitant, clears her throat. “I expected more from a prefect and Head Boy, Mr. Lupin and Mr. Potter.” Without looking toward Sirius’ capsule, inside of which he’s only just blinking his eyes open again, she sets off toward the teachers’ table.

Peter, eyes glued to Sirius, pulls his legs close to himself to make room for James and Remus. “Does she seem off to you?”

“McGonagall?” murmurs Lily, who is busy looking at Remus disapprovingly. “I’d expect she’s feeling as uncomfortable about this as all of us are.” Her mouth purses. “Save for the headmasters, of course.”

Remus says nothing. Sirius, obviously weakened, eyes his wand several feet away. He yells at someone who isn’t there, mute from the outsider’s perspective, and makes a lunge for it. Gasps and noises of shock ring through the crowd when Walburga flicks her wrist and Sirius convulses on the floor, body twisting unnaturally, cries unheard but contorting his face. Remus feels his throat close up, cups his head between the palms of his hands, as if covering his ears would actually block any of this out. Peter stares, pale. James shakes his head manically. “No no no,” he’s muttering.

“She’s casting the Cruciatus Curse,” says Lily breathlessly.

“It’s only a Boggart,” Mulciber rebuffs.

Lily ignores him. “She’s — it’s casting an Unforgivable!” She rises, looking toward the teachers’ table. “A student is being tortured! It’s — she’s using the Cruci — make it stop! You’ve got to stop it!”

“Miss Evans,” Dumbledore says placidly, resuming his position at the podium, “I assure you, much of what Mr. Black feels is due to the side effects of the potion. A Boggart’s magic is much weaker than a wizard’s.”

When Lily sits back down, cheeks wet, Remus numbly finds her hand with his own. She doesn’t bother to wipe at her tears, and they drip off her cheeks and stain the black fabric of her robes only darker.

Sirius doesn’t get up for a good half hour. He lays there, prone and unmoving, under the wicked gaze of the Boggart in the gothic Victorian dress. Remus can’t recall when he last saw Winnie on her feet; she’s curled up in as tiny of a ball as she can get, body wracked by uncontrollable sobs. It’s then that the Beauxbatons students erupt into cheers, because Jules has vanquished his hooded figure with a successful Riddikulus, a flamboyant one at that, likely for the sake of his audience. The figure has crumbled into dust that sprouts with quickly-blooming bluebells, petals the precise hue of the Beauxbatons uniform. Jules now levitates his little garden into the trunk, locks it up, and turns toward the stands on the opposite side of the Hall, fist victoriously aloft. James doesn’t seem to even have the spirit in him to disparage Jules.

“Is he dead?” asks a small boy of his friend, seated in front of the four. James scares the wits out of him.

“No, he’s not, you fucking numpty.”

Lily finally wipes at her cheeks, though the pale skin is streaked with pink. “Merlin’s beard. Control yourself, Potter.” She leans across Remus’ lap to squeeze the boy’s shoulder. “He’s fine. He’s — sleeping.”

James stares at her. “Sleeping,” he echoes.

“I’m not getting into this with you.”

Before Sirius gets up again, Winnie sends up the Red Sparks Charm. The ceiling of her cubicle absorbs the fireworks which set the glass aglow in red, and her Boggart is sucked back into its chest, heavy lid banging shut — all silently, of course. Winnie scuttles to a corner inside her cubicle, and it’s where she’ll stay until the end of the hour.

Sirius stirs. For a moment he looks sure to vomit. Several Hogwarts students have already left the Great Hall. McGonagall escorts a group of first and second years out who’d been reduced to tears. Sirius tries to cast, but Remus knows deep down that all he’s really doing is waving his wand about. There’s a hollowness and a desperation to his movements as he’s tossed about again — Peter has to close his eyes — and the glass smatters with a spray of blood when it begins to drip from Sirius’ nose and their friend, unstoppable, beautiful, reckless, laughs through it. The Boggart Crucios Sirius one last time, the third, Remus thinks, if he’s counted correctly, and Sirius sags to the floor. The minutes feel twice as long as they drag by, but when it reaches two o’clock, Sirius rouses. All of the champions flinch. The potion has timed out. Before the doors can open, Lily is weaving her way down the stands, her footsteps light and echoing in the silent hall. She’s there when a dazed Sirius exits his cubicle, and by the time James, Peter, and Remus reach them, she’s holding him in a hug, though Sirius’ stricken eyes still don’t seem to comprehend. Remus watches James and Peter pile on, questions the comforting tactic. Sirius isn’t all there, but he’s not pushing them off, either. So Remus takes Sirius’ hands, cold to the touch, hanging lax at his sides. And he doesn’t care who sees. His first instinct, rubbing his thumb over Sirius’ raw knuckles, is to mutter a healing spell, a simple one, one that will speed up the clotting. But as it happens, the spell gets trapped in his throat, and Remus can’t tell if it’s because he’s rubbish at wandless or if it’s the enchantments in the atmosphere bogging him down. 

***

James insists that Remus and Peter and even Lily, who is surprisingly protective of Sirius at the moment, leave them alone as he takes Sirius to the showers. Of course, Remus and Peter are waiting in their room when they return, when Sirius’ face is clean of blood. James walks in nearly on Sirius’ heels, says something, something like You should dry your hair or Let me dry your hair and Sirius rounds on him, tells him with rancor, “Don’t fucking touch me again. Please.” And then he climbs into his bed, back to all of them, and falls asleep. Peter shuts Sirius’ bed curtains for him, as James doesn’t dare approach the bed.

James and Remus serve detention that evening. McGonagall explains that she’s sent the Slytherins to do Slughorn’s bidding, so they’ll be alone in scrubbing the floor of the Transfiguration classroom. After the past week, it’s covered in mouse shite and feathers from second years turning teacups into mice and third years crows into wrens. Remus unreasonably decides he resents cross-species transfiguration, as the feathers have him sneezing continuously. James spends the full three or so hours ranting about the absurdity and immorality of the Triwizard task, how he’ll be marching up to Dumbledore’s office the second McGonagall absolves them of their duties. “That was pure mad, not sanctioned mad.” Remus, who’s not been able to hold down anything since breakfast, sicks up on the floor, but it’s at least on a pile of mouse feces he’d meant to clean anyway. 

James doesn’t, in fact, head to Dumbledore’s office after they’re set free, too anxious to see Sirius again. They get back to find that he’s still in bed.

“He hasn’t moved,” Peter whispers from the bed opposite, hugging his pillow.

James nods, assesses Sirius’ bed, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. “He’ll be fine.” Then he shuts himself up behind his own bed curtains.

Remus wakes in the wee hours while their room is bathed in pitch-black to find Sirius’ bed shining yellow, light peeking through the drapes and casting odd shadows about the room. James snores away and Peter mumbles in his sleep. Remus’ mattress creaks as he shifts to sit up, but as soon as he does, the light is extinguished and he hears the urgent rustle of sheets. Remus rolls over but doesn’t fall back to sleep.

The next day, at Remus’ behest, which he’s mildly surprised Sirius even considers, Sirius trudges up to the Hospital Wing to see Madam Pomfrey and get checked out after the tumult of yesterday. When they don’t hear from him for several hours, though, and the three of them head up to the Hospital Wing, he’s very much not there, and Madam Pomfrey says “Mr. Lupin, you’re a week and a half early,” and “No, I haven’t seen Mr. Black since that incident with the boils,” Remus is less surprised.

Remus begins to suspect he’s off with Jules, but Jules spends mealtimes flanked by his Beauxbatons crew, more loyal than ever after his triumph in the last challenge.

The first words Sirius utters when he traipses into their room that night, hands in the air, are “Yes, I’ve eaten, don’t yell at me.”

James stubs out his joint on the windowsill and slams the window shut with a dramatic flair. “Where the fuck have you been?”

Sirius snorts, drops his hands. “Didn’t I just say to not yell?”

James approaches him. “You said you’d go see Pomfrey. She said she hasn’t seen you in weeks. Where —?”

“Around, alright?” Sirius gives James that withdrawn, disdainful look not difficult to perfect with features like his. “I’ve been around.”

“Around,” says James acidly. “The fuck you have, Black.” When Sirius turns toward his bed, James grabs at his arm. “Would you stop ignoring me?”

Sirius winces, bodily pushes at James. “Don’t touch me,” he warns, backs toward his bed. Remus is frozen on his bed and it all feels very déjà vu as he can feel Peter’s eyes on the side of his face.

James is stock-still, stiff. He stares at Sirius’ arm. “I’m sorry, mate, okay?” he says, then nods at the arm. “Does it hurt? Is it, is it, like, bruised? From yesterday?”

Sirius chuckles derisively. “No. I’m fine.”

Peter clears his throat. Remus looks at him fondly, just because he can hear the tremor in his voice. “Sirius, I still think you ought to go see Madam —”

Sirius raises his voice. “I said I’m fine!” Shortly after, there’s a curt knock on their door and a “Keep it down in there,” probably from the sixth year prefect, which should be dead funny given that the Head Boy and the seventh year prefect are on the door’s other side, but none of them laugh.

Rolling his eyes, Sirius unbuttons his shirt and shucks it down so his bicep and half his chest are exposed. Remus’ skin heats up. There’s something like a constellation tattooed to the skin just above his elbow. And a mottling of bruises around his neck, but those are clearly not Sirius’ point. “If you must know, mums, I was with McKinnon. She used all the right healing spells, but it’s still fresh. Feels all raw.” He glances down at it himself, pulling at the pinkish skin, then shrugs back into his shirt. “Happy?”

James squints. “Yeah. Buzzing.”

“Okay.” Sirius nods, steps out of his shoes and drops his trousers, then climbs into bed. “Night.” With a flick of his wand, the drapes fly shut.

James looks at Peter and Remus, then makes as if to charge toward Sirius’ bed, undoubtedly to cause another scene. Remus’ hand slips over his wand and shoots a Trip Jinx at James, who smacks down against their floor. At least it’s on the carpeted part.

“Moony!” James cries out, genuinely aghast.

Don’t, Remus mouthes and waves his wand to snuff out the oil lamp on his nightstand.

***

Sirius’ bed is empty when they wake up, so the trio heads down to breakfast without him.

“He hasn’t been like this since two summers ago,” James murmurs, eyes flickering both ways as if in fear of the portraits’ eavesdropping. It’s not a misplaced worry. “When he came to live with me.”

“What did you do that time?” asks Peter, crumpling under his arm the parchment for the essay he’s yet to finish. He trips on the stairs, trying to move at James’ speed, but Remus catches him by the back of his jumper before he can tumble down a flight.

Remus takes a breath. “I say we just —”

“Nothing! I did nothing! He just disappeared! I had to stay out of my ‘rents’ way, told them we we’d decided to go fucking camping in the woods out back! And he came back the next day, covered in leaves and dirt and shit, said he slept as a dog in the forest, had a shower, and then he was back to —”

They enter the Great Hall. Sirius is seated at the Gryffindor table, cracking open a boiled egg. Every other Gryffindor gives him a wide berth, sitting on polar ends of the table to form an empty halo around Sirius at the middle.

“— normal,” finishes James. When neither James nor Peter moves, Remus nudges them both. James reacts first, hurrying to grab the spot beside Sirius. Peter and Remus take those across from them both. While Sirius dips his toast into the yolky middle of his egg, James gapes at him, gripping the edge of the table as if he’s been Petrified.

Sirius, with a mouthful of eggy toast, slowly turns to face James, then bats at his crumby cheeks. “Have I got something on my face?” he mutters.

James blinks and releases the table, reaching for an egg himself. “Nope,” he says quickly. “Well actually, just, er… You weren’t this ugly yesterday. Caught me unawares.” He says it tentatively, though Remus wonders why he says it at all until Sirius laughs.

“Still fitter than you, I reckon.” Sirius rests his elbows on the table, rips the crust off his bread like he always does. “You know, lads, I woke up today and I’ve just… never been more in the mood to hex the snot out of Snivellus. How long’s it been since we last did? I can’t even remember. I know we’ve expressed our reservations against doing anything since that incident fifth year, but I still think he’s scared of Dumbledore, wouldn’t dare tell anyone how cute and cuddly Remus gets once a month, so if we’re lucky, he’d fight back. It could be fun.” Sirius pauses in thought. “Come to think of it, we’ve been so caught up in all the shit with the tournament that I can’t remember when we last served detention.”

James scoffs. “Speak for yourself. Moony and I had to lick clean the Transfiguration classroom floor for three hours two nights ago.”

Sirius cringes. “You what?”

“No,” Remus stops him. “We did not use our tongues.”

Sirius meets his eyes, a smirk pulling at one side of his mouth. “Thank Merlin. No one wants to snog someone who’s licked the Transfiguration room floor.” 

“No one wants to snog someone who licks their bits in their free time,” counters James, pointing a toast soldier at Sirius.

“It’s called grooming,” Sirius levels, reaches out to tenderly caress James’ cheek, which ends up being a means of entry into a war of elbowing. Sirius withdraws first, holding his own arm.

“How’s your… tattoo thing?” Peter asks.

“She’s lovely.” Sirius smiles. “I’ll show you lot later, when it’s more appropriate.” He eyes the High Table, more specifically McGonagall. “Though, I’ve been thinking, on the last day of school this year I’ll be able to get up on this table and get my kit off and nobody’ll be able to do a thing about it.”

James snorts. “Yeah. That’s just how everyone wants to remember their last day of school.” He shakes his head. “Years from now — if we’re not all dead within five, that is — you’ll run into, like, Mary Macdonald, and she’ll be all, Oh, of course I remember you, Sirius Black! You’re that prat who soiled the innocences of hundreds of unblemished babes on our last day at Hogwarts!”

Sirius bats the air with his hand. “Highly inaccurate. Highly. If everything goes our way, she’ll say, Sirius Black! That washed-up Triwizard champion turned war hero, tragic end of the Black lineage, gay uncle to James and Lily Potter’s seventeen children.” Remus places his tea cup onto its saucer with a loud clatter that draws jarred looks from James and Peter, but Sirius simply smiles without looking up from his plate.

“Sorry,” Remus mutters. “Do continue.”

Sirius lifts his eyes, clears his throat. “So, about hexing Snivellus. We could get him when he’s alone and risk having his cronies find us and tattle to the higher powers, or we could take all three of them on. I’d say we just take them all at once, it’s more judicial. More of a challenge, more generous to them. And we’re mature adults now, aren’t we?”

“Is that your foot or the table, Sirius?” says Peter, shifting in his seat.

“Shit, that’s me. Sorry.” Seconds later, Remus feels Sirius’ foot nestle between his own two, crossed at the ankles. As he glances at Sirius across the table, who looks a cross between unapologetic and amused, Remus can’t help it when he cracks up.

“What’s got into him?” James asks. Sirius claps a hand onto the back of James’ neck.

“Nothing. On second thought, I retract my former statement. I’m the only legally mature adult here. But March is fast approaching, which means that if we want to be dishonorable, we’ll have to do it soon.”

***

Later that day, as they schlep into the Potions classroom, Lily falls upon Sirius the moment his feet pass over the threshold. She tugs him urgently aside as everyone else files in. Remus, James, and Peter stop to idle close by, and when Snape passes by, gaze wary, James gives him a warning glare.

Meanwhile, Sirius stares at Lily like he’s never in his life seen her before, tense in her grasp. “Jesus, Evans, what is it?”

“You’re —,” Lily utters, clutching onto his wrists. She casts a look about the classroom, then looks again at Sirius. “Are you okay? How do you feel?”

Sirius blinks. “Fantastic.” He eyes her iron grip on his arms, lifts his brows. “How’re you?”

“I’m… I’m fine, thanks, but,” she answers. There’s a little crease between her eyebrows. “That’s not… what I mean. Are you —?”

James takes Sirius by the shoulders, looks pointedly at Lily. “He’s just dandy, Evans. Leave it.” He guides him away toward their lab bench, passing by Remus, who hears Sirius whisper to James, “What the fuck was that?”

Peter and Remus exchange a look. The former trudges over to Dorcas. Remus is left beside a forlorn Lily, who watches Sirius go with her jaw agape. When Lily glances his way, he can only shrug.

Slughorn waves his arms about, trundling to the center of the classroom. “Good afternoon, good afternoon! Would anyone like to guess what we’ll be working on today?” He chortles, disregards every raised hand vying to respond. “More NEWTs review, that’s right! Today and today only, I will give you a chance to redeem your mark on the worst potion you’ve brewed this year. Please feel free to take from my stores if you’re out of ingredients, and come see me if you’ve forgot your worst mark.”

Once at their lab bench, Remus hasn’t the faintest idea which of their potions was the poorest. Unlike with most of his classes, Potions is strictly a follow-Lily’s-instructions-and-hope-for-the-best sort of class, and if Lily is involved, it means he needn’t bother much with keeping updated on their grade. Snape raises his hand at the next table over. “Ah, Mr. Snape, just choose a fun one, won’t you?” Slughorn tells him, smiling crookedly.

Lily drums her fingers against their bench. “Well… we only got an E on Euphoria. I suppose that could be better.”

Remus looks at her, resists the urge to laugh. “Alright. Yeah, brilliant.”

As they prepare the ingredients — Lily minces the porcupine quills, Remus juices the Sopophorous bean — Lily nudges him in the side. “Black is doing alright, then? After the challenge?”

Remus’ gaze trails to Sirius and James’ bench, where they’re struggling with Sopophorous beans themselves. James’ flies off the table, rebounds off the ceiling, hits him in the glasses, bounces in a graceful arc into their cauldron. Sirius dips out of sight behind their bench, keeling over with laughter. Remus sighs, feeling his chest warm. “He’s been more himself since this morning,” he murmurs. “I think he just needed time.”

Lily shakes her head and lifts her wand to adjust their flame. “I had no clue. No clue his family was like that.” She appears conflicted, stare fixed on their cauldron. “Of course it doesn’t excuse anything terrible he’s done, but.” She rolls onto the balls of her feet, then off again. “That task was barbaric. A complete breach of privacy, among other things. It just wasn’t right. I heard Winnie spent hours with Madam Pomfrey after the task, just talking.”

Remus doesn’t want to think about it, the look of Sirius, powerless like he never otherwise is, and for everyone to see, not to mention Mulciber’s jibe that had left his heart relentlessly rabbitting. He knows Snape must have told Mulciber about Remus’ furry little problem, and he’d spent much of James’ soliloquy during detention talking himself down, replaying in his mind If he’s known for this long and hasn’t told anyone, he isn’t going to. Not that expulsion at the insistence of many a student’s parent would even mean much at this point; he’s only got a few months left.

Remus realizes he’s left Lily hanging only when she bumps him in the hip and says, “Let’s drop it, though.” Whilst Lily adds the quills to their cauldron, Remus’ eyes stray to watch Sirius again. Neither James nor Sirius has been able to juice his Sopophorous bean — Lily had enlightened Remus to crush it rather than cut — and Sirius’ bean slips against the blade of his knife, skittering to the floor. Sirius circles the table to get it, and while he’s squatting to the floor, he catches Remus staring. Instead of looking away, Sirius picks up his bean and hurls it toward Remus and Lily’s lab bench.

“Whoops!” exclaims Sirius. He checks for James’ attention over his shoulder before sauntering nonchalantly toward the bean. His fingers skim their tabletop and he peers absently into their cauldron. “Evans, Moony,” he greets and proceeds to bend over to pluck his bean up from the floor. It’s then that Remus notices Sirius has shed his outer robes — it does get steamy in the dungeons with all the cauldrons bubbling away — because he’s able to see as Sirius’ uniform trousers strain against the shape of his arse. “Pesky little bean, innit?” mutters Sirius as he pops up, smirks and leans his weight into the table opposite Remus and Lily. Remus has to remember to breathe, his eyes slightly narrowed on Sirius. What is he up to? “Anyway, it’s Living Death that Prongs and I are working on. Would you believe it? You think that’d be the one potion we wouldn’t muck up.” He smiles once more before turning on his heel and heading back to James. Remus most certainly doesn’t look at his bum as he goes.

Lily drops her knife and dusts off her hands. Remus doesn’t expect it to be so she can turn toward him with her hands on her hips. “What the hell was that?” she demands.

With far too much concentration, Remus pours the bean juice into their cauldron. “No idea.”

“You’re lying.” Remus makes the mistake of looking at her. She’s grinning and then whispering, “I thought I’d seen Sirius Black flirt, but I really hadn’t ’til now.”

Remus shakes his head swiftly. “That… he wasn’t flirting.”

“Oh, shut up. You know he was,” Lily scoffs. And, alright, perhaps he was, but Remus almost doesn’t want to believe it. It would defy his every belief, every bitter pill he’s forced himself to swallow over the years to gain acceptance of what he is, how he’ll always look, what his life will be, what he deserves. “When did that happen?”

Something demonic in Remus obligates him to respond without forethought, “I don’t know. Quite a lot’s happened.”

“Remus! I’m your wingwoman. We’re allies. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Remus focuses on stirring their concoction. “It was bad at first. I mean, it was good, but then it got bad really fast.” He dares to look toward Sirius. “But I think it might be getting better.”

“Remus, look at me.” He does, and Lily bumps her hip to his again. She smiles, soft-cheeked. “That’s really good, Remus. That’s good. Y’know, I figured something’d been going on when I kept seeing him everywhere with Jules, who I now know to be… very strictly homosexual.” She grimaces, brow pinched. “And when he wouldn’t stop looking for Black at the Yule Ball.”

Remus’ palms sweat enough to have him wiping them against his robes. “Jules was — is, er, something, yeah. I’m not getting my hopes up,” he tells her, and before Lily can interject, he asks, “And what’s new with you?”

She concedes once he’s stared at her long enough. “Not much.” She takes over the stirrer from Remus. “I’ve been trying to talk my parents into leaving the country.”

Remus stops playing with what’s left of the dried-up bean. “What?”

“It’s too dangerous for them here.” She dims the flame so their potion calms to a simmer. “There’s… there’s a third year in our House. Yvonne Edgecombe. She’s Muggleborn. Death Eaters set fire to her family home last week. Nobody was home, thank god, but.” She pauses. “Even though they’re Muggles, one of their family members is engaged to that Daily Prophet editor, the one they tried to have killed in December, which was a — the most transparent, dimwitted stunt, by the way. But I think that’s the only way they could’ve known of them, by that connection, and it’s not as if my family’s at all involved with the magical world, nobody’s got any reason to know of them unless they know of me, have some particular interest in me, but… I still want them to be safe. They won’t hear of it, of course. Moving. Not even across the Channel. They think I’m mad with everything I’ve been writing to them.”

Remus doesn’t speak. Lily’s eyes flicker to him but she doesn’t really look. “I wouldn’t have known — about the Edgecombes, I mean — if Yvonne hadn’t come to me. The Prophet report didn’t even mention their family name. It’s always just Muggle family this, Muggleborn witch or wizard that unless they’ve got social status. But she knew I was Muggleborn, too, came to talk to me as if I could help her. Gave her a hug, but I barely knew what to say.”

“I’m sure you told her all the right things.” Lily. Always so fiery, with a persona bigger than anyone might expect her body to hold, she seems awfully small when she confesses this to him. Remus is at a loss for a moment. They’ll be fine, he wants to say, but he can’t promise that. He can’t guarantee a thing. “The way I see it,” he murmurs, “I think your family’s safer than you realize. Hiding amongst other Muggles, that is. The spree killings are… they’re horrid, but that’s just it, they happen all over the country, seemingly at random. They’re distractions. While everyone’s busy gawking at another Muggle house going up in flames, it’s the opposition they’re really targeting. Those with power and sway. Like…” He shrugs pensively. “Like the Ministry. And Dumbledore. Your family’s further from the warfront than you think, though we can’t be sure of anything these days.” He almost adds, I’m sorry that you have to worry, but it sounds dreadful even in his own head.

There’s a silence during which Lily funnels their Euphoria into a vial. “Can’t be sure of anything,” she agrees, touching Remus’ hand, then withdraws to stopper the vial. 

***

Their second Draught of Living Death is a fluke. Neither Sirius nor James manage to get the juice out of their Sopophorous bean — James’ pride too steadfast to stoop to asking Evans and Sirius too hesitant to approach her table again after flaunting his arse for not only Remus but also Evans to see, Merlin, what’d he been thinking? — so they just fling them whole into the cauldron, ignore it when the bean skins catch on the cauldron’s hot surface and start to smoke.

It could’ve gone better.

On his way out of Potions, Sirius steps on Remus’ heels just because. Remus glances backward with that very Moony remorseful look that means he thinks he’s in someone’s way, because only Remus apologizes for being stepped on. But upon seeing Sirius, he rolls his eyes.

“Didn’t see you there,” Sirius says.

“Might want to walk with your eyes open next time.”

“Is that what you people do?”

They stop to regroup just a few feet from the Potions classroom door while students are still exiting. It’s a habit they’ve never been able to shake as a group, though it pales in comparison to the collective nuisance they’ve been over the years.

Peter joins the circle, already huffing and puffing with excitement. “I didn’t bollocks up our potion this time,” he declares, leaning into his grip on James’ shoulder, “and Dorcas can get her Shrinking Solution mark up. I think that’s celebration worthy. Sneak out to the Three Broomsticks?”

Remus, one shoulder sagging under the weight of his bag, shakes his head. “Arithmancy assignment. I’ll be in the library ’til dinner.”

James points his finger at Remus. “Boring.” Then he places his hand on top of Peter’s head, tousles his hair. “I’ll go with you, mate. Was planning on doing drunk hall patrol tonight. Could do with starting early.”

Sirius wonders if Remus actually has an assignment to finish or if he’s available to be bothered for the next two hours, and says, “Er,” but James gets the next word in.

“Don’t look now, but we’re being watched,” James says lowly, gaze fixed somewhere past Sirius’ shoulder. Despite himself, Sirius’ head whips around. “Christ, Padfoot, I said don’t look!” James hisses.

It’s Regulus, leaning up against the wall outside the classroom door. Slughorn waddles out, locks the door with his wand, trills a “Hello there, Mr. Black!” to which Regulus nods politely. Sirius’ skin itches. When Slughorn wanders off and Regulus still hasn’t moved, Sirius clears his throat. “I’ll see what he wants.”

Regulus stands up straighter as Sirius approaches. They’re almost of a height now, which is unsettling. Close up, he looks tired, though his hair is as neatly combed as always. “Suppose you’ve got a reason for creeping on us?” murmurs Sirius.

“I’d like to speak with you,” Regulus says, arms folded defensively across his chest, “alone.”

Sirius laughs softly. “Is this a joke? Did Snivellus put you up to this?” He grabs Regulus by the shoulder, gripping his robes, and turns him to scan their surroundings. “Where’s he hiding, huh? Snivellus, you can come out now!” he calls. Regulus abruptly smacks his hand away.

“Can’t you at least try and act mature for once?” he chides. He looks furious. Sirius thinks it’s inexplicably hilarious. He hasn’t had a proper chat with his brother in over two years and now Regulus thinks he can tug Sirius around by his ear like Mother. “All I want is to talk to you, preferably away from your traitorous little friends.”

Sirius arches an eyebrow. Feeling himself still smirk faintly, he glances back at Remus, James, and Peter. “Hey traitorous friends. Go on without me.” He waves with a wriggle of his fingers. James narrows his eyes, but Remus readily lopes off.

Sirius follows Regulus up the stairs to the first floor, where he peers into every classroom they pass until he finds an empty one. He wordlessly spells the door open. Sirius says nothing as he goes inside, hands in his pockets. It’s the History of Magic classroom, and Binns is Merlin knows where, so Sirius sags into the creaky chair behind his desk that he never uses. Dust billows out of it and he coughs.

“We couldn’t chat in the open like normal siblings?” Sirius kicks his feet up onto the desk. Were he to ever forsake his own principles and become a professor, he’d do it solely for the benefits of a big chair and footrest-slash-desk.

“If you want to smile and Queen’s wave at everyone and pretend we’re normal siblings, be my guest. But I’m not going to. We’re not siblings. You were blasted off the tapestry long before Mother completed your emancipation papers.” Regulus stands on the other side of the desk, wand poorly disguised in the sleeve of his robes.

Sirius snorts. “Put that away. You’re making me nervous.” He folds his arms behind his head. He hadn’t known about the tapestry, but he won’t let Regulus know that. “I’m pulling your leg. I know you don’t want your slimy chums to see you talking to me. You’re embarrassed.”

“Well, obviously.” His chin tips up as if he’s deliberately looking down his nose at Sirius. “It’s been two days and everybody’s still talking about your Triwizard task.”

“They ought to move on. I’d already forgot about it.”

“Figured you’d say that. I rather think it’d still be on your mind.”

Sirius scoffs. “You weren’t even there.”

Regulus glares. “I've heard things. I was there long enough to see your Boggart turn into me.”

“Bet that just bloated your ego, didn’t it? I’m not scared of you. I’ve never been scared of you. If anyone thinks I’m scared of you, they’re fucking mental —”

“Shut up, Sirius, nobody thinks that. But I see your angle here. You spooked everyone proper, didn’t you? Now you’ve got the pity vote. Poor mistreated Sirius, black sheep of — whatever.”

“Do you think I wanted everyone to see that?” Sirius pushes himself out of the chair. He thinks he might be shouting. He can never quite tell in his own head. “I had no control over that. You’re embarrassed? Well, sorry. But you’ve got people looking at you, talking about you? I’m not going to apologize for that. They’re going to keep doing that, not because of me, but because of the dodgy shit you’re knee-deep in, you and Snivellus and Avery and all those other prats.”

Regulus stares at him. He’s harder to rile up than Sirius remembers. He begins evenly, lowly, “You’re not part of our family anymore. You don’t even deserve the name. I only wish that you’d…” He looks down, drums his fingertips against the desk. Sirius watches. His nails are bitten raw. “… That you’d keep your head down. Haven’t you exposed yourself enough? Playing childish pranks on people with your blood traitor, mudblood-loving friends, joining this outrageous tournament, publicly soiling the family name, the family you claim to want no involvement with.”

“I’d been doing half that shit my whole life, Regulus. I’m not going to stop now.”

Regulus stares past him. “They say you hugged that mudblood Evans when you —”

“Your stupid friends aren’t around. You can drop the act, this whole vile blood traitors filthy mudbloods act.”

Regulus’ eyes are cold. “It’s not an act.”

“Fine.” Sirius pulls his wand from his boot. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Mother sent Kreacher to spy on you, so, er, Revelio,” he vaguely waves his wand, “See? He’s not here. She’s not listening.”

Regulus repeats through gritted teeth, “It’s not an act. I know you think you’re so trendy or so rebellious — or whatever archetype you’re masquerading as these days — to believe what you believe. But this isn’t child’s play any longer, Sirius. You ought to try being rational, taking a look around you. Seeing things for what they are.”

Sirius breathes for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”

Regulus meets his eyes, shakes his head. “I figure after this I’ll never talk to you again, but we never said goodbye before you left.” Then he looks away, his mouth tensing as if he’s let slip something he hadn’t meant to. “I don’t know why I bothered. It’s not as if they’d want to take you after everything you’ve done. What you’ve become.”

“Who?” Sirius traipses around the desk. “Take me where?” When Regulus says nothing, tugs down on the sleeves of his robes, Sirius pounces at him, latches onto his sleeve. “Regulus, show me your arm,” he insists.

“Get off me,” Regulus growls, twisting out of his grasp and stopping Sirius mid-step with a wand to his throat. He stares, and so does Sirius, and Regulus digs it in further. “They say you hugged the mudblood, and that you held hands with Lupin,” he whispers.

Sirius laughs, sudden and manic. He’s still got his own wand in hand, and he raises it to nudge Regulus’ away. “Is that what you’re cross about? Because Lupin and — Remus and I held hands?”

Regulus fails to meet his eyes. “I’ve heard rumors about him. Mostly from Severus.”

“I’m sure you have.” Genuinely curious, Sirius asks, “Heard any about me?”

Regulus flushes uncomfortably. “It’s not a rumor if you’re hardly trying to hide it.” Sirius considers this, and it’s why he’s too slow to react when Regulus stealthily disarms him, sending his wand flying somewhere amongst the desks. Sirius rolls his eyes when Regulus gouges his wand into Sirius’ cheek. “I don’t know if Mother knows, but I think it’s repulsive. Long before you ever left, she should’ve known you’d be of no use to the family.”

“Well, there’s no denying that.” Sirius’ eyebrows pique. “Tell me, do you think you will? Long live the Blacks, Toujours Pur? As if.” He laughs sharply, hand darting out to wrestle for a grip on Regulus’ arm. “You’ll get yourself killed long before you can —”

“Stupefy!” shouts Regulus. 

Sirius dodges it that time and an ornate world globe shoots off Binns’ desk. He shakes his head, grapples with his brother, hisses, “Get out, get out now and go to Dumbledore or you’re fucked, Regulus, you’ll get yourself killed!”

Regulus stuns him square in the chest.

Sirius rolls over with a groan, but it’s as if he’s looking through a pair of terribly blurry goggles, everything robed in translucent gray. He hears the familiar drone of Professor Binns’ voice, realizes that the professor is floating quite literally on top of him, and scuttles backward along the floor. Not that the damn ghost notices. Sirius must’ve been out for some time, though, because out the window, the sun is low in the sky, and the fourth year Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs in the front row of desks are giving him judgmental looks.

Sirius sits up, leaning into his hands, and eyes the students. The girl closest to him he recognizes as a Chaser from last year’s Gryffindor Quidditch team. “Hey, Dodderidge, why the fuck didn’t you wake me?” he whispers, rising silently to his feet.

She shrugs. “It was funny. He was standing on your head.”

Sirius eyes her, dusts off his robes. “Fair enough.” He stands on his toes, peers halfheartedly around the room. Every head is turned his way but Binns’. “Anybody seen my wand?” Sirius doesn’t catch who it is that hurtles it at him, but his wand hits him upside the head and he just barely catches it. Destined for a Quidditch career, he is.

“Mr. Black? What in Merlin’s name are you doing in here?”

Sirius faces the professor. Well, this is an unexpected turn. “Just leaving, sir.”

“Why, I haven’t seen you in my classroom in three years,” Binns muses.

“I know, sir, it’s been eons. I just missed you too much, sir.” Sirius dawdles, wonders why he bothers, then sprints out the door. “Bye!”

James and Peter are back from the Three Broomsticks and in their room, drunk already. Remus must still be in the library. “We thought you’d died!” James hollers, and, no, but close enough.

“Only he thought that,” Peter says from the floor.

Sirius smiles. “Just a fraternal heart-to-heart.”

He later shows them his tattoo of the Leo constellation above his elbow — “Lion? For Gryffindor? Sick, mate!” — before they can ask about it sober.

***

Remus’ birthday falls on a Tuesday. It’s only because James’ birthday is the Friday two weeks later and Peter’s the Sunday after that that Remus is off the hook from having a mid-week rager in his honor.

“We can’t just do nothing,” states James adamantly. His eyes follow Lily as she stalks out of dinner in the Great Hall. She’s just given Remus a happy birthday hug and ignored James entirely.

“We are doing something. In two weeks. Just not tonight,” Remus says to his plate.

“Yeah, alright, there’s that, but the occasion begs marking.” James ponders, then says, “For one, you’re not allowed to have your pyjamas on by nine.”

Remus frowns, forking a roasted potato. “I haven’t done that since third year.”

Sirius waves his fork about because his mouth is full. “Fourth,” he mumbles. A bit of potato from Sirius’ fork lands in James’ juice, which earns Sirius a “For god’s sake, man!” and a cuff to the head.

“And is having them on by ten much different?” Peter points out, and Remus would be affronted but he’s not surprised. James’ opinions are Peter’s.

“No, it’s not,” James puts in.

“Fine. It appears the consensus is that I won’t put on my pyjamas at a reasonable time.” Remus sets down his fork.

“We could spell out Happy birthday Remus in spots on Snivellus’ head,” James suggests. “Though… it might be too long. Actually, there’s plenty of room on his nose.”

“That’s too obvious. Trail leads back to us. Big reeking git could do,” says Sirius, his foot bobbing with excess energy against Remus’ ankle. If there’s anything Remus has got used to in recent weeks, it’s Sirius’ feet cozying up with his under the table.

“It doesn’t mark the occasion if it’s not thematic,” Peter says. “What about Happy Birthday Remus but in a Muggle secret code Snape would never think to translate? Caesar cipher might be too simple, but Morse code he might not know what to do with…”

“I’d rather everyone avoid detention on my birthday,” Remus contends. “Or at least avoid sticking their necks out in plain sight.”

James sighs, unnecessarily scrubbing a hand through his hair and angling himself toward Remus. “Moony. We can’t. Do. Nothing.”

Remus smiles to himself, turning his foot inward to rub the top of it along Sirius’ Achilles. “Do you remember when we tried to make our own wine at the end of last year, right before summer?”

Beside him, Peter frowns in thought. “The stuff that looked like sick in a bag?”

“Moon juice,” Sirius says giddily. His foot starts to bounce again.

James’ eyebrows draw together. “And we buried it under…”

“Greenhouse four.” Remus nods.

“Fuck,” whispers James. “We only meant to leave it for, what, a week? And it’s been — I won’t count. That shit is probably ripe.”

“Makes me want to be sick just thinking about it,” Peter whispers.

“Seeing as it’s my birthday, I think I ought to have some authority over what happens tonight. So I veto the hexing, and on the condition that I won’t put on my pyjamas until midnight at the earliest, we’re all going to drink the moon juice.” He reflects on his plan. “Let’s confine it to our room, too, in case anything happens.”

“You don’t mean you’re gonna go dig it up?” James asks. “Moony, that’s a rubbish idea. You’ve got a weak stomach.”

“Perhaps, but I still hold my alcohol better than any of you.”

Peter pushes away his empty plate. “That’s not saying much.”

Sirius slinks his arm around James’ shoulders. “Moony and I’ll take the cloak and go fetch it.” Remus’ eyes lock on Sirius’ across the table. “Seeing as we were the ones to hide it.”

James still looks skeptical, but slowly his grin blossoms. “If you get any of it on my cloak, I’ll shit in your bed.”

***

Sirius wears the cloak as a scarf as he and Remus make their way out of the castle after dinner. He’s only just managed to whip it off in the nick of time and tie it back on after encountering a gaggle of young students on the first floor.

“That just looks bizarre,” Remus murmurs for the third time.

“Where else am I supposed to put it, genius? We don’t need to hide yet. Curfew’s not for another hour.”

“Hold it?”

“Then I wouldn’t be able to do this, would I?” Sirius, looking supremely smug even with no neck, finds Remus’ hand with his own as they reach the doors of the Entrance Hall. It’d been Remus’ decision to avoid a secret route — the simpler, the better — and he’d convinced Sirius by reminding him they’d make it out without cobwebs in their hair.

As they slip outside and the door creaks behind them, Remus turns his eyes forward. His heart lurches. He slowly threads his fingers into Sirius’. “Last I checked, you had two hands.”

Sirius cages Remus’ one hand with both of his. “Forgive me for trying.” And the way they’re walking now, Sirius’ knee hits the back of Remus’ leg every so often and their shoulders bump awkwardly, but it’s perfect. “I am, by the way. Trying.”

“I can tell.” Remus spares him a glance. “And I appreciate it.”

“Do you now?” Sirius asks. He’s grinning, and he takes a few bigger steps in an attempt to outstrip Remus while still attached to him. Also to get in his line of sight.

Remus focuses past him; to look at him would be too much. It’s a clear night, a waning half-moon, and Sirius is out of his robes — the idiot, he’ll get cold — and the moonlight reflects off his white shirt, casting the hills of his cheeks in a pearly glow, the valleys in shadow, his eyes shaded but bright in the way only Sirius can render gray bright. They reach the crest of the hill, the greenhouses sprawling at its foot. Remus’ face and mind and mouth must be doing things of their own volition because he laughs and tugs on Sirius’ hands and says, “Shut up and run.”

It feels like Remus’ feet will run out from under him as they sprint down the hill. “One, two,” he breathlessly counts as the greenhouses fly by, “Three.” Sirius breathes hot close to his face and they’ve yet to slow their momentum from the hill so Remus casts Alohomora from a distance on the door to greenhouse four, which flies open in time for them to stumble in and collide with the cabinet where the dragon-hide gloves and pruning scissors are kept. The door swings shut behind them and the ephemeral, strange triangle of moonlight on Sirius’ face disappears, though it still permeates faint through the roof and paints the top of Sirius’ hair into silver strands.

Catching his breath, Remus drops his head against the cabinet door. He watches Sirius mirror him in the dark and smiles.

“Happy birthday,” whispers Sirius.

“Thanks, but I think I’ve heard that enough today.”

“I’ll never stop reminding myself that I’m not the only one growing old.”

Remus raises an eyebrow at Sirius. “Must’ve been lonely being eighteen,” he says dryly. He notes he’s still holding Sirius’ hand. Just one, though. Like a normal person.

“Yes! And now you finally see. Now you’re eighteen and all the wiser for it. You notice these things. You have something our two companions still lack.” Sirius slips his thumb between their hands to trace a shape into Remus’ palm and unwinds the cloak from around his neck to hang on the greenhouse door handle. Remus stares, waits for the moment that Sirius will crack.

“And what’s that?” he asks.

“No fucking idea.”

“Well, aren’t I special.”

Sirius leans into his shoulder, facing Remus, smile silly. “No, mate, you’re really not.”

Remus peers down toward the dark floor, in the direction of their hands. He’s got Sirius alone finally, but the line is blurry between what’s okay and what isn’t okay to say, particularly when he’s holding Sirius’ hand. “I think that you still wouldn’t want to talk about it and it’s been a few weeks and you seem fine, but I wanted to…“

“Moony.” Sirius shifts closer, shoulder dragging along the cabinet door. “If it’s the Triwizard task you mean, I’m fine.” Remus lifts his eyes. He likes this, likes when Sirius’ head is tilted up just in the slightest so he can look Remus in the face. “It was just a nasty reminder, is all.”

Remus nods and sighs. “Okay.”

“Mhm.”

“Okay.”

In the silence that follows, Remus gauges their surroundings. In the darkness, the Venomous Tentacula plants along the far windows twist and sway like sea anemones. Sirius lets go of Remus’ hand. “Hey,” he whispers, “As fun as it is to make you blush on command…”

Remus mutters, “Fuck you,” as he rubs a hand over his eyes.

“Stop.” Sirius pushes his hand away. “As fun as it is, and as logical as it was for both of us to come find the moon juice because we hid it together, and as — terrified as I am right now, if I don’t get to snog you while we’re alone I might combust.” Sirius swallows audibly. “Unless you don’t want to, that is, which is fine. Good, even. Obviously it’s good for you if you don’t want to. I won’t throw myself onto you again. I still might combust, though, so you should just leave me here in case I get destructive.”

Sirius doesn’t wait very long before he follows that with a whispered, explanatory, “Here’s where you reject me and leave.” He gnaws on his upper lip. “Maybe swirl your robes all dramatic on the way out, make it real tragic for me.”

Breathing in, Remus shuts his eyes, then opens them to lean in close to Sirius. “Yeah, in a minute, I’m just trying to rationalize this — when you say you’d combust, would you Confringo yourself, or would the fire come from somewhere within,” he touches Sirius’ chest, fingers drumming against it, “from some… some fiery pit of passion inside of you?”

Sirius stares at him blankly. Then he covers Remus’ hand on his chest, thumb smoothing over his scabby knuckles. “The latter, I think,” he says with consideration. “Yes. That, ‘course. Is that the right answer?”

It’s the stupid right answer to a stupid question. Remus cups the back of Sirius’ neck as he kisses him. Hands, hands, Sirius’ hands unfasten his robes to get underneath, to hold his back and slide around his waist. Something thuds inside the cabinet as they fumble to find a comfortable footing against it, tangled in each other. Remus’ heart stutters when Sirius leans his full weight into him, humming intermittently into Remus’ mouth. Their lips make soft smacks as they meet and part, and Remus needs more, needs to taste him, but Sirius won’t stay still, tilting his head this way and that as if he’s trying to kiss Remus’ mouth at every angle. Remus swears he’s vibrating, like a wind-up Muggle toy, deep under his skin.

Pushing at Sirius’ shoulders Remus gets him against the cabinet, holding him in place while Sirius’ hands slink up to his neck, his cheeks. Sirius’ eyes peel open, big and purpley-lidded and steely gray, as Remus nudges in close to lick into his mouth. And as Sirius obliges, head tilting back and jaw relaxing, Remus draws out of him a soft, raw, throaty noise that feels like it fires off every synapses in his body.

Remus steps back, crudely wipes off his mouth on the back of his hand. “We should find the moon juice,” he says, asserting it with a nod.

“Yeah.” Sirius has yet to let him go. Remus feels wobbly as Sirius crowds close and kisses him tenderly, eyes hooded and fingertips gentle on Remus’ cheeks, trailing over his cheekbones and jaw. Remus lays his hand to Sirius’ stomach, easy to find because his shirt’s never tucked in, and goes helplessly pliant as Sirius kisses his cheek, traces his tongue feather-light over Remus’ ear and the hinge of his jaw.

He’s never been more reluctant as he clears his throat and steps out of his hands. “Let’s find it. The others’ll wonder,” he says, taking Sirius’ hand and guiding him deeper into the greenhouse.

Sirius lights a Lumos for them and clears his throat, sounding dazed. “Which of the floorboards was it?”

There are hidden bunkers underneath the floor of greenhouse four for magical plants that require darkness to grow. Years ago there was a supply closet built over one of them, never again to be used for growing plants. “Back here.” Remus releases Sirius’ hand to open the closet door. He kneels to the floor, nudging bags of manure out of the way. Sirius gags somewhere behind him.

“Jesus. Fucking hippogriffs.”

“Give us some light over here.”

Sirius edges close to him, points his wand toward the floor. Remus sees the crack in the floor, the discontinuity in the planks, and lodges his fingers in between to pry at it. The bunker flies open and from within emanates a sickly smell on par with the Hippogriff dung. Sirius coughs, and Remus can tell he’s pinching his nose shut when his voice comes out funny. “Seems the manure’s been a good disguise for it.”

“No shit.”

“Yes shit. So much shit.”

“Shut up.” Remus holds his breath as he bends at the waist, carefully feeling for the top of the glass jar, knowing full well there’s a hole in the top to release the gases and Merlin knows he’d rather not drip the volatile liquid all over himself. It’s heavy and large, and Remus falls against his bum trying to hoist it out.

Sirius holds his wand up to the jar. The liquid is a murky orange and there’s a dense layer of mush floating at its surface. “Eugh. Remind me what we put in there, Moony?”

Remus sits back and stares at it. “Pumpkin juice, oranges, sugar. Tomato sauce. Bread, I think.” He pulls his wand, mutters, “Finite.” The stench only becomes more powerful.

Sirius coughs again and crawls toward Remus, pressing his nose into the shoulder of Remus’ robes.

“Did you just make it worse?”

“I’d charmed it to keep out bugs, not to mold and shit. It’s just the spells lifting,” Remus says distractedly.

“Let’s forget about it.” Sirius hugs Remus’ arm. “We can pretend we spilled it, if they ask. Or tell them it was infested with flobberworms because you forgot your clever charms. Just Vanish it.” Lips press against Remus’ neck. “Please please can we snog again.” It’s not a question. It’s also not a statement Remus had ever thought he’d hear. Remus shifts onto his knees and crawls over Sirius, urging him to the floor. Sirius grins up at him and the first thing he does it kiss that away, palms rolling over Sirius’ chest. Sirius is flighty, though, and he only lets himself be kissed for so long before he starts trying to sit up, to hook his leg around Remus and get his arms around his neck, so much, so much at once.

“Okay,” Remus breathes against his mouth, pressing Sirius down into the floor. “Okay.” He sits back, stares at the jar. “I said we’d drink the moon juice, so we’re going to drink the moon juice.”

Sirius gets up on his elbows, hair in front of his eyes. “Are you mad? There are things rotting in there. We put tomato sauce in, Moony. Come back here.”

“We just need to sieve it somehow.”

“I’m not kissing you if you drink that.”

“I’m not kissing you if you don’t.”

“You’re mental.” Sirius sits up. “Don’t suppose you’ve got a strainer on you?”

Remus smirks to himself, shuts his eyes, taps the tip of his wand to the glass jar. He inhales, exhales deep, and then, “Evanesco.” When he casts Lumos and squints at the jar, it’s nearly pulp-less, mushy fruits gone. Then he drags it toward himself.

He looks over at Sirius to find him lighting a fag with his wand. “Mental,” mutters Sirius around the fag, though he’s smiling wryly when he lowers it from his lips.

“That can’t be good for the plants,” Remus says, eyeing the smoke. “Anyway, we’ll try the moon juice, then take it up. We can wrap it in the cloak.”

“We?” scoffs Sirius. Remus unscrews the lid and tips back the jar, swallowing a gulp. It’s astringent and cloyingly sweet and it burns as it goes down the pipe. Remus puts the jar down, eyes squeezed shut, and Sirius hoots with laughter.

He tries to shake off the shudders and slides the jar toward Sirius. “Your turn.” Despite all his complaints, Sirius hands his fag to Remus and takes a swig from the jar.

Remus can see that he barely resists spitting it out. “That’s the worst thing I’ve ever drunk,” Sirius breathes. With agony in his eyes, he looks momentarily at Remus, who takes a drag from Sirius’ cigarette. Then Sirius goes in for another gulp.

Remus cackles, and Sirius whimpers, “I’m going to hurl on your shoes,” and “Toxic,” and “That’s absolutely what Snivellus’ pants taste like,” and Remus begs, “Please never say that again,” and hands off the fag to down another mouthful himself.

Sirius’ stomach makes a strange noise that Sirius clearly tries to ignore but Remus doesn’t let him. He crawls over him again, and his mouth tastes vile, both of theirs do, but Sirius groans deliciously and rubs his hands over Remus’ arse and he forgets.

Remus comes up for air, peers up at the sky beginning to cloud over. The only light they’re left with comes from their wands, still lit and strewn across the floor alongside the abandoned cigarette butt and the jar of moon juice. “We should,” he whispers, glancing down at Sirius, pecking his lips and his chin, “get back. We should get back.”

Sirius bites his lip. It’s so unfair. So unfair, Remus’ brain prattles. “Or we could do dirty stuff.”

Remus chuckles and it sounds like a gasp. “No!” He touches Sirius’ cheek. “No. Fuck, not in the greenhouse. Greenhouse six is the cleanest one, smells the least like Hippogriff manure.”

Sirius looks at him like he’s dumb. “Then let’s go there.”

“No, Padfoot. No. We’ll —” Remus clears his throat, gets onto his feet. “No. We’ll be in a right state of mind when we do that. Now listen to me, I won’t say it twice. James and Pete’ve been waiting. Let’s go back to the castle. We’ll take the juice with us.”

“Mm, good idea. What’s that other thing you said?”

“I said we should go back to the castle, and we’ll take — oh, for fuck’s sake!”

Sirius could’ve woken the whole of the Gryffindor boys’ dormitory with the laugh he lets out.

Supply closet door safely shut, fag butt Vanished, moon juice lid screwed on, charms appropriately cast to stifle its and their odors, Sirius wraps the jar in the cloak of invisibility.

“At least it’s a bit lighter,” he comments.

Remus cringes as he steps out into the cold after Sirius and shuts the greenhouse door. He has to grab onto the outer wall and wait until the pukey feeling has passed. Then he sighs and looks at Sirius, who’s smiling. “Okay,” murmurs Remus, suppressing a hiccup and directing his wand at the door. “Er — what’s the opposite of Alohomora?”

“What d’you mean?”

“Er… the spell that locks things. I’ve not forgot, it’s just — can’t seem to remember the incantation.”

Sirius hums for a while, then sagely proposes, “No-lohomora?”

Remus holds in a laugh. He leans into the wall and shakes his head minutely. “No, that’s definitely not it.”

“Well, I haven’t seen you try it, have I?”

Remus snorts. “Alright then.” He gives a flick of his wand. “No-lohomora.” When the various locks click shut, Remus gapes, then drops immediately to a squat, hands pressed to his face. “What. The. Fuck!” he squawks in disbelief, grinning into his hands. His voice and Sirius’ high laughter are swallowed up by the vast night.

“The incantation that seems to have slipped your mind, Mr. Lupin, is Colloportus.”

Remus is on his feet too fast for his shaky stomach but not fast enough given that Professor McGonagall is just feet away from them and lowering her wand. “Professor,” he utters.

Sirius, hugging the invisible jar of moon juice, nods at McGonagall. “Nice evening for it, isn’t it, Professor?”

Remus knows nothing slips past McGonagall, and the odd positioning of Sirius’ hands mustn’t, but she doesn’t mention it. “I sorely hope you two have a reasonable explanation as to why you’re at the greenhouses when you should be in Gryffindor Tower.”

Remus’ brain short-circuits, and he knows he has to intercede before Sirius can say something daft. “Sirius has lost his robes, Professor. I offered to help him look. We thought he might’ve left them behind in Herbology.” Herbology, which they’ve had in greenhouse three for years.

McGonagall hums. “I see.” Remus blanches internally at the speed with which this acceptance comes. “Well, your search has gone on for long enough, and it is now after hours. Mr. Potter mentioned I might find you out here. We should be getting back.”

At the mention of James, Sirius mouthes The prick!, but Remus swiftly shushes him. McGonagall proceeds to climb the hill, clutching the long skirts of her robes between her fingers. Sirius battles a case of the giggles all the way up to the castle, and Remus offers halfway to take up carrying the jar.

Inside the Entrance Hall, Remus bids a polite good night to McGonagall, but she frowns expectantly at him. “Oh no, Mr. Lupin. You and Mr. Black won’t be going to Gryffindor Tower. You’ll be coming with me, straight to the headmaster’s office.”

Remus’ smile is forced. “Oh.”

The argument between Sirius and Remus is silent. Sirius’ eyes say You’re the batshit one who wanted to drink the moon juice in the first place! while Remus’ scream If you’d had it your way, McGonagall would’ve walked in on us shagging in the greenhouse.

“Butterscotch,” McGonagall says calmly to the gargoyle outside the headmaster’s tower. As it steps aside, she tips her head at the boys. “After you.”

Remus walks up ahead of Sirius, still bearing the brunt of the jar. He comes close to toppling backwards on the winding stairs only to be steadied by Sirius’ hand on the small of his back.

Expecting to march to his expulsion, Remus hesitates inside the door to Dumbledore’s office. The floorspace is filled to its brim by chairs occupied by students. Emmeline, Marlene, Dorcas, Alice, Mary, and Lily sit in a cluster. James sits nearby with Benjy and Frank. Remus also recognizes Prudence Clearwater, a Ravenclaw prefect, and while he can’t name everyone else, he knows them all to be seventh years.

“Mr. Black, Mr. Lupin. So good of you to join us. Please have a seat.” Dumbledore appears from the depths of the office to stand beside a pair of near-identical enormous men, both with wiry auburn beards. James wheels around in his seat at their mention. Remus ambles over to take the chair next to his, failing to be subtle about placing the invisible moon juice jar on the floor and tucking it under the chair. James aims a light kick at it, and when his foot ricochets, his head snaps up.

“You brought it with you?” he whispers. Sirius chooses that moment to collapse into the seat on the other side of Remus and swing his arm across the back of Remus’ chair. James cranes his neck toward Sirius, and while Remus is determined to maintain his poker face, James chuckles and nods at Sirius. “Is he drunk?”

Remus folds his arms over his chest.

James’ eyebrows rise up above the frames of his glasses. “Are you both drunk?”

“No,” Sirius chastises grinningly. “Drunk? In the headmaster’s office?” He snorts and shakes his head. Remus feels fingers curl into the base of his neck. “That’s so fourth year, Prongs. Now tell me, what’s going on in here? Whatever it is, I like this energy.”

James, amused, rubs at his jaw. He needs a shave, Remus thinks. “To start, you and Moony are wasted in Dumbledore’s office. And they’ve managed to get an unprecedented amount of seventh year know-it-alls into one room.” Remus notices the way James’ eyes flit toward Lily and watches him shrug. “McGonagall came for me and I didn’t even know what I was being busted for. Still don’t. I wouldn’t’ve snitched on you had she not said it was imperative she find you immediately, Mr. Potter.”

“We’re safe as long as Evans is here,” Sirius says. “Why didn’t she ask Peter?”

James shrugs one shoulder. “No idea.”

Looking toward the front of the room, Sirius pitches forward in his chair. “Is that…?”

“Yeah,” James mutters. “Gideon and Fabian Prewett.”

“From four years back?”

James nods. Remus frowns; he doesn’t remember them. Sirius whistles lowly and says, “Mother never liked the Prewetts. Said they were —“

“If I could have your attention,” says Dumbledore, standing on the steps leading to his desk. The room quiets. Remus hiccups and Sirius finds it gloriously funny and pinches at his cheek. “I’ll try to keep this short so you can all get back to your evenings. Take a moment to look around you. You’ll find that you’re surrounded by some of the most talented witches and wizards of your year. Everyone here has a strength, if not many; perhaps you are excellent with spellwork. You have an unrivaled work ethic. You are loyal or brave. You are a great peacemaker or a quick thinker. You are… exceptionally kind.” Dumbledore descends the steps to stand on the students’ level. “I would not put it past young witches and wizards of your caliber to have realized that you will soon leave Hogwarts to enter into a world whose climate is unstable, less than ideal, and rapidly deteriorating; a climate in which we, as your professors, your families, your elders, would never have wished you to have to start this new chapter of your lives.”

James is leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, hands covering his mouth. Remus’ eyes haven’t left the headmaster, and they don’t as Sirius’ fingers wriggle against the crook of his elbow. He coaxes Remus’ arm loose to entwine their fingers and tuck them out of sight behind Remus’ hip.

“As we speak, Lord Voldemort —,” Mary gasps aloud and Lily shushes her, “— is gaining strength and growing his army of Death Eaters, Dark wizards and witches of all ages. Creatures, too. The attacks by Death Eaters to terrorize the public and strong-arm the acceptance of Pureblood supremacy have and will continue to increase in frequency and severity. It is my belief that the Ministry of Magic, if hasn’t already, will soon be infiltrated by Voldemort’s followers, and that the incompetence of the Ministry’s attempts to contain the rise of Voldemort have made it necessary to address the conflict not from within the Ministry, or with the help of the Ministry, but independently of it.”

“I can take over from here, Albus,” says the Prewett brother with the long roguish hair. “Evening, all of you. I’m Fab, Fab Prewett, Hufflepuff, graduated way back in seventy-four. That there’s Gid, Gryffindor, my brother — yeah, bet you guessed that.” He smiles faintly at the scattered laughs. “As it should be, this is an exciting time for you. No more curfews… if some drunk arsehole at the Leaky’s buggin’ you, you can hex ‘em all you want if you’re willing to shoulder the consequences. And you get to start cooking for yourself, which’ll make you realize you’ve taken the house-elves in the kitchens for granted all these years. Or maybe you’ve got hovering, broom-rider parents who’ll never leave you alone.” Fabian smiles again, good-natured. “Yeah, those’ll be the worst of your worries for some of you. Some of your mates, maybe even some of you in this room, we can’t say the same for. Your Muggleborn friends will live in fear. They can try to make what they want of themselves, but according to Voldemort, they committed a crime against wizardkind the moment they were born with magical ability into a Muggle family. The more powerful Voldemort gets and the more corruption he spreads, the more likely it is that they will be targeted, oppressed, tried as if their birth was a legitimate crime.”

“We’re not going to give you the Muggles are just like us spiel,” says Gideon. “They’ve got their own corrupt government, their own wars to fight. Yeah, they’re pretty much us without magic, but they’re also light years ahead of us in some ways. Having the privilege of magic means we also have the responsibility of a Statute to uphold, which we can’t do if Voldemort is killing their kind for his twisted agenda.”

“Gid and I graduated four years ago. We both did a year as Auror trainees — yes, Mad-Eye Moody is as horrifically brilliant as you’ve heard — but it wasn’t enough for us, it was all simulated environments and more studies and target practice on bewitched dummies. And what the majority of actual Aurors were doing wasn’t much more. Moody told us about… it was something we’d heard whispers about while still in school; rough, nascent, a bit disorganized…”

Dumbledore shrugs sheepishly and both Gideon and Fabian laugh softly.

Fabian continues, seemingly trying to tread lightly, “A resistance group.”

Mary pops out of her seat suddenly. “I-I’m sorry,” she says quietly, hands clenched but shaky at her sides. “I don’t think I want any part in this. I’m so sorry.” She looks regretfully at Dumbledore, then weaves between the chairs to let herself out. McGonagall, hovering by the door, takes her under her arm as they leave.

Fabian is unfazed. “That’s fine,” he murmurs, then looks at them all. “That’s fine. We only mean to inform you. You’re not bound to us. But if anyone at this point feels uncomfortable, I won’t count it against you if you leave, so long as all of this stays between us.”

Sirius squeezes Remus’ hand as several other students stand wordlessly. McGonagall is at the door again to hold it for them on their way out. James has pulled a Snitch from his pocket and rolls it around between his hands, and for once, his Lily radar doesn’t buzz when she turns in her seat to look at him.

“Right,” says Fabian. “Splendid timing, actually.” He clears his throat. “Voldemort is able to recruit so heavily because of two things: fear and the promise of a new world order. Instilling fear in his followers gives him leverage. Keeps them loyal. Join or be marked as an enemy, essentially. But so many flock to him with hopes of becoming the ruling class over oppressed masses of Muggles and Muggleborns. He promises them glory and prosperity.” For a moment, Fabian’s gaze is faraway. “As Gid and Professor Dumbledore and I have seen, if magical families aren’t turning to Voldemort, they’re receding to the background, remaining neutral or uninvolved if they have blood status to keep themselves safe, going into hiding or fleeing the country if they haven’t. No one wants to endanger their loved ones if they can help it.

“The resistance can’t promise to our members what Voldemort does. We can’t even promise that a year or five years or ten years from now, things will be better. It’s dangerous — it’s dangerous for anyone who sticks their nose where Voldemort doesn’t think it belongs, it’s dangerous to duel a Death Eater or two or five.”

“This is by no means a demand. You’re all young, just barely beginning your lives,” Gideon puts in. “But it is a desperate call to action.”

“Our ranks are thin,” says Fabian. “We have the most powerful wizard of our time leading us, but as it is, we’re outnumbered.”

“We need allies everywhere.”

Once it’s clear they’ve finished, James starts up a slow clap that Lily is quick to join. There’s not so many of them, perhaps fifteen students, but the enthusiasm of the applause resonates through the round chambers. Fabian smiles at them sadly. Gideon nods curtly but keeps his eyes down.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Dumbledore says as he gets onto his stairs again. “It isn’t much, but this is all we can reveal to you as outsiders. I hope that all of you will meditate on what you’ve heard tonight. The end of the school year is months away, but should you find after the end of June that this meeting remains on your mind, I am only an owl away. However, owls can be intercepted — make mundane conversation about the weather, if you must, and leave your signature. Underline your signature twice and I will take it as an acceptance of your invitation.” With an encompassing wave of his hand, Dumbledore dims the fires in the torches circling the room. “Take heed — the secrecy of our organization now rests in your hands. I trust that what has been said inside this room will stay only amongst yourselves and those you trust. And should you have like-minded friends or relatives to whose dependability you would be willing to testify, do extend the invitation to them as well. We could use all the help we can get.” Dumbledore gives an undemonstrative smile, then retreats toward his desk. “Good night.”

***

Lily doesn’t walk out with the other Gryffindors, Dorcas and Marlene arm in arm and Frank whispering into Alice’s ear. Remus insists upon waiting for her. It’s enough to test Sirius’ patience — still tipsy, he’d nearly rushed at Gideon and Fabian, crowing “Can I start now? When can I start?” until James had wrestled him into submission and out the door — and to have James dopily messing with his hair. Filch arrives on the scene, thunderstruck at the students casually in the corridors, and charges straight up the stairs into the the headmaster’s office. He returns sooner than Lily’s even left, dispirited. When Lily comes out seconds later, she startles to find the three of them waiting.

“Hello again,” she says to Remus as they start down the hall. James and Sirius fall into step behind them.

“Hullo,” he murmurs. “Is Mary okay?”

Lily prods curiously at the invisible jar he’s wrapped his arms around. “What’s that?”

“Er, booze. Long story.” He stumbles over his own feet, knocks into a suit of armor that thankfully doesn’t collapse. Sirius snickers behind him. Lily just arches an eyebrow. Remus manages to walk in a straight line for at least the next four paces. “Is she alright, though?”

Lily sighs, looking forward. “It’s not my place to say.” She frowns. “But I think her family’s planning on going underground until this passes.”

Remus nods slightly. “Of course.” Then he shuts up.

“So what’d you think, Evans?” asks James.

“I think it must be getting bad if Professor Dumbledore wants us to fight.” She regards James over her shoulder. “Don’t look so excited, Potter. Save your bravado for someone else.”

“As much as I find James’ machismo unbearable, he’s allowed to be excited, Evans. Not just for your sake,” snaps Sirius. “Dumbledore just invited us to kick Death Eater arse. I’m fucking excited, too.”

“You would be. You’re both so naive.” Lily shakes her head.

James squeezes Sirius’ shoulder, a silent order to stand down. “You’ve ruled it out, then? Joining his resistance? Barring all the dodgy Slytherins who probably sleep with Dark Arts tomes under their pillows, you’re also the best at Defence.”

Lily sighs out her nose. “Of course I’ll join,” she replies tartly. “Ideally I’d be able to help out while I’m doing Healer training, but… I just don’t know if that’s realistic.”

“Healer training by day, dueling Death Eaters and spelling James’ guts back inside him by night?” Remus contemplates. “Sounds very Lily.”

Lily smiles, finally, as they reach the portrait of the Fat Lady. “Excelsior,” Lily tells her, and once the portrait door has swung open, she turns to the three of them. “Good night, boys.” James then closes it behind her.

“That girl,” he whispers, then holds up his hands. “Moving on. What do we tell Wormtail?”

Remus shifts the moon juice in his hands. His arms are aching. Sirius, with his hands on his hips, says, “The truth. We’ll tell him about the resistance group. If we’re all — we are all joining, aren’t we?”

James nods rapidly. “Yes,” agrees Remus, a beat too slow. He’s still thinking about Dumbledore’s words: As we speak, Lord Voldemort is gaining strength and growing his army of Death Eaters, Dark wizards and witches of all ages. Creatures, too. Whether or not he’s a wizard or a creature in Dumbledore’s eyes, he’s uncertain. But he thinks he knows which of the two makes for a better ally. He tries to picture himself, Remus John Lupin, fighting a skilled Death Eater. It’s a mortally embarrassing image.

Sirius nods. “Right. If we’re all joining, of course Pete will, too. We’ll testify to his loyalty, yadda yadda. Simple as that.”

Remus fixates on an unclear point down the stairs. “Will he be hurt he wasn’t asked to the meeting?” When neither James nor Sirius reply, Remus shifts on his feet and eyes them both. “It’s just… you heard what Dumbledore said. About… about talented witches and…”

James claps a hand on Remus’ shoulder. “Good thinking. It’s — it’s fine. We’ll tell him they only picked a few of us. Me ‘cos I’m Head Boy, you ‘cos you’re a prefect, and Padfoot just because he was there when McGonagall found you.”

“Hey!” Sirius gapes. “Just because. That’s tosh. You did hear what Dumbledore said, yeah? I’m exceptionally kind.” He bites back a smirk.

“And James is dating Lily,” says Remus tiredly.

“Kindly fuck off,” says James.

“Anyway, Wormtail will buy that. Doesn’t matter he wasn’t there,” Sirius states. “He’s Pete. Perhaps a tad easier to overlook than others, but he’s all those things. Loyal, kind, a quick thinker. No way we’d join a rebellion without him.”

Chapter Text

Just as Sirius expects, Peter is on board with the resistance group, doesn’t even question his lack of an invitation to the meeting. Remus is an excellent worrier, a niche worrier, worries about things Sirius would never have thought to worry about, like Peter feeling left out when he wasn’t chosen by McGonagall or Dumbledore or whoever to be bamboozled into the headmaster’s office to join a rebellion. He didn’t seem dismayed, Sirius thinks, or perhaps he, like Sirius, had just been too enticed and exhilarated by the thought of graduating from Hogwarts to specialize in the field of Death-Eater-arse-kicking.

If Regulus knew, he’d laugh. Or… no, Regulus would probably curse him. Though still wrapping his mind around the concept of his little brother as a junior Death Eater — Sirius had been so adamant at convincing Regulus he was in danger — the more Sirius dwells on it, the less he’s concerned. Assuming Mother’s mindset — she must know, he’s sure she knows about Regulus — he hasn’t enough of a backbone to simply join Voldemort’s henchmen of his own volition and not crawl to her feet expecting praise and to have his head pet. Sirius is certain he can read her mind. The only son she claims, her beloved one, her last one, takes the mark, earns the Dark Lord’s favor for the family name. But Mother’s womb is shriveled and rotting, Regulus is her last, the heir, and Sirius knows she’s hoping the Blacks have escaped into the shadow of Voldemort’s blind spot, where they’ll be able to sit tight and at ease for the remainder of the war, knowing they’ve appeased him once. As much as she might blow her top off at Regulus, she’d never let him get himself killed.

That’s what he tells himself, anyhow.

Sirius floats through his days in a strange state, feeling genuinely at ease in his skin, his mind, everywhere but viscerally, deep down in the lining of his gut into which he’s swallowed the Triwizard Tournament. It’s where a nondescript malaise lives, an achy reminder of his failure in the last challenge, of what his peers had seen, and the fact that there remains a task he’s yet to complete. He hadn’t lost only because Winnie forfeited, but from overhearing whispers in the halls and at mealtimes, seeing the concern even in James’ brow during those few days after the challenge — James, Prongs, his fucking rock, the one who won’t bat an eye when Sirius breaks his nose trying to leap from one moving staircase to the other, who helps him onto his feet with a rough pat to the shoulder, tells Remus he’s fine and fixes him up with a half-arsed Episkey that Sirius isn’t sure ever fully snapped things back into place — he’s sure that out of the three champions, he came out of the challenge having suffered the greatest loss in dignity.

Shame isn’t something Sirius knows precisely how to feel. He’s close with joy and fury and jealousy, but shame is like their oddball cousin with whom he hasn’t yet learned to comfortably interact. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever learn, because shame keeps coming at him in different flavors, wearing different masks. The shame he feels now is different than what he felt in fifth year when he nearly lured Snivellus to his gory death and Remus didn’t speak to him all summer until the week he moved out of Grimmauld Place into the Potters’. This new shame is intermingled with embarrassment and resentment. He hasn’t even spoken to Winnie since the challenge, which is nothing short of pathetic. Sirius thinks he’s been subconsciously avoiding her and that’s how he’s made it this long, avoiding the confrontation in which he’d ask are you okay? and she would subsequently do the same and he would promptly… melt into a puddle. Turn inside out. Anything to brush off the question because he knows Winnie doesn’t take I don’t want to talk about it for an answer.

But beyond that, beyond the sickening ebb of shame in his very core, Sirius is fine. He’s more than fine, really. And what differentiates fine from more than fine is Remus.

They’re still never alone by happenstance. And while they could be, while Sirius could man up as he had the night of Remus’ birthday and orchestrate those moments — he could crawl into Remus’ bed while James and Peter are both snoring and cast a proper Muffliato, or drag Remus into a broom cupboard after mealtime — they’re in a limbo where it’s safe and warm and linking their feet together under the table during meals is good and okay, as is snogging when they’re alone and James and Peter are somewhere far, far away. But they haven’t established anything beyond that. The night of the Yule Ball had been Sirius putting almost all his doxy eggs in one basket, and with his confession on Remus’ birthday he’d put the rest. He hasn’t any doxy eggs left because Remus has them all. Any spontaneity now wouldn’t be spontaneous, is the thing. Remus has the eggs and he knows how Sirius feels. It should be so simple; Sirius likes Remus, he thinks Remus at least enjoys snogging him — he can’t think about Remus fucking him, liking fucking him, won’t be able to get his hand out of his pants if he does — but it isn’t simple. It hasn’t fallen into place that way. While Sirius lays in the dark of their room at night, mindlessly wanking more now than he has in ages, he knows Remus is too reticent to come to his bed. Remus likes to plan before execution, and they’ve done no such thing. No plans, just heedlessly-thrown doxy eggs. An incomplete handjob and a snog in greenhouse four and childish games of footsie in the Great Hall. Doxy eggs.

Sirius thinks it should be him, then, that instigates the planning. Talking, rather. Anything other than the bloody doxy eggs in limbo. On the topic of Sirius’ inclinations, Remus would probably ask Does James know? to which Sirius would say Probably not, the oblivious berk, but I’m ready to tell him, I’m going to tell him, regardless of this, us, the doxy eggs. He’ll probably leave out the bit about the doxy eggs, for Remus’ sake —

“Sirius.”

Sirius is lost in thought, en route from the Transfiguration classroom to the Great Hall for lunch. He’d left his Transfiguration essay up in the Tower and McGonagall had permitted him to run up and get it after class with the promised penalty of a lost letter grade, thereby also permitting him to tack on an extra three inches within an unsuspicious four extra minutes and some strategic use of secret passageways. Sirius deemed it necessary after seeing the length of the essay James bullshitted the night before. At least James’ essay is in classic Potter chicken scratch and Sirius’ maintains the swooping, cursive penmanship that governess after Pureblood governess hexed into his cramping right hand when he’d gone and tried to use his left.

The interruption is courtesy of Jules Verlaine. The door to the Great Hall is within his sights, just beyond Jules’ shoulder, but Sirius has the sinking feeling that making a run for it isn’t the answer. He takes a backward step so they’re not so disconcertingly close, so Sirius can see not only the green of Jules’ eyes but also the robin egg blue sweep of his robes. “Jules,” he greets slowly. He hopes it comes out pleasant enough.

Jules smiles coldly. “Can we speak outside?”

Sirius nods, so Jules strides off toward the Entrance Hall. In passing, Sirius gets a glimpse of Remus, Peter, and James at the Gryffindor table, and then his skin’s bathed in the white late-March sunlight of the outdoors, not yet warm enough to melt the layer of highland snow concealing the grass. Jules sits down on a bench in the courtyard, crosses his legs, pats the space beside him companionably. Sirius actively resists whatthefuck microexpressions as he lowers himself into the spot.

“How’ve you been, Sirius?”

Sirius rests pointy elbows on his knees, stares down at the ground between them. There’s a few seconds where he thinks the inner turmoil might be painted across his features, but he settles upon a jovial smile. It’s easier to force, in a way, when he fixates on the pair of girls wrapped in scarves but no cloaks, playing with a frog across the courtyard.

“Really good, mate, you?” Sirius says. He reckons he’s entered autopilot, as any active part of his conscience is mid-litany: This is your chance. Bite the bullet, as the muggles say. Sever the ties. Dites adieu, for fuck’s sake.

“I gathered that,” murmurs Jules.

“Did you now?” The frog. Sirius gazes at the frog.

“There’s a certain… there’s a spring in your step, Sirius.”

What? “Oh?”

“Yes. I thought perhaps the second challenge had… had a profound impact on you. But you’re better than ever.”

“Am I?”

Sirius feels the unimpressed, sharp edge of Jules’ stare cut into the side of his face. You could just ask me to stop answering with questions. Sirius turns his head marginally, eyes flashing toward Jules. He’s easier to look at once Sirius has taken a breath, released it, reminded himself of the sickly beauty of Jules Verlaine, blanketed in blue with piercing, green eyes.

“As it stands, the challenge did throw me off a bit, yeah,” says Sirius. “Not seen much of my family in a while, so… it was… a little jarring. But I don’t think I have any…” He wrinkles his nose. “Renewed pomp.”

The hardness of Jules’ gaze says otherwise. It scares Sirius a bit… not that he’d be particularly scared of anything Jules might threaten to hold over his head; telling all of Hogwarts Sirius Black likes dick, for one. He’s not afraid of that. It’s an unpinned fear, rather. It’s as Jules’ stare truly sinks into him that Sirius realises that the new spring in his step might just be Remus.

“It’s unfortunate about your family.” Jules is almost unmoving, unblinking. Convincingly sympathetic, thanks, Sirius thinks. “I’m sorry that you’ve… lost touch.”

Sirius chuckles. “Well, I’m not. But thanks. Having my dirty laundry aired out panoramically for three schools to see, though? That was a bit rubbish.” His lips purse. “Nothing you wouldn’t be familiar with, I suppose, Monsieur Winner…” His lips quirk absently. The whole of the Boggart challenge had been like a blackout from reality. He’s only heard secondhand accounts of Jules’ tribulation. A cloaked figure is what most gossip relays. “But you didn’t have much difficulty conquering your fear, did you?”

Jules breaks eye contact for the first time, works his skinny fingers over his jaw. “I… yes. I don’t have many fears, Sirius. At the time of the challenge, I was… I felt very confident I could conquer the one I have left.”

Sirius snorts. He thought he could say the same, but the evidence begs to differ. “Good for you.”

“I don’t feel it as much anymore. That confidence.” Jules turns to him, and the shine of his eyes sends a chill down Sirius’ spine. Before he can ask for elaboration, Jules says, “We’ve spent less time together lately, you and I.”

Sirius has to grimace, internally and externally, because he’d been treading on thin ice and it’s just broken apart beneath his feet. “I’ve just been… busy. You know how it is.” NEWTs? Is that a valid excuse? It might’ve been, if he’d shown his face in the library more often... and not shown up empty-handed and empty-headed — lacking parchment or ink or an attention span — the few times he’d dared to set foot in.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Sirius has to laugh, a wheezy, pathetic noise, cheeks going ruddy and fuzzy, because: “Cut right to the chase, why don’t you?”

Jules is impassive, blank. “Sirius.”

Sirius is not looking at him. He is battling fight-or-flight instincts, his foot-tapping maddeningly quick against the stone. “Yes, yeah.” His stomach growls. A bit of lunch would be nice. “I… I just think it’s not working, this. This thing. I’m… tired, I think. Of sneaking —”

“I never asked you to sneak, Sirius.”

“Yes! You’re right, that’s right. And that’s very considerate of you, but, I don’t know. I think… there’s just a lot on my mind.” Yes, pull the I just need to find myself card. That’ll go down a treat. Sirius rolls his eyes, if only at himself.

“I think you mean you’ve rekindled your relationship with your lupine friend.”

Sirius wishes he could blame the language barrier for the slip of the tongue, but Jules is a native English speaker. Sirius’ eyes go round, his lips tense.

“This is done, then, as I’d ventured to guess,” says Jules soberly.

Sirius doesn’t fill the silence that follows. He knows his sexuality is on a long list of things he gives few fucks about. But he also knows Jules is clever, and a secret that belongs to Remus is far more important to Sirius than a secret of his own.

“This was me giving you a chance, Sirius.” Jules looks out on the courtyard, straightens his spine to austere perfection, exhales a sigh out his pointed noise. “But I get the sense you don’t want any part in it, which is…” He shrugs and lifts his brows, resigned. “Something I hope you don’t come to regret.”

Sirius’ palm is sweaty where it holds his chin up.

Jules rises, robes unwrinkled in the wake of sitting. Between them, there’s a pause. He compares the scuffed toes of his boots to Jules’ shiny ones.

“Have you received a clue for the final challenge?” asks Jules, business-like, squinting toward the doors of the castle.

Sirius shakes his head.

“Mm.” Jules nods. “Neither have I. It’ll likely be a surprise for everyone involved.” He glides off, steps rhythmic and echoing on slats of stone.

Sirius’ appetite is gone, for one. He’s not sure when he started to feel sickly and the dull sun too brightly. He shuts his eyes. The very last thing he wants is to add something else to Remus’ plate. But… perhaps there’s nothing to add? Sirius had felt, in the thick of things, that he’d developed a certain trust with Jules, a strange but comfortable, unspoken agreement of distance in which handjobs were exchanged but never life stories or deepest fears.

He can’t be sure if he’d just shredded that agreement to pieces within the span of one long-evaded conversation.

***

Post-quelling a potential nervous breakdown as best he could with shitty breathing techniques — namely burying his face into his knees, performing the whole in through the nose, out through the mouth shabang — Sirius saunters into the Great Hall. He’s nearly reached the others at the Gryffindor table when he spots Winnie and her Ilvermorny pals at the end of the Hufflepuff table. He’s even got a leg over the bench, in fact, hovering above the spot beside James, when he decidedly swings it back out, drums a beat into the table with flexed hands and lurches bodily down the aisle between the tables.

“Are we sure he’s okay?” Peter mutters, and Sirius hears its echo. It makes him want to crumple and groan of desperation. He’s been okay for weeks. And he’s not sure normal has ever been his okay.

He arrives at the Hufflepuff table, stands with an air of impertinence behind the two blokes sat across from Winnie. No one halts their chitchat or even notes his presence until the friend to Winnie’s left elbows her in the side and nods at Sirius. He laces his fingers in front of his body, offers her a toothy smile, hopes it adequately conveys I know we usually meet in disquietingly discreet places, like the prefects’ bathroom or some covert alcove, but I would really like to talk to you. Now.

Pretty please.

The lads in front of Sirius twitch and glance backward when they realize his presence, that it’s him who’s breathing down their necks. Winnie slurps soup from her spoon, considering him with an arched brow. Then she sets the spoon down, clears her throat.

“It appears I have some champion business to talk with this one.” At this one, she nods to Sirius, who continues to smile in silence until everyone within a three-meter radius groans, picks up their lunches, and begrudgingly shuffles to empty spots at the table adjacent.

Sirius plunks down across from Winnie, who’s resumed spooning at her pumpkin soup. He waits patiently for her to look up again.

“Hi,” he says when she does.

“Black.” She sighs, surveys him as she wipes her hands on a napkin. “You’re looking… particularly tightly-coiled today.”

“Are you calling me not-straight?”

Winnie’s eyes narrow.

He smiles innocently. “I reckon I am a bit, er… wired.” His lips purse, and he notes that he’s shaking the bench with his incessant foot-tapping when he catches the eye of a lad sitting on its far end. Grimacing in apology, he turns his head back to Winnie. “I think I broke up with Jules.” His eyes flicker over her shoulder but he can’t see Jules at the Ravenclaw table. Broke up sounds wrong, in a way, but Sirius does recall saying it’s not working, which must mean he’s clichéd himself into the breakup corner.

Her face brightens, and it’s so instantaneous Sirius should’ve probably been concerned had Winnie not hated Jules from the moment she’d laid eyes on him. “I don’t know why you look so tense, man, this is music to my ears.” She chuckles and shakes her head, tearing into a bread roll.

Sirius watches her, and the quirk to his lips grows as he props his chin in his hand. “Wow, Winifred. I didn’t realize you cared so much about where I stick it.”

The smile drops from Winnie’s face and she offers him a half-lidded glare. “I give no shits where you put your junk. Jesus. Just…” Her bread soaks in her soup, her exhale is long-suffering, and she trains her eyes on her bowl. “For whatever reason, Black, I feel like I need to mother you, so that must mean I’m partial to you, and I don’t like knowing you mess around with skeevy French rats.”

When she looks up, Sirius is grinning, has decided to address the bit about being mothered some other time. “I hope you know you’ve just invited me to come live in your basement in San Francisco after all this is over.”

Winnie winces. “Sometimes I worry about you.” But she smiles, biting into her roll.

Sirius laughs sharply. “Remus will induct you into the club.” At Remus’ mention, Winnie gets a devious look in her eye, so Sirius says, “Don’t.”

She shrugs. “Okay, well. Do you need me to, like, give you the men ain’t shit speech, or what?”

Sirius snorts. “No. God, no.” Though he does sort of wish Jules was shittier at sucking him off.

“Then why —?”

“I just wanted to see how you were.” He sits straighter, drags his palms up and down his thighs. “Haven’t seen you in a bit.”

Winnie hums. “Not since before the second task.”

“Yeah.”

She meets his gaze, abandoning the soup. “If you’re asking if I was traumatized, then… yeah, a bit.”

Sirius nods.

“I have, like… insane claustrophobia. That challenge was… unfair, in my opinion. But I talked to your nurse here awhile. She’s great.”

Sirius can’t recall a time Poppy Pomfrey wasn’t great. “You feel better now?”

Winnie smiles, reaches out her hand to give Sirius a rather unexpected pat to the cheek. “Yeah, I’m over it, Black. You?”

“Yeah, me too.” He’s playful about batting her hand away, smile faint. “I just knew neither of us had a great time of it.”

“Except for him,” Winnie says venomously, and she casts a glance around for Jules, but he’s nowhere in sight. “There’s something Dark about him, Black, mark my words.” Then she assesses Sirius, eyes squinted. “You should probably head to that nurse of yours, check your dick’s not been cursed.”

Sirius is indignant. “I think I’d know if my dick was cursed, Winifred.”

Winnie’s frown is thoughtful. “Could be a Benjamin Button thing. Maybe in fifty years you’ll realize it’s been shrinking this whole time.”

“You think I’ll have a baby gherkin in my trousers when I’m seventy?” muses Sirius with a smirk.

It takes Winnie a second — gherkin, pickle, whatever — but she nods, curt and serious.

“Hm. It’d be easier to wank, though, don’t you think?” Sirius lifts his hand, pinches at the air in front of his eyes, squints between his fingers. “I’d just have to…”

“Okay, that’s enough.”

“I don’t think Remus will be too pleased to hear my penis has been cursed.”

“I hate you, Black.”

***

April sprouts daffodils and crocuses on the green hills, and the instant the sun peeks from behind cloud coverage and the air temperature hits sixteen degrees, Sirius and James get to lazing between classes shirtless on the grass. Peter joins them, but keeps his kit on, possibly wary of being targeted the same way Sirius is whenever his top comes off and James routinely hollers my eyes! I’m blinded by the pale!

Remus sits in the shade, because Remus always sits in the shade, always vested and suited and booted as he doth not reveal his ankles like an improper lady, or so Sirius reasons.

NEWTs crawl nearer yet and they all study, or at least pretend to, but tentatively, because Sirius knows that at the back of all their minds, whenever anyone of them signs his name on an essay, it’s only practice for June when they’ll send their respective letters to the headmaster, signatures underlined twice. At least… in Sirius’ mind, it’s a guarantee. And the longer he spends leafing through his Herbology textbook, absorbing only the shapes of the words on its pages, the more he realizes that he needn’t gain mastery of all existent fungi species to go to war. There’s no sense in that. In fact, it might even slow him down. Distraction by bubotubers might just be fatal.

He lays said textbook over his face, knows he’ll probably sweat enough in the direct sunlight that the ink comes away on his cheeks. You’d think someone would’ve spelled it permanently into the page. It’s 1978, for Merlin’s sake. It’s late in the afternoon, Remus is under the cover of the nearest tree, and must be irrationally sweating through his jumper, Sirius thinks, with the way his curly fringe is matted to his head.

At Sirius’ left, James is amidst an unusual spurt of concentration, ingesting the textbook at double-speed, specs sliding off the sweaty bridge of his nose and forcing him to rustle in the grass to shove them up his face every few minutes. Peter had gone inside for the loo, and Sirius would wonder aloud what’s taking him so long, but he knows deep in his gut that Peter’s been going all the way up to Gryffindor Tower for years to have a piss.

And… what if they do make it out onto the other side of the war? They, of course, as a collective. Sirius can’t see a winding path in the future in which he’d be without James. Or Remus, for that matter.

Alphard’s gold will only last him so long. If Sirius bombs his NEWTs, he’ll have nothing to show for himself… nothing of import in the wizarding world, at least. He’s always been somewhat interested in the ongoings of the muggle world, though. He could spend the rest of his days working the till at a Tesco. The concept of paper currency remains fascinating. But would he tire of counting all day? He could drive a bus in London, but he’d risk the life of many an innocent muggle and likely land himself in muggle jail — though he’s heard it’s marginally more hospitable than Azkaban. Sirius, however, doesn’t thrive in confinement.

But maybe, just maybe, he’ll have an excuse for rubbish NEWTs. Perhaps he’ll come out the other side of June as the victor of the Triwizard Tournament of 1977-78. Is it enough of an excuse, that? Yeah, sorry, I spent all year thinking about getting sick off intercontinental portkeys and drug-amplified Boggarts and whatever hell will rain upon me come the finale of this theatrical production.

It verges on self-pitiful, particularly as he’d consciously tossed his little scrap of parchment into that flaming goblet. But if James becomes an Auror and Remus comes to teach the next generation of Aurors, where does that leave him? And it isn’t as if James becoming an Auror would necessarily make him a pawn of the Ministry… but it also would.

Sirius whimpers dramatically into the cracked spine of his book.

“Ah, yes,” murmurs James, shifting again in the grass beside him. “The dulcet tones of frustration. Early-onset erectile dysfunction, is it?”

Sirius’ eyes peel open, and he squints into the blur of text. “You wish I had issues getting it up.” He slides the textbook off his face so it gives James a hearty smack to his shoulder as it falls. Yes, he’s sitting that close. Sirius crinkles up his nose at the sun, then sits up onto his elbows. As if sensing Sirius, Remus lowers his knees, onto which he’s propped his book, and looks over. They lock eyes, and the smile that comes to Sirius’ face at the slightest twitch of Remus’ lips is conspiratorial. Then it turns wry. “I could look at that tree for long enough and get a boner.”

James snorts. “Is this what happens when you fall asleep cuddling the Herbology text?”

“I did not sleep. I was resting my eyes.” And debating our troubled fates.

“Good. You need to protect your delicate eyesight, you know. Inbreeding, and whatnot.”

Sirius thwacks James on the back of his head. James accepts it like a champ, though, without protest, so Sirius trains his eyes again on Remus. He’d like to crawl across the grass, lay between Remus’ legs with his back to Remus’ woollen-sweaty chest, tuck his head under the line of Remus’ jaw.

He should just… do it. And yet…

Peter comes huffing and puffing down the hill, sweat stains dark in the pits of his uniform shirt. Definitely ran down from Gryffindor Tower.

“Sirius,” Peter breathes, collapsing into the grass at Sirius’ flank. “Winnie — I saw Winnie, and she told me to tell you that she overheard Cassady and Maxime and Dumbledore having a talk —”

“Someday I’ll figure out how the fuck that bird’s always eavesdropping,” Sirius mutters, sat up enough to tear at the grass between his legs.

Peter’s eyes narrow at the interruption, but he resumes. “And she said the final task’ll be on the twentieth of June.” He pauses to breathe. “That evening.”

Sirius twists a blade of grass around his finger. Then his head snaps up to find Remus already watching him. There’s a chance he’d never stopped.

“That’s a full,” says Sirius. “June twentieth.”

Remus gives him an inscrutable, crooked smile. James flips onto his bum with enough torque that his glasses are dangling from one ear once he’s upright.

Remus laughs suddenly, shutting his book with finality and laying his head back against the thick trunk behind him.

“You’re all giving me that look,” he mutters, “as if I don’t do this once a month. Alone in the summers.”

“Usually alone in the summers,” corrects James.

Remus’ eyes roll. “I can handle myself.” He flattens his palm, gesturing in Sirius’ direction. “Sirius, however, will be participating in an unprecedented, possibly fatal Triwizard challenge. I think the choice is obvious.”

Sirius has already clambered onto all fours, grass-staining the heels of his hands as he plods toward Remus. “Moral support is nice, but they can do fuck-all if I’m off dying in the challenge.” He plants his bum beside Remus’, hip-to-hip. Sirius aches to kiss him, which is downright dim, because there are more important topics at hand. And yet, should anyone try to argue with him and attempt to downplay the importance of kissing Remus, Sirius would probably rebut. Once he’s settled, arms crossed over bent knees, he states, looking Remus in the eye, “And I’m offended you think I’d get offed in a school-sanctioned environment.”

“I’m offended you think I’d fully off myself after fourteen years of almost-offing myself,” Remus retorts evenly. There’s an amusement about his otherwise unsmiling lips.

Sirius gives Remus a theatrically pouty grimace. And as he sighs, looks from one of Remus’ eyes to the other, catching the yellow light filtering in baroque patterns through the tree’s branches, he feels his breath catch his throat. That’s when Remus cracks a smile, the smug git, nudges his knee into the side of Sirius’ calf.

Sirius feels a tad disembodied. And, still, like he’d really enjoy kissing Remus.

“We should split up,” James says, about two feet away.

Sirius’ neck retracts like a turtle’s as his head jerks in James’ direction. His overgrown fringe  falls into his eyes, and he’s grateful that it’s there as a barrier through which he can glare at his beloved, but extremely ever-present, best mate. Even Peter, who’s come to join them under the tree’s shade, has an eyebrow cocked at James.

“Wormtail will go with Remus,” James says decidedly.

“What!” Peter blinks rapidly.

Sirius covers his mouth to suppress an abrupt snort.

Remus pinches him on the back of the thigh.

Sirius can’t stop thinking about it.

“Yup.” James nods. “You need to be the one to hit the knot, Pete. They’ll need Pomfrey on hand at the tournament, in case Sirius dies.”

Sirius covers his eyes with the palm of his hand, groaning.

Remus smiles and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can very well charm something to touch the knot.”

“Not in your sickly pre-moon state you can’t!” James protests, thumping his hand against the grass. He whips to face Peter. “Wormtail, you’ll go.”

“I have tiny legs! Do you know how quickly I’ll tire out?”

An agitated wrinkle forms between James’ eyebrows as he looks between Peter and Sirius. “But —”

“Merlin’s sake, men!” Sirius kicks his legs out straight. “We have two months.” Then he lifts his palms, placating. “We’ll…” He nods, looks from the corner of his eye at Remus, then at the ground. “Decide later.”

Remus hums. James and Peter say nothing, but Sirius knows it’s not a black and white decision, even despite James’ fierce determination to keep watch over Sirius.

“And for the last time,” Sirius grumbles, “I am not going to die.”

***

It’s nearing evening on Beltane, sun setting on the students studying out on the castle grounds, when heads turn and fingers point toward a beacon of light that’d begun to glow in the Astronomy Tower.

To be quite fair, Sirius only knows what a Beltane is because McGonagall had wished them a merry one on their way out of Transfiguration. He might’ve forgone understanding had she not seemed imbued with a strange, gleeful mischief all of class that would be noticeable on anyone as tightly-strung as her.

Beltane, Evans had explained, books clutched to her chest and prompted only by the caterpillar-like furrow of Sirius’ brow, is a Gaelic May Day celebration. She’d very rapidly begun to verge on Binns-esque historical lecture, at which point Sirius had mentally checked out, left with throwaway words like spring and pagans and bonfires.

Lucky for him, bonfire is exactly what he thinks when he sees the glow of flames in the Astronomy Tower.

Sirius doesn’t hesitate to slam his book shut — can you truly learn Defence by reading, anyhow? — to sprint up the required storeys to have a gander at what is, up close, the elaborately-charmed illusion of a bonfire; hot to the touch, and yet, lukewarm enough to submerge his entire arm in and still feel only a gentle heat. Sirius thinks it far beyond the capabilities of even the best Charms student. He side-eyes Evans, who’d somehow made it up there just as fast as him, then entertains himself with the mental image of her shoving at the round, innocent heads of eager second-years on the staircases, hollering Out of my way, punks, I’m Head Girl! The smile on his lips pinches inward into a thoughtful purse, however, when he feels her scrutiny.

With a sneaking suspicion and the swiftness of too much gall, Sirius turns and flings his wand out one of the Tower’s yawning arches. Evans gapes as it goes flying past her face, but is overcome by curiosity when, as if bouncing off an invisible trampoline, the wand rebounds right back to him in a graceful arc, slow enough for him to snatch it from the air like a trained Seeker… which he is very much not.

Evans is mostly musing to herself as she steps into the open archway and says, “Someone’s… has someone charmed it?” but Sirius hears it. She cranes her arm out over the ledge, brushes her fingers into an invisible boundary that presses back like tautly-pulled fabric. “A safety charm?”

McGonagall, thinks Sirius. Unless he’s been unconscious the past six Beltanes he’s supposedly spent at Hogwarts and in her class — not entirely unlikely, when he thinks about it — he’s never once noted its mention. And, he’ll admit, Minnie always has their best interests in mind.

That’s when Remus — oh, Remus, and twenty others who’d made their way into the Tower — interjects ever-so-cleverly to question Sirius’ choice of his wand, of all things, to toss out the tallest tower in Hogwarts, but Sirius is far too pleased that the magic in the air all reeks so strongly of McGonagall’s Scottish mirth and safety-consciousness to pay him any mind. If Minnie wants a questionably-sanctioned but student-proofed bonfire celebration, then one she shall receive. Sirius’ eyes go squinty in a mischievous smile as he gazes out at the grounds. He must’ve voiced his thoughts aloud, because at once, Evans is huffing, “Of course you’d leap to that conclusion.”

It’s more than McGonagall, though, that has Sirius feeling like everyone around him simply needs to let go of a breath.

The last several weeks had been an exercise in composure. With no holidays or Triwizard entertainment to tide students by, only the impending doom of exams and a fog of unrest in the air, a blanket of uneasy normality had befallen the castle. Even the daily mail delivery, a time when disquietude would plague the Great Hall and not just in fear of important post falling into the peas and carrots, had seemingly ceased to bear bad news. Then, in the span of a few days, the pages of the Daily Prophet came to be smattered with news of mysterious house fires in the South West, linked by nosy reporters to the alleged homes of muggleborns. Mary Macdonald stopped showing up to classes, to meals, and when asked, Lily told them over dinner that she’d been given permission to go ‘home,’ be with her family… wherever that may be. Lily doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t seem to want to, but Sirius knows that Mary can’t be the only one.

It had all brought Sirius to wonder whether anyone with their nose in a book or a quill between their fingers truly has their mind on Arithmancy or Charms or, Merlin forbid, Divination.

Even when the world is at peace, no one should be thinking about fucking Divination.

Sirius had whiled away his studies pondering the resistance group, as Fabian Prewett had referred to it. He’d wanted to know if it has a name, how many wizards took part, how many witches. Others. Creatures, even. If Voldemort should recruit creatures, why shouldn’t the opposition? And yet… Sirius’ thoughts had circled back to creature-suppression legislation, to Death Eaters in high places in the Ministry. Who knew what false promises Voldemort is feeding his followers?

Or not-false.

At that point, he’d usually resort to scribbling blackness into the margins of his books.

Despite Evans’ feelings on the topic of the party, everyone else agrees with Sirius — how shocking — and by word of mouth, there’s a cross-House party happening in the Astronomy Tower that evening. Filch is indubitably privy to it, and yet, there isn’t an authority figure that seems to be heeding his objections. See appendix B: McGonagall, thinks Sirius.

It’s just gone nine, according to the resounding dong of the clocktower in Hogsmeade. Sirius knows this because he’s ever-so-chivalrously offered his own, of-age bag of flesh to take up the task of “acquiring more alcohol,” or so he’d vaguely told the other seventh years when he’d seen the pathetic dregs of liquor they’d brought to the Astronomy Tower. He’d demanded that Remus and James both stay behind, though, despite also being of age, and enforce order with the threat of their prefect and Head Boy statuses. Order… at least to the point of don’t let an obvious third-year steal our contraband.

Plus, Rosmerta loves Sirius, she does, particularly when he comes knocking at the Three Broomsticks on a Friday night with a smarmy grin, James’ allowance in his pocket, all legal and feigning overt interest in the scooped neckline of her dirndl. He pities the fact that it’s not genuine, if only because James would be dead jealous that Sirius could shag Rosmerta.

Sirius has to shoulder the handles of whisky and jug of cider into one arm as he spells open the rickety cellar door of Honeydukes, glass clinking on glass under the curtain of dark night. In hindsight, this might’ve been handled with far more grace had he taken Remus along, or James. Or both. Dammit.

The door is sticky, even with the spell, but it springs open when he casts with enough urgency. He descends down into the stores, where it’s charmed to be chilly and smells like spun sugar. He locks it behind him, hisses out a swear when a whisky bottle threatens to go rogue at the wave of his wand, and hustles down to grab James’ cloak from where he’d tucked it between crates of Droobles. He has a long walk ahead of him.

Yeah. Really should’ve thought this through, he thinks, opening up the hatch in the floor. Mainly for the company.

Very quickly, though, Sirius comes to realize he can’t ponder about his loneliness much longer, because in the silence of the Honeydukes cellar, he can make out brisk footsteps not so far down the tunnel… and the muffled sound of voices.

As much as he’d like to put his trust in anyone who knows about the One-Eyed Witch Passage, Sirius moves to lower the door to the hatch, clumsily levitates his alcohol stash into a corner, and tosses the invisibility cloak over himself, barely with enough time to plaster himself to the wall behind a stack of crates.

He remains very still, breathes in shallowly through his nose as the filmy fabric of the cloak tickles the hairs on his upper lip.

The hatch door creaks open, and from it climbs…

Sirius squints in the dark.

Regulus?

He’s lucky that the bewilderment dies in his throat as soon as a second figure emerges from the hatch, one whose admittedly elegant, featherlight steps still manage to cover up the creak of floorboards under Sirius’ unstable weight.

“Watch your step,” mutters Regulus, gesturing a Lumos-lit wand as he holds the hatch door open.

The silhouette of Regulus’ follower, down to the shade of blue of his luxe cape, now gone dull and dusty from the tunnel trek, is so familiar to Sirius that he gets an acrid taste on the back of his tongue.

“Has Hogwarts really so little faith in you as to outlaw Apparition on school grounds?” Jules spits and brushes his slacks off disdainfully.

Regulus doesn’t commiserate. His tone is rather cold as he says, “It’s a protective measure.” Then he offers his forearm to Jules. “Else anyone could Apparate there.”

“It certainly makes things more entertaining for anyone wanting to Apparate in,” says Jules, laying his palm over Regulus’ wrist. “Or out.”

“No one will hear us down here,” Regulus says, blank and unrelated, as he casts a cursory glance around the cellar.

Sirius is near enough to see the glow of Regulus’ wand wash over Jules’ pale face and green eyes. And with the whip-crack of Apparition, the pair of them are gone and the cellar falls into darkness. The force of their disappearance flutters the hem of the invisibility cloak like a gust of wind, but the sound is swallowed up by the cellar’s dense floor.

Sirius lets the cloak fall away, then, but there’s nothing he can do, no way he can follow them into the nothingness of the air where they’d stood. For a moment, he’s forced to wonder whether he’d dreamt it all up, hallucinated it, perhaps, but he feels alarmingly awake. He even pinches his arm to prove it to himself.

Cloak slung over his shoulder, alcohol bottles levitating in a bundle ahead of him, Sirius heads down the tunnel back to the school. He’ll arrive in time for the party to be in full swing… not that he’s thinking on the party much.

Sirius’ wand arm begins to ache after he’s been trudging for what feels like a half hour. He switches hands, careful not to let his loot come come crashing to the ground. Jumping to conclusions is his first instinct, yet it poses so twisted a puzzle that it makes Sirius feel a strange sense of surrender, like a spool of thread on which he can’t find the start. He’s inclined to think the worst; given Regulus’ usual crowd, how he’d evaded Sirius — or Stupefied, in actuality — when Sirius had made a leap for his left arm in the History of Magic classroom, he’s consorting with Death Eaters.

Sirius stumbles over an imperfection in the tunnel floor and the jug of cider veers out of the grip of his spell. He’s close enough to catch it in hand.

He isn’t, evidently, as unaffected by Regulus’ dealings as he’d wish to be.

And does the Dark Mark make one a Death Eater? Sirius knows far less about Regulus’ dealings than he’d like to.

Let’s get hypothetical, thinks Sirius. Suppose Regulus is a Death Eater.

He has to halt mid-step.

Nope. No easier to stomach hypothetically.

Mother would never let him come to any harm, Sirius has already decided. But how does Jules play into this? Sirius’ superego pipes up, from whatever dark recess within him where it resides, to tell him that Jules wouldn’t seek revenge against Sirius after his rejection of… well, voulez-vous coucher avec moi. For that, Jules wouldn’t turn to Regulus. Or Voldemort.

That’d be maniacal.

And yet, Sirius can’t make sense of Jules’ motives; if he’s consorting with Regulus, Sirius’ little brother, or Regulus, the Death Eater.

Briefly, Sirius entertains more palatable thoughts: the Beauxbatons students found Slytherins to be the most suitable companions of all the Hogwarts houses. They share the same snootiness, for one. And of all Slytherin House, Regulus is the pal most suited to Jules’ tastes.

Sirius gags.

Fuck that.

He skids to a stop when his toes hit the foot of the slide at the passage’s start. Lowering his spoils to the ground, he then aims a Finite at the slide to temporarily reverse the effects of the Glisseo he presumes has bewitched the passage’s entrance since its inception.

Sirius makes his way through empty halls, but they aren’t dead-silent. He thinks he can hear the faraway felicity of the Astronomy Tower from the opposite side of the castle.

The Tower is swamped, Sirius discovers, just one step into the chamber that holds its twisting stair.

“Hey!” he has to bark when a few lads come swerving at him around the bend of the staircase. “Precious cargo here.” He glares after them, and then he’s back to trudging up the stairs and into the turret, nudging past faces that greet him with drunkenly garbled but mirthful Hi Siriuses or passing claps to his shoulder, because if he wasn’t known throughout his class before seventh year, he certainly is now. Evans storms past, too, doesn’t say a word to him. But she’s got her neutral face on — neutral, as in grouchy and pinched — so he doesn’t make a fuss.

By the time Sirius reaches the top of the stairs, he’s sweating through his uniform shirt that he’d never had the time to change out of, and he’s not particularly in the mood for a party. A few desks have been pushed together away from the windows to store the liquor, and he lazily levitates his cargo there, a surly twist to his mouth. Jules and Regulus are somewhere far, far away from Hogwarts castle, doing… he can’t even imagine what, and Sirius is here, feeling drained of his magic and uncomfortably damp from his tunnel journey, supplying alcohol to a bunch of numbskulls who’ll start pitching themselves off the Astronomy Tower once they figure out McGonagall’s charmed the air into a safety net.

Sirius thinks that, as if he doesn’t crave to do it himself.

And he’s playing the martyr, he knows, but —

He turns around and rams directly into James, who’s stiff as a board and gazing into the infinite beyond — through his third eye, Sirius might joke, if he wanted a swat to the nose.

He and James share a distaste for Divination.

Sirius rests his elbow atop James’ shoulder, attempts to follow his line of sight. “Evans went downstairs, you know. She looked,” he pitches his voice up, “pissed.”

James is unhelpfully quiet, still in rigor mortis.

Sirius’ eyes narrow. Then he jumps with an audible gasp when a foreign appendage winds its way around his chest, but when he twists, he’s only met with the eyes of Remus, golden amber under the steady smolder of the bonfire. He smiles at Sirius, pats him gently over the heart. “Leave him be, he’s just been snogged.”

It’s a sensory overload for Sirius, too much information to process at once, a tug-of-war on his focus between Remus’ suddenly apparent closeness and James’ potential coma.

Sirius, whirling toward James, croaks, “What? By —?”

“No,” says Remus, chuckling.

Not Evans, then. Sirius waves a hand in front of James’ unblinking eyes.

“There was a game of spin the bottle.”

Sirius clicks his tongue, grimaces, rolls his gaze back to Remus. “You’re joking.”

Remus shrugs, holds up his free hand in innocence. “Wasn’t my idea.”

Sirius huffs out his nose, glances back at James. “I’m cringing.”

“Don’t act like you’re above it.”

A smirk tweaks at Sirius’ lips as he sinks the tip of his finger into James’ cheek. “Mostly I’m mad it happened without me.”

“It’s the fire, I think. Something was in the air. People were getting licentious, couldn’t be tamed.”

Sirius is mid-chuckle at Remus’ big word, when James twitches and crosses his arms. He turns accusingly on Sirius. “Why aren’t you more curious about who I snogged?”

The jolt of him pulls startled laughter out of Sirius, who claps his hands onto James’ cheeks. “Sorry, sorry, love, of course I’m curious.”

James rolls his eyes, shoves Sirius’ hands away. “The Ilvermorny girl.” He leans against the wall, trains his eyes on the same distant spot from before.

“You’re going to have to be more —” Sirius spots Winnie and Mayra on the opposite end of the turret. His first instinct is to grab dramatically at the base of his throat. “Winnie?” he hisses.

James nods, still a bit wide-eyed.

“No!”

“What?”

“James, she’s — no! She’s like — like my sister! And you — it’s not even that you snogged my sister —”

“Hey! It was her turn! She snogged me!”

“— you’re my brother, which means my brother snogged my sister!”

James squints into the aether, trying to follow the logic.

“Merlin’s left tit,” mutters Sirius, pitching half his weight back into Remus’ grounded body. “I thought I left this shite behind when I got emancipated.” He sighs, then abruptly straightens again, thumping James in the chest. “And she’s not just the Ilvermorny girl, Potter. She’s way too good for you, not that that’s a new venture for you.”

James narrows his eyes at Sirius, but then his moue slowly turns upward, goes wry. “It was pretty good, though.”

The back of Sirius’ hand strikes James in the chest. Again. He turns his eyes away completely, mimes swallowing against rising bile. “I don’t want to hear it.”

And all this time, Remus has stood steady at Sirius’ back, arm folded with an easy sort of relaxation across Sirius’ chest. He’ll chuckle every now and then at their antics, but nothing else. Sirius reaches up, gives a gentle pat to the back of Remus’ knobby hand to assure him he hasn’t forgotten his presence. Remus does a quiet laugh against the back of his neck, which — fuck. Sirius swallows thickly.

James then seems to snap out of a trance no one knew he’d reentered. “Did you say Evans seemed upset?”

Sirius blinks over at him. “What? Oh, yeah. I mean… we all know I’m her favourite person, and, like. She just looked right through me.”

It’s rubbish reasoning, mostly a joke on Sirius’ end, but it’s enough to have James striding off without another word.

Where’s Pete, Sirius means to ask, but instead, as he cants his head back to have a look at Remus, the question disappears from his mind. Poof. He watches Remus watching the bonfire, and doubtless Remus knows he’s being watched, yet still he draws it out, that moment until he turns his chin the slightest to look at Sirius. When Remus does, his eyebrows lift but his eyelids don’t, and Sirius hates how sexy it is, that tiniest of things.

“Did you partake?” murmurs Sirius. “In spin the bottle?”

Remus hums, as if he has to consider the question, but he doesn’t look away, not once. Then he smiles, close-lipped, and shakes his head.

“No?”

Remus shakes his head again.

Sirius nods, a tip of his chin, and interlaces his fingers down below. He squeezes his palms together so tight he can feel bone pressing on bone between his fingers. Perhaps it’s to avoid wrapping his hand around Remus’ arm and never letting go, though he’s aware Remus isn’t easily crushed.

“Was that the right answer?” Remus asks after a beat.

Sirius smiles faint, eyes on the floor. “There wasn’t one. Snog who you want, and all that.”

Remus snorts, exhales a gust of warm air over Sirius’ neck. “Shut up.”

Sirius blinks, then frowns up at Remus.

“I just wish you wouldn’t act,” Remus whispers, pauses, and clears his throat, “like I’d want to snog anyone else.”

For a moment, Sirius simply doesn’t take a breath. He hasn’t told Remus about ending things with Jules, and yet… Remus isn’t even asking. Of all people, Sirius feels Remus is the only one who deserves to know. And it feels like the time to interject, but he doesn’t.

He thinks about Remus’ birthday, how it feels so long ago.

Then his gaze circles the turret, the fire, and he mutters, “We’re wasting time,” to which Remus responds instantly with that hoarse, charming laugh and steers Sirius by the shoulders toward the stairs.

Sirius is agile and fast compared to his drunk peers on the winding stair, and he can feel Remus on his heels. He lets the momentum carry him as he lopes into the hall, where his footfalls echo harshly on the stone, lit by the sconces’ low glow. He slows, thinking he’s lost Remus, just as Remus himself speeds by, and not without a rather lewd smack to Sirius’ bum.

Sirius gasps, clutches at his arse, and picks up the pace when Remus rounds a corner up ahead. “Remus Lupin, you pig!” he shouts, rousing and possibly offending every portrait lining the hall. “Don’t you know you — agh!” Sirius collides bodily with Remus where he’s waiting around the bend, and Sirius’ cry is so resounding that Remus has to cover his mouth. With his other hand, he grips Sirius by the bicep.

“You’ll wake the whole castle,” Remus whispers, still laughing. He strokes his hand from Sirius’ mouth over to his cheek.

Once the shock has waned and Sirius is sure he’s stable, he completes his thought. “Don’t you know you have to ask a lad before you go and touch his bum?”

The look on Remus’ face, then, is grave. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He thumbs over the corner of Sirius’ mouth, makes wide-eyed eye contact. It’s all too much. “Sirius Black, may I please touch your bum?”

“Please feel free.” Sirius grins, then takes Remus by the arm to haul him toward the stairs.

Outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, Remus chastises Sirius for forgetting the password, but how anyone is meant to remember fortius quo fidelius is beyond him.

There’s a scattered few lower-years still haunting the common room. It’s not that late, really. But for once, under these familiar circumstances, Sirius doesn’t have to feign sobriety as he makes his way toward the stairs to the boys’ dormitory.

“Think James is there?” Sirius murmurs over his shoulder.

“Nope.”

“Or Peter?”

“It’d be in his best interest if not.”

Sirius chuckles, yet there’s an open-ended quality to Remus’ words that sends a twinge of static down his spine.

Sirius eases their door open. It’s dark, as messy as they’d left it, and the air’s a little musty and stifling. Sirius jumps a bit as the windows shoot open, but it’s always Remus’ first instinct to wave his wand and open them when he enters their room… though Sirius can’t say he remembers when Remus got so good at nonverbal magic.

Remus sets the lamp by his bed aglow, also without a word. Sirius’ bed is as unmade as ever, and Remus’ bed has always felt the more inviting, so Sirius plants himself at its foot, legs dangling. Remus’ mattress reminds him of November, and if Remus’ birthday felt far-off, then November feels like years ago.

The floor creaks under Remus’ feet as he traipses toward Sirius. That’s what Sirius has his eyes on, anyway, for reasons unexplained: Remus’ feet in his worn-in shoes. When they stop in front of him, Sirius keeps his eyes down until Remus’ fingers come up under his chin and he’s compelled to look up. Remus is much taller now that Sirius is seated, and even if he feels suddenly fragile, heart pitter-pattering and breaths coming in shaky, he sits up. Remus’ fingers only make him feel more like his skin’s made of porcelain as his calloused thumbs stroke Sirius’ cheeks, brush over the sparse, wiry hairs on his chin, drag over the wetness of his inner lower lip.

“What’re you doing?” Sirius whispers. Remus appears both very concentrated and very pleased, and shadows lurk in the hollows of his cheeks. In the dim light, his eyes are still warm but very dark, and there’s a faded mark on his chin from a spot. “Are you drunk?”

Remus’ cheeks crease as he smiles. “No.” He nudges his narrow hips between Sirius’ knees. “Just… having an innocent gander.”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “You’re already lucky enough to see my precious face every waking hour of your life.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?” Sirius blinks. “Like, with the opportunity to stick your fingers in my mouth?”

Remus laughs, eyes crinkled, and clasps his hands tighter to Sirius’ jaw. “Yeah, precisely.” Then he bends down to kiss Sirius on the mouth, and unfairly, at that, because Sirius can hardly kiss back with the way Remus’ goddamn mitts are squishing him.

“Get on me, would you?” Sirius mutters against Remus’ lips, sounding more peeved than he actually is.

Blithely, and far too smugly, Remus says, “I don’t recall allowing you to make demands,” but he lets go of Sirius, bodies losing contact for the few seconds it takes for Sirius to scoot back on the mattress and for Remus to crawl over him, weigh him into the mattress, fronts of his thighs bearing down on Sirius’ inner thighs. Sirius feels like he can hardly get a breath in, but that must all be in his own head, as he knows that the sheets smell like Remus and Remus smells like the bonfire. Remus gets his hand to cradle Sirius’ head, kisses him decisively, before he draws an inch back. He’s somehow hovering above Sirius in all the places Sirius would very much like to be touched, until the moment he gives Sirius an easy smile that’s visible in the wrinkling of his eyes, and a bloody bunny kiss, and leans his weight into the cradle of Sirius’ hips.

“We’re wearing shoes,” whispers Remus, as his fingers curl into the hair at the base of Sirius’ neck, “in my bed.”

“Of course you’re thinking about that.” Sirius traces just the tip of his forefinger over Remus’ eyebrow, down the slope of his nose. “There are things” — he digs his heels into the mattress to arch into Remus’ body — “more pressing, Remus.”

Remus props himself up, neck twisting as he peers backward. “You’re getting tunnel dirt on my fucking mattress!”

“Take my fucking boots off, then!”

“I will. Bastard.”

So Remus sits in between Sirius’ legs, facing the opposite way and wiggling Sirius’ heavy boots off his feet to toss onto the floor. They land with heavy thuds on the hardwood, and Sirius’ wand, forever-hidden in the shaft of his boot, clatters, too, against the floor. Remus kicks his own off just as Sirius sits up to hug him from behind and probably complain about his slowness, but Remus gets the first word in. “It’s a preventative measure,” he states, then twists free of Sirius, wrestles him aside so he can slump on his back with his head on the pillow. He pokes Sirius between the shoulder blades with his toes. “I like to wake up with dirt between my teeth and under my nails as infrequently as possible.”

Sirius, now with socked feet, knee-walks forth on the mattress until he can sit in Remus’ lap. “You talk like an old man sometimes.”

“Right.” Remus smiles, skates his palms up Sirius’ thighs, sinks his fingers into his hips to drag him nearer. “You like that, though, don’t you?”

“Unfortunately, I happen to like most things you do.” Sirius undoes a few buttons on Remus’ shirt, presses his palm to the warm, freckled chest beneath. Remus sighs, now wordless, strokes his hands in a circle over Sirius’ bum, digs his fingertips into the taut fabric. Sirius keens softly in response, powerless, and Remus seems to freeze before he drags his palms all the way up Sirius’ back to his neck again, pulls him down, finds Sirius’ mouth with his own. It feels instinctual, then, though it shouldn’t, as Sirius has spent months now only having vivid but ambivalent daydreams (and night dreams) about a moment alone with Remus should he ever work up the guts to make it happen. And — it is, nothing short of miraculously. Even the way Remus dexterously undoes Sirius’ trousers is miraculous, and as Sirius opens up Remus’ shirt, breath bated and hands clumsy, he’s reminded of the night of Yule Ball, when he couldn’t get his goddamn dressrobes buttoned, had demanded Remus help him. It’d not been any easier to do, frankly, when Remus came so close to him.

“Can I touch you?” Remus breathes.

Sirius nods rapidly without a second thought. His nose nudges Remus’ with the motion. His fingertips climb and dip into the crests and valleys of Remus’ ribs, and his hair hangs loose like a curtain tickling each of Remus’ cheeks. Remus puts a hand on him through his briefs, feels the shape of Sirius’ cock with his stupid-long fingers. Sirius’ mouth opens with an intake of breath, apparently an invitation for Remus to lick in, nip his lower lip.

Sirius pants as Remus rubs him, has to plant a hand on the mattress for balance. What really gets his head spinning, though, is stroking his hand low enough on Remus’ bare stomach to find where the hairs on his belly go from downy to coarse. And all he suddenly wants to do is put his face between Remus’ legs, but he’s too selfish for that, much, much too selfish now that he’s leaking into his briefs and Remus is humming like he’s pleased.

You little shit, Sirius thinks, and presses a peck to Remus’ mouth. He sits up on his knees, shoves his trousers and his briefs to mid-thigh. He’s thinking, again, about the night of Yule Ball. He’d crawled into Remus’ bed, said this is what you do to me, rendered Remus utterly speechless. And now Remus is doing it again, this, positively killing him, yet Sirius hasn’t a single coquettish, goading word on his tongue.

Instead, he takes Remus’ fingers into his mouth when they reach for him, sucks them slick and wet and dripping because fuck the lube spell, but also not really fuck it, it’s a good spell, we’ll need it often, probably while he earnestly shucks Remus’ pants down. There’ll be more time, he thinks, to give Remus’ cock the appreciation it deserves, a time when Sirius can muster more than to nudge Remus’ hand away with his chin and crawl down over Remus, nudge their cocks together with a ragged groan. Remus, the good lad, so smart, he catches on, wraps his fingers around them both, long and capable, and Sirius melts into him, tucks his face into Remus’ neck. There’d been a streak of spit on Sirius’ cheek where Remus’ wet fingers had grazed his face, and now it’s smeared over Remus’ jaw. Sirius sweats through his shirt a second time that night, and then he’s thinking about the tunnel again, about Honeydukes — not now, please — though Remus calls him back when he pants Sirius’ name into his ear.

Remus’ fingers scoop his arse, guide him as they both fuck into Remus’ fist. Sirius kisses behind his ear, tongues the corner of his jaw. He can feel the cool night air ghost the back of his neck, and he’s grateful for Remus’ warmth. Grateful for Remus.

He sinks his fingers into Remus’ hair, comes into Remus’ fist with a pitiful whine. As long as he can, he holds himself up, but sags slowly to Remus’ side as not to trap Remus’ hand between them, leg slung across his and still tangled in clothes. Sirius thinks he could get hard again — just give me a few bloody seconds — when Remus jerks himself off with Sirius’ spunk for his lube.

Sirius delights in it, just breathing, laying with his cheek on Remus’ pillow, watching the light of the lamp dance over the beads of sweat on Remus’ forehead. He even goes tense himself, fingers curling into a fist on Remus’ stomach, when Remus cants his head back, the line of his jaw flexed in orgasm.

As Remus eases into the sheets, Sirius wraps him in his arms, presses a kiss to his sweaty cheek. There’s far too much clothing between the two of them, but Sirius ignores it for now, even if it means only his arse is exposed to the rest of the dorm. He pities any ghost that dare float past their open windows.

There’s a bit of grunting and shifting, and then Remus pulls his wand out from beneath his bum, which has Sirius cackling into his neck.

“That was a tad uncomfortable,” mutters Remus, then cringes at the realization that he’s smudged the shaft of his wand with everything on his sticky fingers. “Fuck.”

Sirius plucks at the few, tawny hairs on Remus’ chest. There’s a smirk on his lips as he noses into Remus’ jaw. “I can run and… wet a towel.”

Remus lolls his head back, rolls his neck to nuzzle into Sirius’ temple. “But this is exactly when wandless magic would be ideal.”

“Don’t pout.” Sirius pats his chest. “Relax. For once, you can be subpar like the rest of us, who’re used to getting jizz on our wands.”

“That’s a terrible double-entendre.” Remus makes a face. Sirius can tell, even if he’s so near it’s blurry. “I’m always —,” he cuts himself short, turns and frowns at the ceiling. “I’m never borrowing anyone’s wand ever again.”

Sirius smiles to himself, sits up, and with one hand, grasps Remus’ wrist to suck his thumb clean. With the other, he pushes Remus’ shirt over his shoulder. “We’ll do it the old-fashioned way.”

Remus raises an eyebrow, but he’s rather fixated on Sirius’ mouth, so he complies in taking off his shirt. Sirius uses it as a mop on Remus’ stomach. Expectedly, Remus groans, but still begrudgingly offers his hand to be wiped off.

“Now you’ll think of me whenever you wear this shirt,” Sirius states contentedly.

“We wear uniforms, Sirius, I wear that all the damn time.”

“Exactly.”

***

James might’ve been better off asking Alice or Marlene where Evans goes off to when she’s feeling… explosive, and yet, here he is, wandering the deserted halls of the castle in search of her. He hasn’t even got the map on him. It would be an appropriate time to ram his head against that of a suit of armour, he’s thinking, or to check the Potions classroom, as he’s convinced by now that it’s her haunt of choice, when he stumbles to a stop at a window. It’s one that looks out the front of the school, and while the moon is almost a waning crescent, the sky is clear enough that by the moon’s light, James can make out the shape of a girl sat under a stone archway in the courtyard.

After rushing down several flights of stairs, he’s finally able to creep into the cloister around the courtyard. The night air sweeps over him as he tiptoes alongside the columns, counting them down to the one he knows Evans is sat against. When he sees the hem of her skirt hanging out a gap in the colonnade, he steels himself, inhales deep, then pounces out of hiding to roar, “Students out of bed!”

He’s expecting a scream, some evidence of shock, at the very least, but Lily doesn’t even flinch as they lock eyes. Instead, she rolls her eyes and swivels so her legs drape over the wall, knees toward the courtyard. James’ arms, dangling mid-air from his jump-scare, fall limply to his sides. He doesn’t think it’s a complete loss, though, for there’s a trace of a smile somewhere in Lily’s face. At least… her forehead isn’t crumpled in that way it usually is when she’s cross with him. Or anyone.

But mainly him.

“I heard the door,” she explains and laces her fingers over her lap. “It’s quiet out here.” And it is; it’s possibly the spot furthest from the Astronomy Tower still on castle grounds.

James takes a seat in the archway, opposite her, wraps his arms loosely around his knees. “Sure to fail Stealth and Tracking, then.” For Auror training, he means, but around Evans, it’s usually safe to drop the extraneous details of which she’s presumably aware.

“You just need to breathe quieter,” Evans tells him, and she turns her head, graces him with a view of her face. There’s something about her skin, James thinks, particularly the soft-looking parts of her cheeks, that he doesn’t quite have the words to describe. Sirius would laugh at him if he tried. “You, like…” She wrinkles her nose, twirls her fingers in a vague circle near her lips. “You breathe through your mouth.”

James raises an eyebrow. “You calling me a mouth-breather, Evans?”

Evans shrugs, shakes her head in the very slightest, eyes wide, innocuous. “If the man doth breathe through his mouth…”

James snorts, scrubs at the hair on the back of his head as he’s wont to do, apparently, in Evans’ presence. He’d like to tell her that sounds like something Sirius might say, but he reckons she’d take it as an insult rather than a convoluted compliment of the highest order.

She looks out on the courtyard again, hinges her head from one side to the other with a cracking sound that makes James shudder a bit. He’s thoroughly nonplussed, however. Evans’ entire being seems to perpetually scream I need a massage.

“Why are you out here, James?” she asks him through a sigh.

James. He smiles. He’s quite fond of his own moniker in that very moment. “Sirius said you seemed upset.”

“So you came to check on me.” It’s not a question, more a blank, exasperated statement.

“Why, yes.” James rubs at his jaw. “It’s nothing new. I used to do it all the time, even when you weren’t upset.”

“You haven’t for a while.” She tilts the side of her head against the archway. James leans the back of his head into the cold stone, wonders if it feels the same for her. “And if you think I’m upset, or something, because you kissed Winnie Reid, that’s completely ridiculous and you’re totally off-base.” There’s an acidic quality to her voice, or then James is just imagining it.

“I stopped, because… I was trying to take a hint.” He balls his hands up into a fist, lets his wrists dangle over his knees. Then he’s squinting at her, fishmouthing quizzically until he finds his words. “And… no, that didn’t cross my mind once, actually.”

Evans sits up again. “Sorry.” She pinches her lower lip between her fingers, lets it go. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s okay.” James chuckles, then. “I think you’ve gathered up an allowance of being rude to me. School’s nearly over, though, so you’d best use it up soon, before you never see me again.”

Lily smiles weakly. James feels weak himself, on those few, treasured occasions that she looks him in the eyes. Like now. “Don’t say that,” she mumbles. Then she glances down at the stone between them, a few feet's worth.

James can’t be sure what she’s referring to, exactly, so he says nothing.

“You did bother me a lot,” Lily states. Her brows are raised now, and whether she’s staring into space or at her hands, he can’t be sure. “A lot, James. No third-year wants to be courted like that. And for everyone to see?” She shakes her head. “Circe. No.”

James, despite flushing to the tips of his ears, can only purse his lips and nod. Third-year? Sure, he was small and daft, but all the way until Yule Ball? Mortifying, honestly. “You’re… absolutely right. I’m still sorry, you know that? Whenever I have a moment to myself for a… for a real think, you know, I just… I think about that. How much of a shit I was, how it’s no wonder any of it never worked on you.” He rolls his eyes toward the sky. “Someday, if I manage to have a kid — and if I don’t, I’ll find some kid, probably Remus’, Remus would make a good dad, though he’d probably beg to differ — anyhow, I’ll tell that kid how not to get the girl.” He laughs. “I’ll regale the child with tales of my epic plunders… also sprinkle in the fact that my mates and I became unregistered Animagi as not to, you know, completely soil my coolness —”

James could’ve sworn Lily was listening, as if he’d sensed it through his periphery, or maybe she was but simply couldn’t hold in her thoughts any longer. “James,” she blurts.

He glances toward her, and doesn’t even have the chance to say what? as she sighs tightly and taps the heel of her shoe against the wall.

“I said you bothered me,” she starts, still tapping, “but… it went on for so long, and I started to feel… I started to feel like it’d be strange if I didn’t turn you down. So I kept doing it. Things are easier like that, anyway, when I know what to expect. I like knowing what to expect, I like for things to be… routine. Maybe you’ve figured that out, I don’t know.” She pauses, takes a slow breath. “But… James, you’re not a bad person. You’re not. In fact, you’re clever and charming and funny and you care about people. The way you care about the people closest to you, it’s…” She doesn’t complete the thought, pinching at her lips again. “I was nervous because I didn’t know how else to act around you that wasn’t the way I’ve always been. And in a way, I didn’t want to start acting any different, because… well, you’re perseverant. When you set out to do something, James, you make it happen.”

James is rapt, unmoving. But the way Lily’s confidence seems to dwindle before his eyes, her voice growing unsteadier, makes him feel useless there, three feet away.

“And I figured if you knew I’d started to like you, things would probably change. I’m not saying I thought they’d change for the worse, even, that I was scared of that. Not at all. I was actually quite certain things could change for the better. Things between us.” She swallows, taps her heel into the stone again. “It was always just… change, point-blank. I was nervous for things to change, to become new and… unfamiliar. Which, when you think about it in the grand scheme of things, of life, is pretty immature —”

“It’s not,” James says, a bit hoarse. She’s frozen in profile, a pale vignette in the dark, and James’ fingers shake. “It’s not immature to have a fear. Some people, you know, will be deathly scared of spiders all their lives, still scream when they see one after years of, I don’t know, fighting wars or losing people they love or learning everything there is to know. After all that, they’ll still scream when they see a spider. If that’s not immature, then fearing that the things you’ve always known will change isn’t either.”

Lily breathes — silent, unlike himself, and he sees it in the rise and fall of her chest — and then she hops off the wall, feet landing in the courtyard. Instantly, James envisions her striding to the entrance doors, leaving him in his own silence, but she takes a few steps toward him, and then there’s a hand offered to him, pale and ink-stained with long, rounded nails. She wriggles her fingers expectantly when, like a dolt, he does nothing but stare, and then he takes that hand so, so carefully, only for her to wrench him off the wall and into the courtyard. He makes some foolish noise and trips and she laughs, but once he’s on his own two feet, Lily comes close to circle her arms around James’ middle, carefully lay her cheek to his shoulder. Resisting the urge to fist-pound the air, James takes a breath, thinking it might calm the rabbiting of his heart, and wraps Lily’s shoulders in his arms snugly.

He can’t be sure how long has passed once she begins to draw back, and he lets his arms fall away, moving like he’s underwater in some serious fever dream. She stands before him, her fingers interlocked, and smiles in a soft curve of her rosebud-colored mouth.

“Thank you,” she says quietly and clears her throat. “I am… I’m going to go up to the Astronomy Tower to clean up a bit, then go to bed. I’m feeling a bit, er.” She laughs through a breath. “Tired.”

James smiles tentatively but shakes his head. “Nah, I — I owe you one. Or many, depends how we’re keeping track. I’ll take care of the Tower, yeah?” His eyes drift to that promontory on the castle, still glowing against the scrim of the black sky.

Lily’s lips touch his cheek.

James blinks like there’s something in his bloody eye as he looks down at her.

“That’s nice of you, James,” she murmurs and settles her hands on her hips. “But if you did that, it’d keep me up all night, worrying about all the spots you missed, so.” She shrugs, takes a step away from him and toward the doors. “You’re welcome to help me out, though.” She smiles at him, then takes off in that snappy Evans-stride toward the doors.

James watches, closes his eyes, and lets his head hang back off his shoulders. When he hears the entrance doors unlatch, he goes ramrod straight dizzyingly fast. “Right behind you!” he calls, and dashes after her.

Chapter Text

Unspoken agreements.

Sometimes Sirius hates that he and Remus are on that same unspoken wavelength. It can have its advantages; Remus knows where on his neck to kiss him to make his stomach swoop, knows to pass the salt at the dinner table before Sirius asks for it. But it also means speaking up if Sirius wants anything to be different.

Different, meaning…

Remus murmurs, “They’re going to walk through that door any second.”

Sirius sits atop him. “No, they won’t, because Prongs mentioned going straight to class from the breakfast table, and we agreed we’d meet them at Herbology because I’d ‘forgotten’ my essay up here — plus, we went up the stairs pretty damn fast, so even if they’re following, we’ll have at least a few minutes of leeway —”

Their dormitory door swings open abruptly, and cacophony ensues as James shouts, “What’s taking you fucks so fucking long?” and Sirius flings himself over the edge of Remus’ bed, tumbling to the floor with a painful thump and hollering breathlessly, “Found it! Found your missing sock, Moony!” and Remus, still on the bed, blunders right over him, “T-that’s right, Sirius, clean that floor like I told you to.”

Sirius can’t see James where he’s bunkered behind the bed, but he can feel the pregnant pause that follows. Then James snorts. “Remus has both his socks on, man.”

Sirius flounders, squirming and acrobatically reaching for his foot like a baby would, popping off his boot and sock. “Did I say Remus’ missing sock? I meant mine.” He stands up, already a little sweaty but with the most virtuous of grins, waving his sock for James (and Peter behind him) to see.

“How’d your sock end up under Remus’ bed?” asks James, but he’s already occupied at his wardrobe, checking his bird’s nest of hair in the mirror.

“Probably, like, magic. Duh.” Sirius glances at Remus, who appears thoroughly unamused yet still amidst collecting himself off the mattress, and at Peter, who stares right back, then gives Sirius a very benign smile. Sirius forces himself to smile back, but promptly busies himself with re-socking his foot.

Remus brushes past him, knocking their shoulders together not-quite gently. “You were saying?” he whispers, and Sirius mutters, “Tuck in your shirt. As if I’d ever clean under your bed.”

“This’ll be the easiest Herbology lesson all year,” states James, slamming his wardrobe shut. “Whomping Willows? Seriously? If Sprout asks if any of us have experience with them, I’ll tell her that the one on school grounds smacked me in the arse in fourth year when Wormtail let go of the knot too early. Do I know anything about Whomping Willows? Fucking hell. I swear that’s what I’ll write if it shows up on the NEWT,” James waffles on, waltzes out the door.

Sirius lags behind, genuinely forgetting his essay this time, still thinking about unspoken agreements and how much easier it would be if James simply knew. If Peter knew. But that would require Remus’ consent, and a hey, Remus, would it make things too ‘official’ if we told the lads we sometimes bang conversation, and also a hey, James, just so you know, Remus and I are a wee bit more than friends confession. It feels even more important to Sirius than a by the way, I like boys, and you hate Jules, but I think I even liked him confession. The agreements being unspoken, though… therein lies his problem. And whilst Sirius is willing to be vocal about his loathing for Divination or when James has food on his face or how the sunlight reflects off the grease in Snape’s hair on his ghastliest days, in the end, those things just don’t matter, not the way this does.

He schleps in pursuit of James, who thunders down the stairs, followed by Peter and Remus.

It doesn’t make sense to be outspoken only about the things that matter least, Sirius thinks. But if his thoughts about the things that matter are unformed and stay unformed, if they get caught in his throat before he can even think about opening his mouth, he must just be wired the wrong way.

***

The soft clearing of a throat, somewhere to Lily’s left. Disconcertingly close by. Almost… as if the floor had hacked something up.

Lily lifts her head and peers over her shoulder. James, taking a knee with his head bowed, clutches onto the empty chair at Lily’s side. He seems to wait until he’s certain he has her attention, peeking up at her with one eye, then clears his throat again. “Miss Evans,” he murmurs, “if I may, I’d like to… occupy this seat.”

Lily feels the faintest of smiles tug at her lips. Then returns to her books. “I suppose you may.”

“Yes!” James whisper-cheers. He deftly rises and slides the chair out to plop on, and fold his arms over the table so his elbow weighs down the edge of Lily’s book. She glances at him from the corner of her eye, and as if she’d asked, he sighs dramatically and slumps backward in the chair. “Ugh. I am so tired of Remus asking me to quiz him at Runes, Lily, you have no idea.” Then he sits upright again, drums his fingers in a beat against the table. “So, what are you —?”

“Potter, would you pipe down?” Dorcas hisses from the other side of the table, nearer to the window. James seems to realize only then that they’re not alone, and that they are, in fact, in the library. Lily suppresses a smile — Dorcas appears to have lost one too many quills in her hair and behind her ears. And she looks one prod away from tearing open James’ throat. “Not everyone gives only a rat’s arse about exams.”

James grimaces, presses his glasses further up his nose. “Sorry, Meadowes,” he whispers, laces his fingers into a fidgety clasp on the table. “Would it make you feel better if I said I gave… perhaps not a rat’s arse, but a sizable Kneazle’s arse? You know, like those fat ones that eat from the dumpsters in Diagon Alley?”

Dorcas presses her lips together. Then, “Potter, I’ll garrote you if you don’t shut up.” Deliberately, she scoots her chair closer to the window.

James’ eye twitches. Lily nudges her elbow into his. “She’s been in here since it opened,” she tells him, hushed.

He makes a face of understanding, eyebrows lifting. “Ah.” Then he looks at their arms. Lily promptly draws away, lays her hand in her lap, eyes on her textbook. “What’re you revising, then?” James queries.

Lily lifts her eyes, just in time for a charmed parchment aeroplane to come sailing their way between the bookshelves. She watches it careen lightly into James’ forehead, rumpling its neatly folded tip, and fall to the table with a flutter. James flinches. He snatches it up, holds it close to his face and squints. “What the fuck is this?”

Lily chuckles and pinches it from him. “Runes,” she states, laying the letter flat.

“Not more Runes,” James whines.

“Just the cold truth. Look.” She slides the parchment toward him, taps her finger against the runes written near the bottom of the page.

James blinks, doesn’t even try to make sense of the symbols. “Evans, I haven’t studied Runes in two years.”

Lily purses her lips. “It’s signed Remus.”

That makes the corners of James’ lips turn downward. “Remus is writing you secret runic letters?”

“No,” laughs Lily. “Well — yes.”

“You know he’s, like, two tables down the corridor,” mutters James.

“I realize that, yes.” Lily looks his face over, amused by the repugnance. “We’re writing them to each other, translating them, responding. Making sure one another’s translations are up to par. It’s fun. Like… revision, but fun!”

“You’re both weird.” James frowns grimly, then drags the latest letter toward himself. “Well, what’s it say? Lily Evans, sunshine of my life, fire of my loins, I shall write to your father at once to beg for your hand in marriage?”

Lily has to laugh and press her hand to her mouth. Dorcas side-eyes her. “Oh, James,” Lily sighs, shakes her head. “Far from it.” There’s still a sour twist to his lip, so she leans over, reads the letter over his shoulder. “It says… well, let’s see… this is approximate, but,” she lowers her voice, “I’ve had to wee for an hour, but each time I make to do so, Sirius turns into a dog and chews my foot under the table. A plague upon the enablers who chose not to sit in my vicinity, allowing him to act a fool thus. Postscript to come. Signed: Remus.”

James hums in thought, utterly unfazed by the depiction of Sirius’ behavior. “Postscript to come?”

The next note to land between them on the table isn’t folded into an aeroplane, but rather a small crane, wings charmed to flutter. James spares no moment in deconstructing the bird. He gives the runes a cursory glance, then presents it to Lily. “O knowledgeable one?”

Lily takes it from him delicately. Her smile widens. “Please tell James he is a, erm, lump of puke. Signed: Remus.”

James chokes on saliva. “What?!”

Dorcas slaps the table. “Potter!” she scolds.

James lifts his hands in surrender, then whirls in his chair so his knees face Lily. “What?” he says again, under his breath.

Lily shrugs, waves the note at him. “That’s the runic character for ‘lump of puke.’”

James stares. Then he extends his palm for the note. “May I?”

She gives it to him. Within seconds, he’s drawing his wand. He levitates the note and crisps it with fire until it’s mere ash, floating down to their table like black snow. Then he blows it away.

“Showoff,” mutters Lily.

Dorcas noisily takes to gathering her belongings, stomps past them both with her armful of books. “You two are the worst,” are her parting words.

James fails to react. Carefully, as not to jostle Lily’s setup, he draws a clean piece of parchment from her stack and holds it out to her, smiling hopefully. “Can Remus is a dickhead be expressed in runic characters?”

***

NEWTs are dull. Sirius sails through with the comfortable assumption that he’s done well enough, even finishes his Divination exam with forty-three minutes to spare for a nap on his desk that leaves his spine cramping for the rest of the week. He can’t complain, though, because he’s far more at-ease than Remus, who shoots up in bed one night and loudly bemoans a realization about that one Arithmancy question he’d left blank, as if he simply has to be that concerned about… becoming an arithmancer, or whatever. Remus would never.

The June days are longer and warmer, and as the boys laze on the hill between exams each passing afternoon, they look on as a troupe of carpenters sent by the Department of Magical Games and Sports erect a fence that arches along the edge of the school grounds and plunges into the Forbidden Forest, an incomplete circle.

“I would strongly recommend practicing Arania Exumai before the last challenge,” James remarks literally every damn day, and subsequently, Sirius shoots a trip jinx at his ankles every damn day. He’s made the discovery that, whilst seated, trip jinx victims stumble in even funnier ways than when falling from upright.

The news remains grim. Less grim, though, is the fact that a week before NEWTs began, Marlene had thrown up her hands and decided that Dorcas — who’ll be gunning for a Magical Law Enforcement position once she’s done her duty to Dumbledore’s resistance group — had enough academic ambition for the both of them. She’d opted out of exams for every course she’d been drudging through all year. In an instant, she was publicly, blissfully unburdened by exams season. She kicked her legs up in the library whilst Lily studied, told Sirius one night all about the magical tattoo shop she’d someday open up in Diagon Alley. Sirius had promised her his body to practice on anytime. He had her to thank, after all, for the beautiful mess he’s made of his starry left arm.

As McKinnon seemed only to spend her days hanging around the Gryffindor common room, gently harassing friends and acquaintances as they studied, it comes as a shock when, on the eve after the very last NEWT exam — Evans and Remus both come bustling up to the Tower from their Ancient Runes NEWT, which Sirius thinks will be sure to come in handy some day — Marlene announces she’s arranged for all Gryffindor seventh years an elaborate, fancy evening of whisky-tasting. Old Mr. McKinnon is, apparently, a hobbyist of sorts. She hosts in the seventh year girls’ dormitory; to gain entrance and evade the peril of the stairs-turned-slide, James and Marlene take turns carrying each seventh year lad up the stairs on piggyback. James, of course, displays his Head Boy badge with pride. One does not simply gain entrance to Marlene’s soirée, though, if one is not dressed to the very nines, as determined uniquely by Marlene. And thus Remus’ getup, generally considered tidy if one avoids looking too closely at how worn his clothes are, is deemed unacceptable, so he’s sent back to the dormitory. He returns with a horrendous, polka-dotted, wide-collared shirt that had until recently belonged to James’ father, and Marlene howls with delight. “Up you get, Lupin,” she says, turning to present him with her back. Sirius will remember, forever and ever, the face Remus makes as he’s hefted up the stairs by one Marlene McKinnon in black platform boots.

Sirius and Remus never make it to the whiskies from Speyside and Islay. It’s Sirius’ fault, mostly, because Marlene had given him the honorable position of sitting at the other head of the table — a table formed by pushing all the girls’ writing desks together — and Sirius had demanded of Remus that he take the seat nearest him. After gulping down his first two samples too fast to taste any nuances but not fast enough to evade the smoky burn on his tongue, he took to completely ignoring the mind-bending phenomenon of James and Evans sitting companionably adjacent, and instead, didn’t take his eyes off Remus since the moment they sat down. Not one eye. Both eyes… very focused.

The room is hardly big and still Marlene yells instead of using a more tolerable Sonorus, directs them through the history and makings of each region’s whisky. Remus listens respectfully, smells and sips and savors, finishes off James’ dregs for him when he chokes on the peaty Highland whisky.

And Sirius watches. Marlene’s aggressive narration makes for an oddly pleasing soundtrack to watch Remus to.

Everything before Sirius — the scene, the people, their voices — it all melds together into a swirling microcosm of what is now. They’re almost-officially whisky-drinking pseudo-adults who can transfigure rodents into water goblets, and whose skills at Dark Arts defense (and offense) are debatable until they’re exercised beyond the castle’s walls. Only almost-officially, because the last of the exams have been taken, textbooks shut for the season, and quills put to rest until summer necessitates that I miss yous be inked onto parchment, but they’ve yet to say goodbye or see you soon.

And Sirius has yet to compete in the last challenge of the Triwizard Tournament.

All of that — a wonderful, colorful, melancholy muddle, Marlene’s sharp cackle colored bright magenta, James and Remus and all the rest coming together to form Sirius’ personal rainbow — roils about in Sirius’ head as the Speyside whisky is served. The charmed bottle floats cleverly over each glass, sloshes in a measured amount. And Remus, very slowly but very firmly, presses the toe of his shoe down on Sirius’ until he yelps and bangs his knee against the table’s underside. Nobody notices. There’s enough laughter and noisy spills of whisky and chairs screeching across the floor.

Remus leans toward him, forearm on the table. “Did you take something?” He looks from one of Sirius’ eyes to the other.

Sirius’ eyes widen, and he coughs out a laugh. “Why?”

Under his breath, Remus responds, “You’re staring at me like I’m that one werewolf at the whisky-tasting table.”

Sirius smiles broadly with far too much ease. “Silly, silly Moony. That you are.” He waits for Remus to smile, and he does. “I’m just feeling sentimental. Appreciating you appreciating whisky, if you will.” He lets his hand fall out from beneath his chin, lays it flat on the table so he can poke Remus’ forearm with his middle finger. “Though I am feeling internally conflicted by how well you fill out Monty’s shirt,” he whispers, lifts his brows. “So… just don’t unbutton the top few and, like, wear a tiny chain ‘round your neck. It’d be too much.”

Remus glances at James, makes eye contact only with the back of his head, as he’s taken his chair and angled it toward Evans with zero subtlety. Sirius watches, withdraws his finger, wary. But then Remus turns to him again, covers Sirius’ palm with his own, rough and warm. “No chains, got it,” he mumbles.

Sirius feels his smile widen. “Did you know you’re sexy when you get so into your whisky?” he says with low volume, swipes his glass from the table. It’s a mistake, a stupid one, because the bottle is charmed to follow their glasses, and as he moves it, the incoming Balvenie overshoots with his motion and sloshes Sirius’ dram straight down the front of Remus’ heinous top.

That gets James’ attention — Sirius shouting, that is. Remus gazes down at himself with mild distaste.

“Toilet’s across the hall!” Marlene calls from the opposite end of the table, waving her hand, as if their dormitories aren’t laid out identically.

Tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek, James says, “Cheers. I would’ve done that eventually if you hadn’t.”

Sirius hauls Remus from the chair by his elbow. “My fault. I’ll personally deliver it to — who is it, Evans?” He squints her way. “Dr. Cleaner?”

Evans hesitates. Slowly, she says, “The… dry cleaners?”

Sirius blinks, visualizes the letters in his head. “Fuck,” he mutters.

In the bathroom, Remus leans backward against the sink as Sirius fans his chest with the hot-air charm, wand in hand. “Moony, I would never survive in the Muggle world,” Sirius says piteously. “I can’t even read. Doctor…? Fuck.”

Remus says nothing, but his mouth twitches like he’d like to smile wider than he’s letting himself.

Sirius smushes his fingertip into Remus’ lips. “I’m sorry I stared at you.”

Remus takes him by the wrist, kisses his fingertip. “Don’t worry about it.”

Sirius had stopped casting… he’s not sure when. He sags into Remus, damp shirt and all. “Prongs was —”

“Don’t worry.”

Sirius’ eyes flicker over his face. He smiles. “I just like looking at you.”

“I can’t imagine why, you marvel of genetics.” Remus cups him by the cheeks. Sirius might melt into the floor if he didn’t.

Sirius rolls his eyes, drums his fingers against Remus’ chest. “You’re fit when you do old man things, like luxuriating in whisky.”

Nobody’s put up a silencing charm in the girls’ room, and so through two walls, they can hear echoes of ABBA’s Honey, Honey. Remus’ lips quirk. “That’s a good word. Luxuriate.”

“You like my word?” Sirius tips his chin up.

“I like your word. Very nice.” Remus pecks the corner of his mouth, which Sirius considers a stamp of approval. With a vigilant glance toward the bathroom door, Remus hooks his arm behind Sirius’ neck, drags him to the nearest stall and locks it behind them. He presses Sirius into the stall door with a heavy hand on each shoulder, and Sirius can hear him breath faster, deeper. Then he gets to his knees.

Sirius’ pupils blow.

Remus runs his palms up Sirius’ hips, back down. “Can I…”

Sirius smooths the curls from Remus’ forehead, his own face searing hot. “Yes. Yes.” He plants his palms against the stall door, but they’re suddenly so clammy they slip. “Wait — like, don’t stop, but we’re in the girls’ fucking toilet.” As much as Sirius is bodily on fire right now — Remus never initiates these moments — he’s irked by the thought of some poor innocent getting up for a midnight wee.

Remus arches an eyebrow as he unbuttons Sirius’ trousers. “This won’t take long.”

Sirius’ jaw drops. Then he shuts his mouth, smirks. “Someone’s confident.”

“I’m just using a seven-day average.”

“You don’t even have data from the last five days!” Sirius and James took all the same NEWTs. It’s been hard to find a reason to escape him. Sirius’ hands clench into fists against the door. “And stop doing Muggle maths on your knees. It’s weirdly hot.”

“Like my shirt?” Remus grins, drags Sirius’ trousers down. He rubs his hand into Sirius’ ready erection through the cotton of his briefs. It hadn’t taken much, really — pleasing Remus with good vocabulary, for one, already got him a little hot.

Sirius’ brow crinkles. “No, that’s a different kind of hot. Fuck.”

Remus pats him on the hip, placating, and pulls Sirius’ cock from his pants. The git has the audacity to smile before taking Sirius onto his tongue.

***

Remus sits on the windowsill, window open to the warm night. Sirius gazes upward, head on Remus’ lap and a leg dangling out the window, as Remus finishes off the last of Sirius’ cigarette. It’s an unwise position given the likelihood they might both tumble out into the night air should James boisterously barge in, but Sirius trusts Remus not to fall, and Remus… Remus probably trusts himself. It works, somehow.

Sirius turns his head to scan the room. Two weeks prior, he’d determined the exact date he could stop compiling his clothes for laundry and still make it to the end of the school year. It’d also meant he’d simply started kicking his dirty clothes under his bed, which he didn’t look forward to recovering when they packed up and moved out in a matter of days.

He sighs and shifts again, peering at the underside of Remus’ jaw. “McGonagall gave me a letter when I left the Transfiguration NEWT yesterday,” he says, cracks the knuckles of his bare toes against the wall.

“I remember.” Remus taps ashes out the window.

Sirius regards him. “You noticed? And you didn’t ask me about it?”

Remus pinches the tip of his nose. “Thought you’d tell me if you wanted me to know.”

“Oh.” That… hadn’t occurred to him. “Anyhow, it was pretty funny. She said, and I quote, with her face all pinched up, ‘I’ll be having words with Mademoiselle Maxime about employing me as her Triwizard communications owl.’”

Remus smiles faintly. “I fear for her life.”

Sirius returns the smile, looks out the arch of the window. “I’m meant to meet everyone by the forest at sunset tomorrow.” He hugs his arms across his chest. “For the challenge.”

Remus hums. “Of course. The forest feels much more forbidden in the nighttime.” He twists his finger into a lock of Sirius’ hair, pulls it tight right above Sirius’ line of sight. “I guess that means I’ll wake up tomorrow and you’ll either have won or lost.”

“Or died.”

Remus drops the hair into his eyes. Sirius blows it away. “Not funny,” murmurs Remus. “And it’d be bad publicity for the Ministry, letting a child die in some big old game. They’d never do that.” Remus’ upper lip seems to twitch with contempt. As of late, the Ministry seemed to be slipping where Muggleborns were concerned.

“Who’re you calling a child?”

Remus blinks, squeezes his nose again. “Saying young man makes me sound like my da.”

“Nobody said you had to say young man.”

***

Sirius slumps over the foot of his bed, picking at his clingy, red tracksuit. Abruptly, his vision goes red and his head jerks downward on his neck — some jerk jerking on his hood — and he laments that James is so light on his feet.

Sirius feels warm bodies sidle up on both his sides, sandwiching him. As he uncovers his head, James grins at him from his right, Peter from his left. “Ready to get the show on the road?” asks James, patting Sirius’ shoulder like he’s seen James do to each of his players before a Quidditch match. His eyebrows are everywhere with excitement. “Win a nice, fat trophy for House Gryffindor?”

“It’s for the school, Jamison. Unity, man. Peace. Peace and balance.” Sirius meets James’ eyes. Then he beams. “For fucking Gryffindor!” He lunges at James. They’d both topple from the bed if Peter didn’t simultaneously grab onto Sirius’ track jacket and James’ elbow.

“Gryffindoooooor!” James hollers, pounding Sirius’ back with his fist. They fall back against the mattress with Peter’s help.

Sirius sighs, still smiling winningly, relaxes onto his back as he tousles James’ hair. His gaze shifts to Peter. “Where’s Remus?”

“He went to the Shack early.” Peter sniffs. “Pomfrey took him.”

Sirius breathes out, looks away. “Right.”

“So,” says James forcefully, disengaging from Sirius’ grip and hoisting himself upright opposite Peter. “As agreed, Wormtail and I will head for the Shack whilst everyone’s busy going down to watch the task. We’ll stay with Remus for the transformation, see what kind of mood the wolf’s in tonight, and then either one or both of us will come watch you smash it, depending.”

Sirius nods. He remembers the plan. The tiny — maybe substantial — selfish part of his brain doesn’t like the idea of not having a friendly pair of eyes in the audience in those few seconds before the task, but, again. Selfish.

He’ll be fine. He’d spent evening study breaks between NEWTs practicing concurrent casting with Remus; he’ll doubtless need light in the Forbidden Forest, alongside other spells. He couldn’t be sure what those other spells would be, though — just that without light, he’d be powerless.

Sirius’ ears perk as dozens of footsteps seem to descend the boys’ dormitory stairs. He sighs, feels sickening jitters fill his lungs and stomach. Why? He hadn’t worried much about the first two tasks, even when a spot of worrying might’ve done him good.

“Must be your cue,” murmurs James. Peter takes Sirius by the wrist, looks expectantly at James, who then wraps fingers around Sirius’ remaining wrist. Together, they pull him up. “Just think,” James says, “about all of us, a few days from now. In the attic at my mum and dad’s, writing our letters to join Dumbledore’s secret force.” He digs his finger affectionately into Sirius’ cheek, then pats it. “Think about that.”

Sirius’ lips purse in thought, then form a small smile. He slides his hands onto Peter and James’ shoulders and squeezes. “Could kiss you both.”

James looks him up and down. “If that’s what you really want.” He leans in, plants a wet one on Sirius’ mouth, doesn’t even pull back to mutter, “Pete, get in here.” Sirius squeak-laughs, tucks his chin down to hide, but Peter promptly smacks a kiss to Sirius’ open cheek. Sirius cries out for help, but it’s no use — James has hooked his wiry, strong arms around them all, trapped Sirius in a headlock of brotherhood and snogging he hadn’t known he’d needed.

***

Students from all three schools pour out of the Entrance Hall, into the courtyard and onto the grass, collectively stumbling down the hill, past the gamekeeper’s hut and toward the stands set up in a horseshoe shape at the mouth of the forest. From the stairs inside, as Sirius looks on, they form only a sea of bobbing tops of heads, school ties, and swishing black robes. He takes a breath, and his tennis shoes tap against the stone stairs as he plunges into the crowd, a spot of red in a field of black. He can see when he reaches the courtyard that he’s late, that Winnie and Jules are already there, turquoise and white-clothed dots near the stands, identifiable by the nearby beacon of atrocity that is Dumbledore in a garish set of purple robes. As Sirius weaves his way between his peers, the sea of students seems to part for him. He receives a variety pack of wide-eyed glances and supportive thumbs-up from familiar faces, and he takes it as a good omen that Snape’s slimy head and Avery’s thick skull and his brother’s cold eyes are nowhere in sight.

When he reaches the front of the pack, McKinnon spots him, punches him in the shoulder. Hard. His arm goes limp, and she grins. The goodness of that omen is questionable.

“Ah, Mr. Black,” greets Dumbledore, fingers tented, as Sirius approaches the champions and the professors. “We were debating whether to send a search party for you.”

“No need,” he mutters and sticks his hands in his tracksuit pockets. He comes to a stop beside Winnie, and glances over his shoulder to watch the clambering of students onto stands, listens to their steady hum of conversation. The stands arch and rise around them, and beyond, the castle towers against the backdrop of the pinkish sky and the swiftly-setting sun. He feels like he’s at the heart of an amphitheatre, where the ancient Roman Muggles set gladiators to bloodying one another for mass entertainment. This won’t be much different, he supposes.

Even standing tall and rigid, Winnie’s eyes betray her nerves as she stares into the forest, unmoving. Jules is cool, calm, with a lilting smirk. Sirius smiles at Winnie, offers his hand for a squeeze, which she takes. She effectively crushes his knuckles. It’s okay. He only needs one hand to cast, anyway.

“Scared of the dark, Sirius?” says Jules. It’s the first time he’s spoken to him in months since their stilted courtyard conversation. Sirius refuses to look his way, sighs out his nose as he peers at the fence the Ministry folks had toiled at for weeks.

“No, Jules Verne, I won’t hold your hand, if that’s what you’re asking,” he replies.

The gates to the fenced-in area, wooden and unassuming, open onto a flat plain of half-dead grass that backs onto the Forbidden Forest. A thick marble pillar seems to grow from the spotty grass, just high enough to step on.

“Welcome,” Dumbledore’s voice booms across the stands, as if emanating from somewhere above, and not a short ways from Sirius, “to the final task of the Triwizard Tournament.”

As the sun descends behind the mountains, bit by bit, the stands grow darker, the faces more anonymous. Sirius’ hand clenches around Winnie’s, and he twirls his wand between his fingertips, closes his eyes to center himself.

“Allow me to remind you of the current standings. In first place, Sirius Black of Hogwarts School” — hollers from the stands make Sirius’ feet feel rooted to the ground, make him feel taller than he is — “after achieving first place in the first task, and second place in the second. In second, we have Jules Verlaine of Beauxbatons Academy, and in third, Winifred Reid of Ilvermorny School… all in competition for the Triwizard Cup!” At Dumbledore’s side, Chaz Cassady hoists a shining cup of intricately-shaped metal into the air. It emits a curious pale-blue glow, and seems to grow brighter the further the sun sets. “Now, this is not the real Triwizard Cup. It is but a copy, of which the champions will find many beyond the gates to the Forbidden Forest, distributed throughout the grounds. It is our champions’ task to seek out the true cup from its duplicates… but not without consequence. Every cup but the true prize releases, on contact, a different magical obstacle that the champion must tackle. The true Triwizard Cup is a Portkey to safety… and to automatic victory.” Dumbledore nods at the crowd, turns to the champions. “Champions, in order of your current standings, you will be transported to disparate locations in the forest. The moment your feet hit the ground, you may begin the task. Do not stray beyond the fence.” His eyes sparkle, though his face is in shadow, haloed by the sunset. “Good luck.”

The petite Mademoiselle Maxime charms the gates open. She gives Sirius an unreadable smile not quite befitting her otherwise cherubic face. “See-rius Bleck,” she says airily, gesturing to the stone pedestal, “ven you are ready.”

“See you in there, Black,” whispers Winnie. She lets his hand go, pats him on the scruff of his neck. It harkens back to the drawing of the champions, when he’d forgotten how to stand from the Gryffindor table and she’d had to do it for him.

“Right.” The sky is deep violet, fading to navy. Sirius’ eyes pass over Jules’.

Jules lifts his chin in the slightest. “Do take your time.”

Sirius is tempted to growl and leap at him, but the spectatorship is far too great. Eyes narrowing, he saunters through the gates. The grass rustles quietly underfoot. Darkness begins to set in, but the forest’s impervious canopy shields its ground from most daylight anyhow. He won’t have the comfort of the full moon’s light — though maybe that’s for the better. He won’t be distracted by thoughts of Remus.

Oh, the things he’d do to get Remus’ voice in his ear again.

He’s expecting to step up, have one last eyeful of the stands — and his adoring fans — before he’s dropped amid the woods. But the moment his foot makes contact with the stone, Sirius feels the inward twist of time and space at the bottom of his gut, dispersing his molecules into nothingness. He gasps, and it’s the last breath of air he gets before falling to his knees on the forest floor.

***

Marlene, Dorcas and Alice head early to the Triwizard challenge. It’s apparent, at least to Marlene, that Sirius will emerge as the inevitable victor, and therefore they’d need to be front row if they want to be the first to charge at him in celebration. Lily questions whether Black’s friends aren’t already planning such a thing, but Marlene only says, “I will not hesitate to fight Potter for a front-row spot.”

Lily has full intentions of joining them — something about the undue overprotectiveness she’d begun to feel over Black several months back — until Professor Sprout spots her in the halls shortly before students are to report to the forest’s edge, and asks if she’d be a doll and ensure every Gryffindor student, particularly the younger ones, makes it from the Tower to the Entrance Hall to join the masses.

And Lily, eye twitching, fingers rubbing her glossy Head Girl badge, agrees.

“Here we are! There, go with Benjy! Thanks, Benjy!” When the headcount among first-year Gryffindors had been one short, Lily had discovered a first-year sneaking to the kitchens. Down in the Entrance Hall again, finally, she attaches the first-year’s sticky hand to Benjy Fenwick’s sleeve. She settles her hands on her hips, watches as the stragglers — Benjy and the fugitive among them — make their way out of the castle. With a deep sigh, she takes to following them, only to stop short at the doors.

They aren’t faraway enough to be indistinguishable, but the falling dusk would render the wayward pair more difficult to place, were their gaits not so… one-of-a-kind. And were Lily not so observant. She swears that, trudging not toward the forest but to the hill of the Whomping Willow, are the distinct silhouettes of James and Peter Pettigrew.

They stroll leisurely. James looks to pat Peter on the back. Lily glances between them and everybody else congregating at the stands by the forest, imbued with thrill for the competition — the thrill of Sirius Black, James’ closest friend, in his final face-off for the Triwizard Cup. And she has to wonder... where could they possibly be going?

Somewhere by the forest, Professor Dumbledore casts Sonorus; his voice thunders against the hillside, stirs a flock of crows from a tree near Lily. They soar into the purpling sky, cawing. She can’t make out his words, but his tone echoes on the grounds, rumbles through her chest. The task must be in its beginnings.

She curls and uncurls her fingers at her sides, then feels for her wand inside her robes. Concern and curiosity win her over. Perhaps it has something to do with their Animagus shenanigans. She scans the sky in search of the moon.

Before she can make after James and Peter —

“Lily?”

She turns to face the source of the voice: a slim, dark silhouette in the Entrance Hall doorway. She blinks, takes a step nearer. “Yes?”

“I’m… I’m sure you don’t know who I am, but —”

Lily smiles, small and confused. She moves into yellow glow of the hall. “Of course I know who you are, Regulus.”

Regulus’ throat bobs. “Oh,” he whispers, appearing off-put. Then he raises his voice. “I need to talk to you. There’s not much time.” He seems to glance past her, eyes roaming the sky. “Time might even be out.”

Lily’s smile fades, and she steps nearer to him. For being Sirius’ brother, he’s not nearly as tall as Sirius is. He might even be her height, but he’s only fifteen yet. In fifth year, isn’t he? “Is something wrong, Regulus?”

Regulus’ nostrils flare. He massages the inside of his left wrist with his thumb as he casts a glance about the empty hall. They’re alone but for the shadows cast by the flickering torches. Lily can tell he’s practically shaking out of his skin, but miraculously it doesn’t seep into his voice. He nods faintly, and she takes Regulus by the shoulder, guides him just outside the doors where their voices won’t echo. As they move from the hall’s warm firelight into the shadows, she sees a flash of Regulus’ red-rimmed eyes.

“Do you know about Remus Lupin?” he murmurs once Lily lets him go. “I know that… that you’re friends.”

She looks his face over, determines he looks earnest enough. “That he’s a…”

“Werewolf. Yes.”

She nods, folds her arms over her chest. “I’m surprised it took me so long to put the pieces together.”

Regulus looks at the ground, then at her eyes with clear reluctance. “I couldn’t bring myself to tell Potter,” he says stiffly. “But… in fifth year, Sirius played a stupid prank on Severus. He could’ve been hurt badly. And I… I know you used to be friends, too, with Severus. But he’s never forgotten it, that prank.”

Regulus continues.

Lily listens.

“I don’t know what to do,” he breathes, tendons straining in his neck. The thin skin under his eyes is so lilac it looks painted-on.

Lily feels panic swell in her chest like waves, growing larger as the tide grows higher. But she only presses her lips together, eyes searching out the scraggly shape of the distant Whomping Willow. “Come with me,” she says, reaching for Regulus’ wrist.

“I can’t,” he says, voice newly raw. “I can’t face —”

“Regulus, come with me,” she repeats, curt this time.

He swallows.

Together, they set off for the Whomping Willow.

***

“He’s not there.”

Peter is sickly pale when the moonlight strikes him. “We should’ve gone into the forest,” he whispers, mechanically reaching for the knot of the Whomping Willow as they climb out from between its roots, moments before a thick branch can thwack James down onto the grass.

“He’s not there,” James breathes, again. “Why is Remus not there, Wormtail?”

Uneasy, Peter shakes his head. This isn’t the first or second time James has asked that question since they came down the tunnel, back from the Shrieking Shack.

“We need to look for him,” Peter says, faint and meek. James barely hears him, eyes wide, seemingly unseeing as he jogs beyond the willow’s reach.

“We need to — Peter, the Triwizard Tournament is taking place in the forest as we speak. We can’t just march in there —”

“Neither can Remus!” protests Peter.

James glares at him.

“James!”

They both turn. Lily, robes whipping about her like a bat’s wings, closely trailed by Regulus Black, crests the hill of the willow.

“Lily,” mumbles James, bewildered. The clouds above have taken on a murky, brownish tinge against the blackening sky.

“It’s Remus,” breathes Lily, pointing toward the Forbidden Forest. “He’s —”

“Escaped,” James finishes blankly.

Lily tries to find words, but she only looks to Regulus at her side once he’s caught up.

James’ expression sours. “What are you doing with her?”

Lily finds them, suddenly, those words. She stamps the ground as she spits, “Shut up and listen to him, Potter!”

James startles visibly. His eyes flicker to Regulus.

“Severus and that Beauxbatons boy,” Regulus says, with eyes on the forest, “Jules. They wanted to get back at Sirius for…” He shakes his head. “They knew about your hideout. They’ve set Lupin free in the Triwizard pen. I don’t know how they did it, and I don’t know where Jules is, but he’s certainly not with Sirius.”

Peter’s face resembles the moon in tint, craters and all.

James blinks rapidly, processing. His hands seem to magnetize to his hair. “Se — Snape — that greasy fucking git, I gave him a chance and now he’s gone and —”

“We should warn the teachers,” says Lily. “Dumbledore —”

“No,” James says tersely, slicing the air with his hand. “No, no. None of the teachers can know.” He turns toward the stands towering by the forest. “They’re all down there right now. It’s the bloody main event. If we ambush that, we’ll cause a scene. Everybody’ll be in a panic. And there’s no telling what the Beauxbatons and Ilvermorny professors will do to Remus if they find out there’s a werewolf ‘endangering’ their students. There’s no way Dumbledore’s told them about him, unless he snuck it into some clause in a contract —”

“Do you hear yourself?” Lily shouts. “Endangering their students? Of course they need to know! They’re adults, James, powerful witches and wizards who are responsible for those students, and are way more powerful than —”

“We don’t need ‘powerful witches and wizards’! We need…” James throws his hands into the air, rubs one over his face and knocks his glasses askew, groans with exasperation.

“We need to go find Remus,” says Peter. He gulps audibly. “And Sirius. We need to find Sirius, too, so he can help. James is right, we don’t want the teachers — or Merlin forbid, the Werewolf Capture Unit — on Remus’ tail, but Lily is… you’re also right. We should tell… we should at least tell Dumbledore.” Peter nods, twiddles his fingers together. “So he’s in the know.”

James hesitates. Lily eyes James icily. James returns the gaze, drumming his fingers against his thighs. Regulus looks as if he might vomit.

“Pete and I will head for the forest,” murmurs James, his hair wild now he’s raked his fingers through it. He sighs, steps toward Lily. “Would you go to Dumbledore? Please? You know, just… fix your hair, make your eyes a bit less crazed, look all Head Girl-like,” Lily arches an eyebrow at James’ own hair, “and just… tell him what’s happened. Just the bare minimum. Don’t try to attract anyone else’s attention. He’s on Remus’ side, Dumbledore is. He’ll know what to do to keep everyone else in the dark while we… sort this shit out.” James, breathing in deeply through his nose, turns on Regulus with a disdainful look. “You… I don’t fucking care what you do.”

“James!” Lily admonishes.

“What?” James snarls. “He could’ve stopped them, and he didn’t! He’s useless!”

“At least he’s telling us now,” she hisses.

Regulus trembles, feeling at his left forearm. But the look he gives James is tenacious. “You need to go now, Potter.”

James doesn’t refute. His jaw flexes, and he gives Lily a look that’s too long, too heavy. “We need to be fast, Pete,” he says, gathering himself. “Once I turn, get on and hold on.”

Lily sees what she’s seen only once before, though this time, she’s ready for it. James turns on his heel, takes a step into which he seems to fall, plummet toward the grass, only to be rescued by his quadrupedal form, antlers blooming from his head like complex vines growing at high-speed. Peter, in the form of a fat rat, scampers up the stag’s leg, clings with tiny pink hands to the voluminous hair on its neck. As the stag sets off on a romp, Lily is reminded of her patronus.

Regulus looks as if he’s seen a ghost when Lily faces him.

“Let’s go,” she says briskly. “I’ll tell Dumbledore, and… then we’ll sneak off to find Sirius, make sure he’s alright. How’s that?”

Regulus has a feeling James wouldn’t like the second half of her plan. He nods anyway.

***

Sirius plasters himself to a tree. He’s sweating, and the dense wood makes it impossible for the night breeze to find him. His hair sticks to his face, as does his tracksuit, and he unzips it halfway down his chest, feels at the dampness of his shirt underneath.

He figures he got a generous head start on Jules and Winnie, and also that he’s wasted it all being chased by a fucking Erumpent. Because, of course, the first luminous-blue cup he eagerly — naively — grasps conjures a massive African magical beast that’d wanted Sirius’ innards for dinner — or to inject him with its explosive fluid. Equally daunting fates.

He’d tired himself out running more than he’d tired the Erumpent, and he must’ve gone in circles because he’s yet to see or hear either Winnie or Jules, but he’d finally landed a strong-enough Stupefy to its soft underbelly to have the massive creature thudding to the forest floor, and he’d wrapped it up in an Incarcerous… just to be sure. The easy way might’ve been to strike its horn and blow Erumpent guts all over, but he paid very little attention in Care of Magical Creatures and it’d seemed exotic and terrifying enough to possibly be going extinct. He hadn’t wanted that blood on his hands.

Sirius closes his eyes, opens them. Relights his Lumos. For a moment, he questions why he’s doing this, why he shouldn’t just sit back and let someone else find the real cup and win. Winnie, preferably. She probably wouldn’t like the sound of that, him going easy on her. She’d want him to put up some sort of fight.

He exhales, steps away from the tree. It’s then that he hears the sounds of thumping footsteps, the cracking of a twig underfoot. He whirls, irrationally frightened, only to be faced with —

“Sirius?” James pants, and Sirius’ eyes bug out of his head.

“Are you —,” Sirius croaks, watching James bend over and clutch at his knees, wheezing for breath. Sirius’ mind races, and he takes a backward step nearer the tree. He can’t trust that this isn’t some magical illusion, or a Boggart, but the sweat beading on James’ forehead in the light of both their wands seems too earthly, too physical to transcend humanity. “What are you —?”

“Merlin, Padfoot, I’m,” James coughs, straightens up, and reaches for Sirius’ shoulders. “Fuck, mate, I’m just so happy I found you.”

Sirius blinks. He sure smells like James after a match, gropes him bruisingly hard like James. “Okay, but… Why are you…”

“Right.” James drops a hand to swipe at the dampness on his face. His eyes drift somewhere past Sirius’ shoulder, and he snaps his fingers as if to drive his thinking. “Er, so, bit of a dilemma. Something along the lines of: Snape and Jules Verlaine both hate you, so they went and dragged Remus out of the Shack before he transformed, supposedly so they could leave him to terrorize this very challenge — or maybe to kill you, but they’re too thick to know you’re an Animagus, and…” He exhales, shakes his head. “All that. Anyhow, you can sniff him out, yeah?”

Sirius stares at him, mouth in a small ‘o’. Snape… Jules. He wasn’t even aware they were friendly. He thinks back to Honeydukes. Regulus?

James stares back, looking from eye to eye. And he gives Sirius an open-handed slap across the face.

“Merlin’s balls!” Sirius hisses, shoves James back by the middle of his chest. His cheek throbs hotly.

“I’m sorry, but there’s no fucking time to process this!” James snaps as he stumbles. “We need to find Remus before —”

Sirius’ skin goes up in chills, gooseflesh prickling at the sound of a blood-curdling scream. He whips toward James, wordless, color draining from his face. Remus… Remus is… out.

James, now saucer-eyed, smiles uneasily. “Ha, I bet that’s… bet that’s just the spiders,” he laughs, awkward. “The spiders, being all scary. You know, the ones I told you live in —”

As if to echo the scream, a wolf’s cold howl resounds through the woods, bouncing from tree trunk to tree trunk. Sirius swears, as he presses his palm to the bark of the closest tree, he can feel its vibrations. It’s not a howl Sirius would forget.

“That way,” Sirius utters, pointing into the indistinct indigo of the deep forest. He shoots off in a sprint, arms like blades at his sides, though he can feel his wand slipping from his clammy palm. He can barely breathe — it feels like his heart, pumping on overdrive, is crushing his lungs. He hears James following, but not closely enough. And then he must hit a rocky patch or make a misstep, because he tumbles aimlessly to the ground, scrapes up his palms and knees.

For a second, Sirius doesn’t move, only groans. He swears under his breath, shakes his head. Not the bloody time. His knee twinges — he’s probably cut up his tracksuit — but he scrabbles to get back on his feet, blood racing through his heart and head. He looks over his shoulder in search of the damned root or rock or whatever had gotten him, but his whole body goes weak, his palm clenches over his mouth. An inhuman sound wrenches from his throat and he sinks — falls — to his knees again, eyes straining for how wide they’re open.

He’d tripped on a body.

“Sirius,” James breathes, emerging between the trees in his peripheral vision.

Sirius inhales, feels tears obscure his vision. He wails, a noise unlike anything he’s ever heard from himself, but he can’t look away.

Because it’s Remus. Limp, motionless, lifeless, eyes open, in the clothes Sirius had last seen him in.

James staggers. Sirius can feel the thumps his feet make on the ground, hears him mutter, hollow, “How is… But we…” and then, “Aw, shit.” There’s a sharp, metallic clang, but Sirius doesn’t look.

James makes a strangled noise, but Sirius ignores him. His head fills with buzzing that’s becoming harder to ignore, like it’s pressing through his temples, drilling holes in left and right-side brain. Remus…

“It’s a Boggart.” James’ voice cracks as he lurches up against Sirius’ side from the darkness, wraps his arms iron-tight around Sirius’ chest to hoist him up. Sirius only wants to empty his guts, not registering, and the way James shakes him is only more nauseating. “It’s just a Boggart,” James repeats, patting Sirius on his wan cheek.

“What,” Sirius mouths, fingers sinking into James’ chest, and James, supporting his full weight, points a finger at a trophy, haloed in faint, shimmering blue, on the ground a few feet away. Beside it, a haunting, corporeal mirror image of Sirius, tracksuit and all, sprawled against a tree’s roots, like Remus.

“They’re Boggarts. Both of them.” One arm circling Sirius’ waist, James draws his wand, aims it at Sirius’ comatose twin. “Riddikulus,” he breathes, shuddering, and with a weak whip-crack of magic, the doppelganger rolls on its back, morphs into a black-coated puppy, wriggles about, then disappears in a puff of smoke. “It came,” James starts raggedly, “out of the… out of the cup. W-when I touched it. And turned into you.”

“But…” Sirius finds some semblance of footing. Remus, mud-streaked and motionless, brings another wave of nausea to his stomach. He can’t bear to look. Sirius turns his face into James’ neck, feels James shift beneath him as he casts again, with conviction this time.

“Riddikulus.” James swallows, and Sirius hears it by his ear, hears the smoke dissipate again. James kisses his temple, firm and quick. “You’re good, mate. You’re good. Let’s go.”

Sirius nods shakily. The patch of ground where Remus had been is empty when he looks one last time. He wipes at his eyes with the scratched-up palms of his hands.

James doesn’t hurry him as they walk, shoulder to shoulder, Lumos aglow on both their wands. But at the sound of another hoarse scream, Sirius takes to a jog again.

He sucks in enough of a breath to expel a pathetic howl. It might just get lost amid the rustling of the treetops. Decidedly, like he’s running to dive into a lake, Sirius pushes his speed, feet thumping dully against dirt, and uses a gnarled root arching from the ground to pounce off with both feet. Mid-air, his fingers curl into paws, and his senses flood with new smells in his usually-familiar forest. The light from his Lumos disappears but his eyes adjust; the undergrowth takes shape, blackened tree trunks stand in contrast to the darkness around him. There’s an answering howl, and so he yowls again, an animalistic ululation of desperation. The wolf’s smell grows pungent, intoxicating, and despite the pit of disquiet in his stomach, it’s also reassuring. Sirius goes skidding sideways into a clearing in the trees.

Winnie. She’s nearby, and she’s scared. He can smell her perfume, her fear in the air. He closes his eyes, and suddenly he’s got fingers he can curl into the dirt and grasp at a wand with. He leaps to his feet, turning in a slow circle. “Winnie?” he calls, breathless, wand drawn.

“Black? Is that you?” Her voice is faint, but he can’t see her — his vision’s almost entirely black and blue under the cover of night, not like a dog’s. James appears by Sirius’ side, puts a hand on his shoulder. “Black, whatever you do, don’t light your wand, there’s something —”

“It’s okay,” Sirius says. He swallows, stares blindly in the direction of her voice, holds his hand out flat, like it might help keep his tone stable, under control. “Winnie, this isn’t part of the task. That creature you saw… You need to — please.” He can see far enough to watch his own fingertips tremble. “You need to run, okay?”

“What?” she breathes.

“Run. Climb over the fence if you can.”

Chills, then, barb the back of Sirius’ neck at the sound of a low, menacing growl. His eyes slip shut. “James, now,” he murmurs.

They change, and Sirius smells the stag’s musk, the wolf’s, intermingling. Winnie’s breath hitches. Sirius’ dog-ear twitches. And from a thicket behind them, the wolf pads into the clearing. Its growls turn to whimpers.

Sirius romps forth, butts his face into the wolf’s shoulder, bites at the scruff of its neck. He can feel the stag looming behind, wonders unconsciously where the rat’s gotten off to.

He’ll turn this into a game of tag, is what he’ll do. He’ll provoke the wolf to chase him like he so often does, and they’ll run for home, for the willow… and everything will be fine.

But the hair on the back of Sirius’ neck, at the base of his tail, rises. More new smells… but known, native.

“Winnie, are you okay?” someone asks, shrill. Sirius backs away from the now-docile wolf — he moves slowly, slowly. And he turns again, human, stands up on two feet.

Feeling his frustration grow, Sirius lifts his wand, throws a beam of light in the direction of the voice. It streaks across the trees, casts a white glow over the face of Winnie, and now Evans and Sirius’ brother, visible by a copse of thin, wiry trees.

“You all need to get out of here,” Sirius grits out.

The wolf grows restless. Sirius can tell by its huffs of breath, knows the stag is doing all it can without provoking it.

Evans takes Winnie by the arm. Looking at Sirius, she says, “We just —”

He points past them, so urgent his muscle twinges as it straightens. “All of you, get out of here. We’re handling this.”

A shift in the air makes Sirius’ skin uncomfortably warm. “Sirius,” whispers Evans, and the last thing, the last thing he needs is for them to be frozen by fear. But the wolf behind him growls again, low and deep and… hungry. Impulsively, Sirius grunts and shoots a hex their way, aims it to zap and spark against the tree Regulus hides behind.

“Go, go!” he shouts, voice gone hoarse, and then the wolf lunges. Not at him, but past him. In his human state, the coarse hair that almost brushes his shoulder is noisome, and the figure is massive and bony. It shakes him to the core enough to make it difficult to keel over and turn. Again.

The stag’s hoofs beat the ground. It circles the wolf’s trajectory, tries to assail it before it can reach its target. They collide head-on in a tangle of claws and teeth and antlers. Sirius launches into the fray, sinks his teeth into the wolf’s neck, hangs on as the wolf thrashes about, paws him away with heavy, thumping feet. Sirius catches a glimpse of Lily and Winnie escaping, but Regulus lags behind, the absolute dolt. Sirius is distracted enough that the wolf gains the upper hand, throws Sirius down onto the matted dirt. He yelps as he lands on his side, but he knows the wolf’s caught the smell of his brother in the air. Sirius’ lip curls around his canines in a fierce snarl.

The wolf doesn’t want to play, that much is clear. The stag charges, but the wolf evades cleverly, leaving the stag to run head-on into a  thick tree. Sirius is weak, but where he lays, ear to the ground, he feels and hears the four enormous paws, the six human feet. And the latter aren’t moving fast enough.

When Sirius hauls himself to a seat, groaning and dizzied, he’s dust-caked and tracksuit-clad. Human. He pats around, curls his fingers around a jagged rock, and hurtles it at the retreating wolf. It strikes it in the hind leg, and Sirius smirks. Year after year, James had begged him to try out for the Gryffindor team as a Beater, but he might’ve made a half-decent Chaser.

Sirius wobbles onto his feet. It feels unreal, out-of-body. Minutes earlier, he thought he’d stumbled on Remus’ corpse, but now he knows for sure that Remus is locked up inside that beast, the beast that prowls around the trees to set its sights on Sirius. It’s a bizarre emotional backflip; at once convinced of his own gripping grief, then suddenly relieved, if fearing for his friends’ lives. And perhaps his own.

Sirius holds his arms out, wriggles his fingers, swings his hips side to side. If the wolf is the bull and Sirius is the bullfighter, then his tracksuit is his red cape. The thought makes his lips twist into an unwarranted smile. “Come and get me,” he shouts, swipes another rock from the ground to hurl at the wolf’s snout. Just for good measure. If Regulus hasn’t run by now, Sirius will kill him himself.

It’s not a well-received move, the rock to the snout, if Sirius reads the room right; the wolf seems to knead at the ground with its front paws, hairs bristling, rows of teeth bared. All the better.

“What are you doing?” James roars. Sirius can see him, but the wolf can’t, or then it just doesn’t care, watching Sirius, waiting. James is raking his hair clean of leaves, rising to his feet, but not for long, because Sirius flicks his wand, shoots him with his favorite trip jinx. James squawks indignantly, thuds to the ground yet again.

“I’m the bait,” Sirius explains calmly, and out of the blue, he feels flushed, exhilarated. “And you, James, you need to make sure Evans and the others got out of the pen.” Before James can protest, he lifts up a finger, still holding eye contact with the wolf. “It’s not gonna catch me, man. I’ll go dog when I need to run, myself when I need its attention.” His eyes flit to James. When he hasn’t moved, Sirius calls, “Go!” and catapults himself into the woods, whooping, kicking up dirt. He has no fucking idea where he’s going, hasn’t nearly the sense of direction or the lay of the land he does in Animagus form, but he figures the best he can do is keep the wolf on his scent until he runs out of juice.

As the stagnant, woodsy air sweeps past, as the wolf pants and gains on him, less agile but far larger… the smile fades from Sirius’ lips. He weaves between the trees, and pictures the faces of Snape and Jules. Jules had already gotten his hands all over Sirius’ secret passageway to Hogsmeade. Sirius wouldn’t put it beyond him to crawl down their willow path, either. But with Snape? Dragging Remus along, probably unconscious, to transplant him in the Forbidden Forest?

There are rules within the school, but the moment Sirius is nothing but an alum, a memory, laws won’t keep him from seeking retribution.

Sirius feels his energy waning, his speed dropping. So he plunges into dog form, where flight from the predator is second-nature. He makes it maybe a minute that way, steering himself and his pursuer toward the Whomping Willow, when he smells the brown rat somewhere nearby.

He veers to a stop, turns, stretching to full height and holding his wand threateningly at the wolf with the watering mouth, not fifteen feet away. “Peter?” he calls out, frantic. He hates the tremors in his voice. “Peter, are you there?”

“Sirius! I was looking —!”

“No, Peter, stay away,” Sirius shouts, hoarse. “Don’t come any closer, I — I need you to get to the willow. Go straight there, fast as you can, and I’ll take the long way ar — fuck!” The wolf lunges at him. Snapping, yellow teeth flash past Sirius’ eyes, and sharp claws slice open his tracksuit sleeve. Sirius stumbles backward, hissing through his teeth at the twinge in his arm, and flings a useless Stupefy at the wolf’s foot. The spark of light distracts the animal, if for a second. Sirius’ heart hammers in his ears, but he knows if he runs, it will run with him. After him. “I’ll take the long way. I need you at the knot when I get there, Peter, please!”

“O-okay,” comes Peter’s faint, receding reply.

“Please,” whispers Sirius. He flicks his wand, lights a shrub afire. The wolf shies away from the sparking flames, but its eyes are hungry. “Please,” he croaks again, falls to his knees. “You know me.” The back-and-forth transformations are taking their toll on him, but he still manages this time, feels the coarse coat prickle along his arms and back. He hangs his head and whines, sends a silent prayer to gods he doesn’t care for that the wolf won’t shoot off back where they just came from, back where the smells of other humans might still seduce it.

He nearly collapses when the wolf comes close, rubs its head against his own, sniffing and breathing hot and wet in his ear.

Sirius sets off in a tentative trot. The wolf follows, but Sirius can tell his own human smell, as well as Peter’s, linger in the air, befuddling the wolf. But together, they leap the fence, and Sirius lopes on, nose to the ground. When they reach the edge of the forest, far enough from the Triwizard stands and the crowd to be concealed within the tree line, Sirius pauses. He can’t wrap his mind around the possibilities; whether the crowd remains oblivious, still waiting for him to zap into being on that marble pedestal and win the tournament, or if Winnie’s made it back, alone, to stir the tensions in the pot, or…

It’s harder to think about anything with a pea for a brain. Dogs.

He sits. The wolf rubs up against his side, breath hot and tongue lolling. Sirius lifts his head, peers at the moon, smudged by dirty clouds but still high in the sky. He traces a line straight downward, back to earth, to where the Whomping Willow sways its arms complacently in the light breeze. That’s their target.

Sirius’ hackles rise instantaneously when he senses someone, something approaching. He rises to his feet.

The stag gallops toward them along the tree line.

Sirius makes something like a whimper of relief.

He and James have yet to invent telepathy, are even further from it in their animal forms, but Sirius will have to trust that everything — everything he’d just run from — is under control, just by looking at the stag’s glossy, beady eyes, blinking and benign.

The wolf sniffs his familiar friend. The stag prances over to take its spot at the wolf’s other flank, and by some miracle, as Sirius and the stag make to romp toward the willow’s hill, the wolf follows.

Perhaps they’re spotted, perhaps they’re not. Perhaps, from a distance, they’re a trio of foreboding silhouettes on the moonlit hillside, or they’re shapes indistinguishable from the darkness and the tall grass.

The rat is waiting when they pad up to the immobilized tree. Sirius nips the wolf on the cheek, wags his tail, and dives into the hole at the willow’s base. At last, it’s the same game of tag they’ve played many a time.

***

Lily is awake still when the sun begins to rise. Inch by inch, it streams beams of harsh morning light through the windows in Professor Dumbledore’s office, illuminating the dust swirling in the air. The headmaster’s office hasn’t changed much since the secret meeting months back, the chairs they’d all sat in stacked and pushed to the perimeter of the room.

She’d been with the headmaster in his office when James strode in shortly after midnight, looking worse for wear. Peter Pettigrew had tagged on his heels. Naturally, the first thing James did was offer Professor Dumbledore a thumbs-up, then stated in as few words as possible that Remus was where he ought to be, that he was safe for the night.

Dumbledore had nodded solemnly, and turned to have a talk with the other adults in the room: Cassady, Maxime, McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey. Lily expected they’d be asking James more questions shortly, so she set out a few chairs for herself and James and Peter. Winnie and Regulus were still present, too, though they’d slumped into sleep in their own chairs near the wall; Winnie with her head tipped back, jaw slightly ajar, and Regulus with his knees hugged to his chest, forehead tucked between. Before Lily could gesture for James to sit down, he wrapped her in an unexpected hug, and she could feel how his heart was rabbiting. She held him until he’d calmed.

Teachers came and went from the office, but no one spoke to James or Peter. It must’ve been nearing two when James’ head lolled onto Lily’s shoulder, and there she let it stay. McGonagall came to them, laid her hand on Peter’s shoulder, said they should go get some sleep in their dormitories. Peter nodded blearily and complied, but Lily couldn’t bear to wake James.

Over the hours, he curled his legs up in Peter’s unoccupied chair, shifted to lay his head in Lily’s lap. Her nails, in need of a trim, scratched gently at the soft, too-long hairs on the back of his neck.

And so she sat until dawn.

She’s watching the dust, suspended in the glowing air like in ice, when Madam Pomfrey enters again to inform Professor Dumbledore that they ought to visit the Shack.

James sits up, like the assertion cracks right through his layer of dreams, and clears his throat. Before he can offer to join Pomfrey and the headmaster, which he will, he gawks at the spot of drool he’s left on Lily’s skirt, and breathes urgently, “Merlin, Lily, I am so sorry,” swats at it with his hand as if it won’t just dry within the next few minutes. She gazes at him, at the flattened side of his hair that’ll probably stick up like a bird’s feathers for the rest of the day, and smiles, humorous. She even giggles, which pulls a sigh out of James.

She follows James, Madam Pomfrey, and Professor Dumbledore to the Whomping Willow. The remnants of the Triwizard challenge remain by the forest’s edge, uncleared, metal stands glinting in the new morning light. She hasn’t asked anyone about the tournament’s proceedings, hasn’t even thought to.

She watches, enraptured, as Madam Pomfrey levitates a stick from the grass to prod the twisted knot on the willow’s trunk. Its knobby, threatening branches seem to sigh into stillness.

Every so often, in the cramped tunnel, James glances over his shoulder to check that she’s still there. Of course she is, but she smiles at him every time, small and tight-lipped.

There’s a door at the tunnel’s end that’s seen better days. Madam Pomfrey spells it open soundlessly, and the room beyond is gray, paint torn violently from its walls, floors scratched up with angry claw marks, furniture creaky and moldering with stuffing spilling onto the floor.

But at the room’s center, on the cold floor, is Remus, naked but for a shoddy blanket covering his body. His ribs peek from his chest each time he takes a breath, and his head rests on Sirius’ chest — Sirius, whose tracksuit jacket is torn at the arm and the knee. Every hand in sight is browned by dirt, fingernails caked with blood. And yet, they couldn’t appear more peaceful.

Lily touches James’ hand, holding her breath. He grabs her fingers and squeezes.

***

“But I’m family, Professor.”

“Oh please, that’s complete tosh! It’s invalid, that whole argument, and you know it is, legally invalidated almost two years —”

“Mr. Potter!”

“Sorry, Professor, but I’m not taking it back.”

The conversation is faraway and muted, but enough of a nuisance to wake Sirius. He peels open an eyelid, groans at the prospect of facing daylight.

It hardly takes him any time at all to recognize his surroundings; he spends far too much time in the Hospital Wing to not know it by heart. It’s the vantage point that throws him off.

Being the one in the bed, that is. His bed’s been corralled off by white curtains at his left, front, and right. He’s registering how dry his throat feels, how numb his arm is inside its itchy wrappings, how weak and sore he is from head to toe, when the distant doors open and someone walks in, brisk. The door shuts behind them, and the footsteps grow louder and closer. Sirius is up on one elbow, on his good arm, when Regulus whisks open the curtain to his right, draws it shut behind him. He lets his sleeve drop to reveal his wand. Whispering, “Muffliato,” he aims it at the curtains in a smooth arch.

If Sirius wanted to act surprised, he wouldn’t have the time. Regulus too-quickly sits on the edge of Sirius’ bed, robes rumpled and eyes tired. But Sirius isn’t surprised anyway. There’s a snatch of memory that plays back for him, over and over through the foggy lens of his panic; footage of Regulus in the Forbidden Forest with Winnie and Evans.

Sirius wants to sit up, can’t bear to lay there helpless and prone with Regulus three feet away. So he wrestles himself upright with his good hand, props himself up against the headboard. Everything hurts. Stiffly, he lets go of a breath, pulls the covers up to his waist. He notes that his dearly beloved tracksuit is gone, a papery white gown in its place.

“Is that James out there?” he asks. His voice comes out hollow and dry, but the tray with the cup and the pitcher of water is on his bad side. Regulus nods and scoots nearer, fills Sirius’ cup and hands it to him.

“All of your favorites,” Regulus murmurs. He doesn’t meet his eyes. “Potter, Lily, Pettigrew…”

Sirius drinks greedily, and with the back of his hand, he swipes at the water dripping from his mouth. He eyes his brother, who looks awfully thin in the late morning light, cheekbones jutting and all. “Did anything bad happen last night?” he hears himself ask. “Once we got back to the Shack, I must’ve just passed out, but…”

Regulus shakes his head. He’s tearing at a fingernail, which makes Sirius shudder to watch. “Not that I’ve heard.” A pause, a long one, in which Sirius tips his head back on the headboard, stares at the ceiling to comprehend the relief that sweeps over him. In that case, if today even minutely resembles their post-full moon routine, it is the morning of June 21st, and Remus is somewhere in the Hospital Wing, too. “So you’re an unregistered Animagus,” Regulus says.

Sirius lifts his drifting gaze.

“Of course you are,” mutters Regulus. He scoffs, shakes his head. Almost even smiles, eyes fixed on his lap. “I’ve never seen anything like that in my life.”

Sirius’ response is delayed. “Well, let’s hope the Ministry never has the same pleasure.”

Regulus’ lips thin into a line. He takes a breath, moving on. “I’m sure you want to see your friends. But I have to tell you something first.”

Sirius lifts a brow. “Does it have something to do with last night? When you showed up at the precise moment I absolutely least wanted to see you?” His tone is wry. “Because I’m dying to know.”

Regulus’ countenance betrays only the slightest twitch of his nose. Otherwise, he’s unreadable, unresponsive. “Jules and Severus are with the headmaster right now,” he says. “I didn’t tell your friends the whole truth last night. It would’ve been too much. I didn’t want to scare them, or… or subvert their priorities.”

Sirius watches intently as Regulus meets his eyes, a watery, pale green.

“Er,” Regulus breathes, shakier now. “It was… It was a crime of convenience, so to speak. Severus was still pursuing his personal vendetta against you, and this time, he was armed with your… with Lupin’s secret. Jules was… he wasn’t pleased with you after you dropped him.” His eyes dart again to his lap, like he’s reached his limit of honest eye contact. “I know what you’re thinking, that it’s weird I know any of that —”

“No,” mumbles Sirius. He blinks slowly. “I saw you once, with Jules. In the Honeydukes cellar. Before you both disapparated.”

Regulus’ jaw clenches. “Oh.” He squares his shoulders, only for them to stoop again and cave in around his thin chest. “Then — then it must be no surprise to you that Jules and I were acquaintances. Us and Severus, and some others. I couldn’t stand him, but I think it was because of you, because he liked you so, that he’d attach himself to me when we’d go on our… excursions.” Regulus swallows. “His family is viciously Pureblood. His parents sent Jules and Juliette to Beauxbatons when they reached school age, because… they thought it was already evident enough that Jules was into boys that young. Jules told me they lived near the Meadowes family, were close with them in childhood. But Jules’ parents didn’t want him at Hogwarts, where people they knew might find out about his inclinations. He’d never been shy, he claimed.” Regulus shrugged. “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. I feel like I was never meant to know, in a way, because it was you he really liked, Sirius. He was so convinced he’d be able to… to convert you, or something. He was convinced you’d return to your roots. Join the Dark Lord, even, like he was planning to. Then he could finally stop being at odds with his beliefs and his… sexuality. That’s how he put it, at least.”

Regulus shakes his head. “Hearing him say these things to me, that’s when I knew how naive he was.” He sighs, tips his head to the side, watching the light play across the windowpane. “I knew it’d never work on you.”

Sirius feels like, with every word, Regulus places another small weight onto his chest. He closes his eyes, pushes himself up when he feels he’s slipping back under his sheets, opens them again. “You’re right.”

Regulus’ eyes flicker to his face, then away. “It didn’t work,” he agrees, voice fading. He clears his throat. “To… to gain the privilege of the Dark Mark,” he starts, but again, his voice tapers out.

Sirius waits in silence.

A few seconds more, and Regulus finds his composure again. “To gain that privilege, an initiation rite must be completed… to demonstrate one’s aptitude. And commitment.”

Sirius’ brow furrows.

“To spare you the question of what I did, because you knew I had the Mark, I don’t know how you knew but you did.” He shakes his head, his face crumpling, fingers clawing at his left sleeve. “I helped Mulciber and Avery do something terrible to Mary Macdonald.” Again, he shakes his head, and curls fall into his eyes. Sirius sees goosebumps pricking his own forearms. “But that’s not my point. It’s that… Severus and Jules, they saw last night as the… the perfect opportunity for their initiation.” Regulus’ eyes slip shut, and he stays that way awhile, silent. Then he whispers, “They thought the wolf would k-kill you. Or hurt you badly. Two birds with one stone. Lupin would be exposed, probably traumatized, and you would be…”

Sirius’ blood boils. He’d throttle Regulus, but Regulus isn’t Snape, is he? He isn’t Jules. Sirius has to remind himself of that.

“And I didn’t find out until it was too late. And I didn’t tell anyone until it was far too late. But I should’ve just… known. I should’ve known they were keeping things from me.”

Neither one speaks for some time. Sirius digests it all, feels it as his body concurrently goes numb and fills with fire. He stares at the covers at the foot of his bed, where they jut upward with his toes. He thinks of Jules’ Boggart, the black-cloaked figure. A Death Eater? Voldemort? It doesn’t matter. He feels sick knowing he’d ever touched Jules, that he’d been so blind to his intentions.

“That’s all I had to say,” Regulus whispers. He’s crying, Sirius sees, when he stands.

“They would’ve never told you before the fact,” Sirius finds himself saying. “It takes someone particularly diabolical to kill his own brother.”

The morning sun reflects off the teary glaze of Regulus’ eyes.

“Just because I divorced our parents, it doesn’t mean you aren’t my brother,” Sirius adds.

Regulus scratches at his throat, nails raking harshly over translucent skin. He looks down.

“And I know you’re smart, and that you have morals,” Sirius says, quiet. “And I know you must think it’s too late, but I know you’re capable of it, of… not making the same mistakes twice.”

Regulus lets out a breath like a sob that strikes Sirius like a dagger to the stomach. He wipes his eyes dry with his sleeves. “I…” He sniffs, exhales, trembling. “I’ll go let your friends in.” The white curtain falls into unruffled stillness behind him.

Sirius’ fingers clench around starched sheets.

When the doors open, Sirius hears James huff, “About time,” like a complete arse. Though Regulus had spent the past ten minutes scooping a hole into Sirius’ chest to lay the weight of his mind in, he’d also lifted something from Sirius’ shoulders and taken it with him when he’d gone. It was hard to explain, but now Sirius knew. He knew everything, or close to it. And perhaps, for that reason, he was able to bring himself to smile.

Sirius could probably do with a moment to himself to pick apart everything he’s been told. But he needs many things, and he knows with certainty his mates are one of them.

“Which one was it, Madam Pomfrey?” James calls.

Sirius cranes his arm to set his water cup down, pick his wand up from the table beside him. It aches just to move. He breathes in, then sighs out, “Finite,” with a thrust of his wand.

“Fourth on the right? Or on the left?”

Sirius clears his throat. “I’m here, James,” he says, and it seems to echo, reverberate around the high ceilings.

The curtain whips open, metal rings zinging. “Oh, Merlin, Padfoot,” James chokes out, falling to his knees at the foot of Sirius’ bed like a dramatic tit.

“James,” Sirius murmurs coolly. His lips quirk. “Nothing could’ve possibly happened since I last saw you.” Behind James, Peter steps past the curtain. Evans peers in at both of them, smiling.

“Fuck off, I know.” James lifts his head, straightens his glasses. “It’s just all pent up. So much… is pent up.” He watches Sirius a beat. “Hell, I know I must look shite, but you… Wow.”

“For better, for worse, in sickness and in health,” Sirius states, smile wry. “Always there for me, aren’t you?” He lays his wand on the table. “Hi, Wormtail. Evans.”

Peter sits on the edge of his bed, looking weary and a bit forlorn. With his good hand, Sirius gives him a gentle punch to the shoulder.

“I feel like I’ve lived an entire lifetime in the past twelve hours,” breathes Evans, letting the curtain fall behind her. Sirius laughs dryly, because there probably isn’t a better way to put it. Then he clears his throat.

“Where’s, er, where’s Remus?”

“Hmm, so someone remembered I was here,” comes Remus’ voice, not far. James leaps to whisk aside the curtain at Sirius’ left. In the bed adjacent, Remus is heaving himself to sit, plasters on his neck and arms. “How charitable.”

“I thought you were asleep!” James says defensively, because he wouldn’t dare to forget about Remus.

Sirius, despite the aches and pains, rolls out of bed. For such a simple action, it causes a lot of commotion.

James wheezes and covers his eyes. “Dude, your gown is fucking backless!”

Pomfrey passes by, catches a glimpse of him through the crack in the curtains. “Mr. Black, you’re healing, get back into bed!”

“Forgive me, Madam Pomfrey,” Sirius says over his shoulder, toes bare against the cold floor as he climbs into bed beside Remus, “but as I’m not dying, I have to do this.” He might later reconsider his words; if he was dying, there’s no telling what Sirius would do to get to Remus.

He tucks his legs under Remus’ covers, nudges him over to make room, ignores Remus’ winces of pain. “This is hurting me as much as it is you, alright?” He wraps his arms around Remus’ chest, plants his cheek on Remus’ shoulder, shuts his eyes. Quieter, he murmurs, “Alright, alright. I’m finished.”

Remus chuckles warmly, though it sounds like it hurts him. Sirius eases up on crushing the life out of him. “I was just expressing my shock,” Remus murmurs. His fingertips trace lightly over Sirius’ scalp. “Seeing as I, er… must’ve caused quite a stir last night. Or something of the sort.”

James sits on Sirius’ bed now, pitched forward, elbows on his knees. “You… remember?” he asks, slow.

Only then does Remus seem to realize Evans is there. She lowers herself to the edge of the bed beside James, tucking her skirt straight beneath her. Registering Remus’ hesitation, Sirius sits up, regards Remus’ profile. He follows Remus’ eyes to Lily, though it’s likely he misses the point of Remus’ distraction, because his eyes bulge at the sight of Evans sat thigh-to-thigh with James. “Just vague snatches of memory,” mutters Remus eventually. “Not enough to piece anything together, but enough to know it wasn’t like every other night.”

“Oh really now,” mumbles Sirius. James stifles a laugh. Remus looks him in the eye, very close and very stern, and it would take absolutely everything in Sirius and more to not smile. So he does.

The crease between Remus’ eyebrows deepens. “Wait, why are you in a hospital gown?”

“Relaaax, Moony.” Sirius pats him on the cheek. “We’ll tell you what’s happened. In due time, that is. Due time, as in… maybe in an hour. I’m feeling quite jolly now that I know everyone in this room is alive and well, if in need of a good bath. I’d hate to ruin the mood.”

This doesn’t appease Remus by one bit.

“Bl— Sirius,” Evans cuts in, “I hate to be the wet blanket here, but Remus needs to know.”

“You know what I want to know?” Sirius asks loudly, pointing an accusing finger at James and Evans, wiggling it at their adjoined thighs. “When this happened. What is this? Seriously, it’s making me feel like everything might not, in fact, be okay, and I’m just hallucinating you all.”

James and Evans mirror one another and Sirius finds it quite amusing. They turn to meet the other’s eyes, panicked, then snap to looking at him censoriously. It screams parental. “Nothing,” Evans protests, and James barrels right after her, “Yeah, nothing! What are you even —? That’s ridiculous. As ridiculous as me saying the same about you and Remus, ‘cos you’re practically in his lap!” Red-faced, James flaps his hand at the two of them. And yet, very interestingly, James and Evans remain glued hip-to-hip, Sirius notes. He sighs at the peace of mind he suddenly feels, knowing he’ll have plenty to berate James about later. Of course, when James finally gets the girl, gone are the days of the sweet-talking Casanova. Enter the days of the idiot in denial.

Out of nowhere, Peter laughs, and all eyes turn his way. He’s stretched out on his side in Sirius’ bed behind James and Evans, head propped in hand. “You’re kidding, aren’t you?” he says to James.

Again, James and Evans exchange a look. Warily, James asks, “About…?”

“When you say there’s nothing going on between Remus and Sirius.”

James blinks. Peter dispels his worry over another dig at him and Evans. But then James’ eyes dart between Peter, Remus, and Sirius. “What do you mean, mate?” he asks, sounding distant.

Evans stares at her knees, pink-cheeked. A smile pulls at her lips.

“Oh, dear,” Remus rumbles in Sirius’ ear. When he feels Remus shift, Sirius makes room for the arm that comes to dangle around his shoulders.

“Why is no one saying anything?” James demands, losing his nerve. “Is this — is everyone in on something I’m not?”

“James,” Evans says kindly, but Peter chortles again.

“Oh my god. Oh my god.” Peter rolls on his back, spread-eagle, eyes wide open at the ceiling. “Somehow, I underestimated how dense you really are.”

“What are you talking about?!” James is shrill now. He rounds on Sirius specifically, staring him down. “What is he —?”

“Well, I was going to tell you eventually,” Sirius says, half-smiling. “I suppose now is as good a time as ever.”

James frowns deeply, sinks back on the bed. “Tell me what?”

“That Sirius and I snog whenever you’re not around.” Remus reaches for the cup of water on his own bedside table and drains it.

Somehow, coming from Remus, it seems to sober James up. For a while, he watches them, fishmouthing, then he turns to the window. “I feel,” he starts, eyes mystified, “like I should be having some massive revelation.” He shakes his head. “And I’m not.” He whirls again toward Sirius and Remus, pointing at them. “Prove it.”

“What?” Sirius chuckles.

“I don’t know! Just — prove it!”

Evans tugs on the hem of James’ shirt. “James, you can’t force them to —”

“Fuck’s sake,” mutters Remus. He takes Sirius by the chin, holds his face toward the foot of the bed so he can first plant a kiss to the middle of his cheek. Then he tilts Sirius’ head, and Merlin, is he dizzy already, heat flooding to his face as Remus, smiling knowingly, kisses him on the mouth. Sirius grapples for a hold on Remus’ chest but his gown’s too slippery, so all he can do is hum in contentment.

“O-okay, I’ve — I’ve seen enough!” calls James. Sirius licks his lips when Remus pulls back. He tucks his face away into the darkness of Remus’ neck, and Remus smells like he always does after a full moon’s night. Behind his eyelids, Sirius listens to James. “I’m not gonna say this is like watching my parents kiss, because my parents are… they’re generally pretty romantic, so it’s normal, but, but I’m — wait, why did you tell Peter?! And not me?!”

Peter snorts.

“I didn’t.” Sirius smiles.

James utters, “But how did you…”

Peter takes a long breath. “Well, there was that time at breakfast that Sirius said you and Lily would have seventeen children,” Evans, and James, too, must flush something furious, if Sirius goes by the sound of Remus’ hoarse laugh, “and he’d be their gay uncle. Like, bloody hell, James, how do you miss that? You also snore like a Graphorn, so you never catch them sneaking in each other’s beds at night. And every time you’re not snoring like a Graphorn, you’re probably just too busy trying to woo Lily, like that time at Yule Ball when you got onstage with Celestina Warbeck and they both ditched their dates to go, like, canoodle in the courtyard. And… I guess this was by happenstance, but it would’ve gone over your head, I bet. I was still in bed the morning after Sirius’ birthday party, and I overheard some —”

“Thank you, Peter,” Remus says lightly, “thanks.”

Sirius emerges from his hiding spot, lays his head against the headboard.

James’ jaw is agape. “So, you’re like… boyfriends?”

The curtain at the foot of Sirius’ bed is swept aside. Dumbledore hums in thought, finding Evans, Peter, and James on the bed in Sirius’ stead. His eyes sweep to the other bed, where Remus and Sirius are cuddled up together. “Ah, Mr. Black,” he greets, then promptly opens the curtain at the foot of Remus’ bed. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

James can’t seem to close his hanging jaw. But as everyone else is on the brink of laughter, Sirius takes it upon himself to say, “No, Professor. Not at all.”

Dumbledore nods. “Splendid.” Winnie steps into view beside him, gives Sirius a wave that’s followed duly by a smirk. And Sirius is glad for it — to see her in good spirits, even if it means she has to see him in Remus’ arms. She’d been the first to know about him and Remus, he thinks, to know about Sirius’ confusion and his fumbles with Remus, way back before the first task. She’d even taken Remus to the Yule Ball, right in front of Sirius’ nose, just to give him a spot of friendly spite. It’s only fair that she beam at him in I told you so.

“I’m happy to see you’re both in good health,” says Dumbledore. He eyes the plasters on Remus’ cheeks. “I’m assuming, Mr. Lupin, that you’ve been briefed —”

Remus says, “Actually —”

“— by your friends, and you’ll be relieved to know that we have apprehended the students behind the last night’s events —”

“Apprehended?”

“— the events that not only put you and your friends in danger, but endangered the whole of Hogwarts school and its guests —”

“Endanger—?“

“— we will, of course, further investigate the root causes behind the many mishaps of the final Triwizard task and make sure it’s the last and only time something of the sort occurs at our school. In the interest of closure, I do think we should consider arranging a meeting with Mr. Snape, Mr. Verlaine, and yourself…”

Sirius gently pats Remus’ thigh. It’s probably better that Sirius isn’t in the room with Snape and Jules.

Remus says nothing. Sirius takes way he slumps against the headboard, arm going limp across Sirius’ shoulders, as surrender.

“… but the reason I’ve come to the Hospital Wing, actually, is concerning Mr. Black.” Dumbledore smiles at him, then holds his hand out for Winnie to beckon her forth. From the floor, out of sight, she lifts up one of the many, shimmering trophies Sirius had stumbled upon in the Forbidden Forest the night prior. Sirius goggles as Winnie sets it on the table by the footboard. Dumbledore continues, “Whilst I was busy with my administrative duties in the wee hours of this morning, representatives from the Department of Magical Games and Sports convened to discuss the fate of the Triwizard Tournament grand prize. As all contestants were forced to forfeit the final challenge, they saw fit to crown you as the winner, seeing as you topped the leaderboard prior to the final task.”

Languidly, Sirius’ eyebrows rise halfway up his forehead.

“So Sirius wins,” James affirms, now on his feet and striding to grab hold of the table’s edge, the table where the Triwizard Cup rests, dignified and ominously glittering. “Sirius wins?”

Dumbledore tips his head in a nod. “Sirius wins, yes.”

James drops to a squat, scrubs his hands through his hair. After an audible breath, he springs about three feet in the air, fists pumping toward the ceiling. “Gryffindor!” he screams and puffs his chest.

Remus squeezes Sirius to his side, kisses the top of his head. Peter reaches across the gulch between the beds, tweaks his cheek grinningly. “Nice one, Padfoot.”

Winnie chuckles, reaches into the cup and lifts out a small, cloth sack, jiggles it so the coins inside clack together. “Don’t forget your thousand galleons, baby!”

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore says. “The rest are in my office, Mr. Black, whenever you’re fit to transport them. I would recommend your first stop after Hogwarts be Gringotts.”

James flops across Remus and Sirius’ calves. In unison, they all gripe about the pain until James finds a more comfortable position between bruises and bony ankles and his own sharp shoulder blades. “Gryffindor,” he sighs contentedly, cupping Sirius’ knee, “Ah, my boy. Daring, nerve, and chivalry. That’s you, alright.”

“Shut up.” Sirius snorts, latches onto James’ hand when he reaches out.

“Well? What’re you going to do with a thousand fucking galleons, huh? Forgive my language, Professor.”

Sirius’ smile fades the longer he thinks. He eyes the Triwizard Cup, and the faces around him; James, Winnie, Evans, Peter. And Remus, Remus, of course, whom he has to tilt his head backward to see smiling down at him, expectant.

A grin surges to Sirius’ face.

“I’m gonna buy a fucking motorbike.”